transcriber's note: italics have been rendered using _underscores_ and bold using =equals signs=. a number of printer's errors have been corrected, and are listed at the end. * * * * * +----------------------------------------------------------+ | | | applied psychology | | | | for nurses | | | | | | by | | | | mary f. porter, a. b. | | | | _graduate nurse; teacher of applied psychology, | | highland hospital, asheville, n. c._ | | | | | | | | | | | | philadelphia and london | | w. b. saunders company | | | | | | | +----------------------------------------------------------+ copyright, , by w. b. saunders company printed in america press of w. b. saunders company philadelphia to the memory of my father foreword this little book is the outgrowth of a conviction, strengthened by some years of experience with hundreds of supposedly normal young people in schools and colleges, confirmed by my years of training in a neurological hospital and months of work in a big city general hospital, that it is of little value to help some people back to physical health if they are to carry with them through a prolonged life the miseries of a sick attitude. as nurses i believe it is our privilege and our duty to work for health of body and health of mind as inseparable. experience has proved that too often the physically ill patient (hitherto nervously well) returns from hospital care addicted to the illness-accepting attitude for which the nurse must be held responsible. i conceive of it as possible that every well trained nurse in our country shall consider it an essential to her professional success to leave her patient imbued with the will to health and better equipped to attain it because the sick attitude has been averted, or if already present, has been treated as really and intelligently as the sick body. to this end i have dealt with the simple principles of psychology only as the nurse can immediately apply them. the writer wishes to acknowledge her indebtedness for criticism of this work and for several definitions better than her own, in the chapters _the normal mind_ and _variations from normal mental processes_, to dr. robert s. carroll, who through the years of hospital training helped her to translate her collegiate psychology from fascinating abstract principles into the sustaining bread of daily life. mary f. porter. asheville, n. c., _august, _. contents page chapter i what is psychology? chapter ii consciousness the unconscious consciousness is complex consciousness in sleep consciousness in delirium chapter iii organs of consciousness the central and peripheral nervous systems in action the sympathetic nervous system chapter iv relation of mind and body the cerebrum or forebrain chapter v the normal mind chapter vi the normal mind (continued) instinct memory the place of emotion the beginning of reason development of reason and will judgment reaction proportioned to stimuli normal emotional reactions the normal mind chapter vii psychology and health necessity of adaptability the power of suggestion one thought can be replaced by another habit is a conserver of effort the saving power of will chapter viii variations from normal mental processes disorders and perversions chapter ix variations from normal mental processes (continued) factors causing variations from normal mental processes heredity environment personal reactions chapter x attention the root of disease or health attitude the attention of interest the attention of reason and will chapter xi getting the patient's point of view what determines the point of view getting the other man's point of view the deluded patient nursing the deluded patient the obsessed patient the mind a prey to false associations chapter xii the psychology of the nurse accuracy of perception training perception association of ideas concentration self-training in memory chapter xiii the psychology of the nurse (continued) emotional equilibrium self-correction training the will chapter xiv the nurse of the future * * * * * index applied psychology for nurses chapter i what is psychology? wise men study the sciences which deal with the origins and development of animal life, with the structure of the cells, with the effect of various diseases upon the tissues and fluids of the body; they study the causes of the reactions of the body cells to disease germs, and search for the origin and means of extermination of these enemies to health. they study the laws of physical well-being. they seek for the chemical principles governing the reactions of digestive fluids to the foods they must transform into heat and energy. so the doctor learns to combat disease with science, and at the same time to apply scientific laws of health that he may fortify the human body against the invasion of harmful germs. thus, eventually, he makes medicine itself less necessary. but another science must walk hand in hand today with that of medicine; for doctors and nurses are realizing as never before the power of mind over body, and the hopelessness of trying to cure the one without considering the other. hence psychology has come into her own as a recognized science of the mind, just as biology, histology, chemistry, pathology, and medicine are recognized sciences governing the body. as these are concerned with the "how" and "why" of life, and of the body reactions, so psychology is concerned with the "how" and "why" of conduct and of thinking. for as truly as every infectious disease is caused by a definite germ, just as truly has every action of man its adequate explanation, and every thought its definite origin. as we would know the laws of the sciences governing man's physical well-being that we might have body health, so we would know the laws of the mind and of its response to its world in order to attain and hold fast to mind health. experience with patients soon proves to us nurses that the weal and woe of the one vitally affects the other. "psychology is the science of mental life, both of its phenomena and their conditions." so william james took up the burden of proof some thirty years ago, and assured a doubting world of men and women that there were laws in the realm of mind as certain and dependable as those applying to the world of matter--men and women who were not at all sure they had any right to get near enough the center of things to see the wheels go round. but today thousands of people are trying to find out something of the way the mind is conceived, and to understand its workings. and many of us have in our impatient, hasty investigation, self-analytically taken our mental machines all to pieces and are trying effortfully to put them together again. some of us have made a pretty bad mess of it, for we tore out the screws and pulled apart the adjustments so hastily and carelessly that we cannot now find how they fit. and millions of other machines are working wrong because the engineers do not know how to keep them in order, put them in repair, or even what levers operate them. so books must be written--books of directions. if you can glibly recite the definition above, know and explain the meaning of "mental life," describe "its phenomena and their conditions," illustrating from real life; if you can do this, and prove that psychology is a science, _i. e._, an organized system of knowledge on the workings of the mind--not mere speculation or plausible theory--then you are a psychologist, and can make your own definitions. indeed, the test of the value of a course such as this should be your ability, at its end, to tell clearly, in a few words of your own, what psychology is. the word _science_ comes from a latin root, _scir_, the infinitive form, _scire_, meaning to know. so a science is simply the accumulated, tested knowledge, the proved group of facts about a subject, all that is known of that subject to date. hence, if psychology is a _science_, it is no longer a thing of guesses or theories, but is a grouping of confirmed facts about the mind, facts proved in the psychology laboratory even as chemical facts are demonstrated in the chemical laboratory. wherein psychology departs from facts which can be proved by actual experience or by accurate tests, it becomes metaphysics, and is beyond the realm of science; for metaphysics deals with the realities of the supermind, or the soul, and its relations to life, and death, and god. physics, chemistry, biology have all in their day been merely speculative. they were bodies of theory which might prove true or might not. when they _worked_, by actually being tried out, they became bodies of accepted facts, and are today called sciences. in the same way the laws of the working of the mind have been tested, and a body of assured facts about it has taken its place with other sciences. it must be admitted that no psychologist is willing to stop with the _known_ and _proved_, but, when he has presented that, dips into the fascinations of the yet unknown, and works with promising theory, which tomorrow may prove to be science also. but we will first find what they have verified, and make that the safe foundation for our own understanding of ourselves and others. what do we mean by "mental life"?--or, we might say, the science of the life of the mind. and what is _mind_? but let us start our quest by asking first what reasons we have for being sure mind exists. we find the proof of it in consciousness, although we shall learn later that the activities of the mind may at times be unconscious. so where consciousness is, we know there is mind; but where consciousness is not, we must find whether it has been, and is only temporarily withdrawn, before we say "mind is not here." and _consciousness_ we might call _awareness_, or our personal recognition of being--awareness of me, and thee, and it. so we recognize _mind_ by its evidences of awareness, _i. e._, by the body's reaction to stimuli; and we find mind at the very dawn of animal life. consciousness is evidenced in the protozoön, the simplest form in which animal life is known to exist, by what we call its response to stimuli. the protozoön has a limited power of self-movement, and will accept or reject certain environments. but while we see that mind expresses itself in consciousness as vague, as dubious as that of the protozoön, we find it also as clear, as definite, as far reaching as that of the statesman, the chemist, the philosopher. hence, the "phenomena of mental life" embrace the entire realms of feeling, knowing, willing--not of man alone, but of all creatures. in our study, however, we shall limit ourselves to the psychology of the human mind, since that concerns us vitally as nurses. animal psychology, race psychology, comparative psychology are not within the realm of our practical needs in hospital life. we would know the workings of man's mind in disease and health. what are the instinctive responses to fear, as shown by babies and children and primitive races? what are the normal expressions of joy, of anger, or desire? what external conditions call forth these evidences? what are the acquired responses to the things which originally caused fear, or joy, or anger? how do grown-ups differ in their reactions to the same stimuli? why do they differ? why does one man walk firmly, with stern, set face, to meet danger? why does another quake and run? why does a third man approach it with a swagger, face it with a confident, reckless smile of defiance? all these are legitimate questions for the psychologist. he will approach the study of man's mind by finding how his body acts--that is, by watching the phenomena of mental life--under various conditions; then he will seek for the "why" of the action. for we can only conclude what is in the mind of another by interpreting his expression of his thinking and feeling. we cannot see within his mind. but experience with ourselves and others has taught us that certain attitudes of body, certain shades of countenance, certain gestures, tones of voice, spontaneous or willed actions, represent anger or joy, impatience or irritability, stern control or poise of mind. we realize that the average man has learned to conceal his mental reactions from the casual observer at will. but if we see him at an unguarded moment, we can very often get a fair idea of his mental attitude. through these outward expressions we are able to judge to some extent of the phenomena of his mental life. but let us list them from our own minds as they occur to us this work-a-day moment, then, later on, find what elements go to make up the present consciousness. as i turn my thoughts inward at this instant i am aware of these mental impressions passing in review: you nurses for whom i am writing. the hospitals you represent. what you already know or do not know along these lines. a child calling on the street some distance away. a brilliant sunshine bringing out the sheen of the green grass. the unmelodious call of a flicker in the pine-tree, and a towhee singing in the distance. a whistling wind bending the pines. a desire to throw work aside and go for a long tramp. a patient moving about overhead (she is supposed to be out for her walk, and i'm wondering why she is not). the face and voice of an old friend whom i was just now called from my work to see. the plan and details of my writing. the face and gestures of my old psychology professor and the assembled class engaged in a tangling metaphysic discussion. a cramped position. some loose hair about my face distracting me. an engagement at . . a sharp resolve to stop wool-gathering and finish this chapter. and yet, until i stopped to examine my consciousness, i was keenly aware _only_ of the thoughts on psychology i was trying to put on paper. but how shall we classify these various contents? some are _emotion_, _i. e._, feelings; others are _intellect_, _i. e._, thoughts; still others represent _determination_, _i. e._, volition or will. there is nothing in this varied consciousness that will not be included in one or another of these headings. let us group the contents for ourselves. the nurses for whom i am writing: a result of memory and of imagination (both intellect). a sense of kinship and interest in them (emotion). a determination that they must have my best (will, volition). and so of the hospitals: my memory of hospitals i have known, and my mental picture of yours made up from piecing together the memories of various ones, the recollection of the feelings i had in them, etc. (intellect). what you already know. speculation (intellect), the speculation based on my knowledge of other schools (memory which is intellect). a desire (emotion) that all nurses should know psychology. child calling on street. recognition of sound (intellect) and pleasant perception of his voice (emotion). desire to throw work aside and go for a tramp on this gorgeous day. emotion, restrained by stronger emotion of interest in work at hand, and _intellect_, which tells me that this is a work hour--and _will_, which orders me to pay attention to duties at hand. so all the phenomena of mental life are included in feelings, thoughts, and volitions which accompany every minute of my waking life, and probably invade secretly every second of my sleeping life. the conditions of mental life--what are they? . in man and the higher animals the central nervous system, which, anatomy teaches us, consists of the brain and spinal cord. (in the lowest forms of animal life, a diffused nervous system located throughout the protoplasm.) . an external world. . a peripheral nervous system connecting the central nervous system with the outside world. . the sympathetic nervous system, provided to assure automatic workings of the vital functions of the body. these organs of the mind will be discussed in a later chapter. chapter ii consciousness we took a glimpse at random into the mental life of an adult consciousness, and found it very complicated, constantly changing. we found it packed with shifting material, which, on the surface, seemed to bear very little relation. we found reason, feeling, and will all interacting. we found nothing to indicate that a consciousness as simple as mere _awareness_ might exist. we believe there might be such in the newborn babe, perhaps even in the baby a month old; but can we prove it? let us look within again and see if there are not times of mere, bare consciousness in our own experience that give us the proof we need. i have slept deeply all night. it is my usual waking time. something from within or from without forces an impression upon my mind, and i stir, and slowly open my eyes. as yet i have really not seen anything. with my eyes open my mind still sleeps--but in a few seconds comes a possessing sense of well-being. obeying some stimulus, not recognized by the senses as yet, i begin to stretch and yawn, then close my eyes and settle down into my pillows as for another nap. i am not aware that i am i, that i am awake, that i have yawned and stretched. i have a pleasant, half-dreamy feeling, but could not give it a name. for those few seconds this is all my world--a pleasant drowsiness, a being possessed by comfort. my consciousness is mere awareness--a pleasant awareness of uncomplicated existence. in another moment or two it is a consciousness of a day's work or pleasure ahead, the necessity of rising, dressing, planning the day, the alert reaction of pleasure or displeasure to what it is to bring, the effort to recall the dreams of sleep--the complicated consciousness of the mature man or woman. but i started the day with a mental condition close to pure sensation, a vague feeling of something different than what was just before. or this bare consciousness may come in the moment of acute shock, when the sense of suffering, quite disconnected from its cause, pervades my entire being; or at the second when i am first "coming back" after a faint, or at the first stepping out from an anesthetic. in these experiences most of us can recall a very simple mental content, and can prove to our own satisfaction that there is such a thing as mere awareness, a consciousness probably close akin to that of the lower levels of animal life, or to that of the newborn babe when he first opens his eyes to life. _consciousness_, then, in its elements, is the simplest mental reaction to what the senses bring. how shall we determine when consciousness exists? what are its tests? the response of the mind to stimuli, made evident by the body's reaction, gives the proof of consciousness in man or lower animal. but what do we mean by a stimulus? light stimulates me to close my eyes when first entering its glare from a dark room, or to open them when it plays upon my eyelids as i sleep and the morning sun reaches me. it is a stimulus from without. the fear-thought, which makes my body tremble, my pupils grow wide, and whitens my cheeks, is a stimulus from within. an unexpected shot in the woods near-by, which changes the whole trend of my thinking and startles me into investigating its cause, is a stimulus from without causing a change within. a _stimulus_, then, is anything within or without the body that arouses awareness; and this is usually evidenced by some physical change, however slight--perhaps only by dilated pupils or an expression of relief. when we see the reaction of the body to the stimulus we know there is consciousness. on the other hand, we cannot say that consciousness is always absent when the usual response does not occur; for there may be injury to organs accounting for the lack of visible reaction, while the mind itself may respond. but with due care, in even such cases, some external symptoms of response can usually be found if consciousness exists. we have already realized how complex, intricate, and changing is fully developed consciousness. the unconscious but the mind of man knows two distinct conditions of activity--the conscious and the unconscious. mind is not always wide awake. we recognize what we call the _conscious_ mind as the ruling force in our lives. but how many things i do without conscious attention; how often i find myself deep in an unexplainable mood; how the fragrance of a flower will sometimes turn the tide of a day for me and make me square my shoulders and go at my task with renewed vigor; or a casual glimpse of a face in the street turn my attention away from my errand and settle my mind into a brown study. usually i am alert enough to control these errant reactions, but i am keenly aware of their demands upon my mind, and frequently it is only with conscious effort that i am kept upon my way unswerved by them, though not unmoved. when we realize that nothing that has ever happened in our experience is forgotten; that nothing once in consciousness altogether drops out, but is stored away waiting to be used some day--waiting for a voice from the conscious world to recall it from oblivion--then we grasp the fact that the quality of present thought or reaction is largely determined by the sum of all past thinking and acting. just as my body is the result of the heritage of many ancestors plus the food i give it and the use to which i subject it, so my mind's capacity is determined by my inheritance plus the mental food i give it, plus everything to which i have subjected it since the day i was born. for it forgets absolutely nothing. "that is not true," you say, "for i have tried desperately to remember certain incidents, certain lessons learned--and they are _gone_. moreover, i cannot remember what happened back there in my babyhood." ah, but you are mistaken, my friend. for you react to your task today differently because of the thing which you learned and have "forgotten." your mind works differently because of what you disregarded then. "you" have forgotten it, but your brain-cells, your nerve-cells have not; and you are not quite the same person you would be without that forgotten experience, or that pressing stimulus, which you never consciously recognized, but allowed your subconsciousness to accept. some night you have a strange, incomprehensible dream. you cannot find its source, but it is merely the re-enacting of some past sensation or experience of your own, fantastically arrayed. some day you stop short in your hurried walk with a feeling of compulsion which you cannot resist. you know no reason for it, but some association with this particular spot, or some vague resemblance, haunts you. you cannot "place" it. one day you hit the tennis-ball at a little different angle than you planned because a queer thought came unbidden and directed your attention aside. again, under terrific stress, with sick body and aching nerves, you go on and do your stint almost mechanically. you do not know where the strength or the skill is derived. but your unconscious or subconscious--as you will--has asserted itself, has usurped the place of the sick conscious, and enabled you automatically to go on. for we react to the storehouse of the unconscious even as we do to the conscious. remember that the unconscious is simply the latent conscious--what once was conscious and may be again, but is now buried out of sight. the mind may be likened to a great sea upon which there are visible a few islands. the islands represent the conscious thoughts--that consciousness we use to calculate, to map out our plans, to form our judgments. this is the mind that for centuries was accepted as all the mind. but we know that the islands are merely the tops of huge mountain-ranges formed by the floor of the sea in mighty, permanent upheaval; that as this sea-floor rises high above its customary level and thrusts its bulk above the waters into the atmosphere, is the island possible. just so there can be no consciousness except as that which is already in the mind--the vast subconscious material of all experience--rises into view and relates itself through the senses to an outside world. we speak very glibly of motion, of force, of power. we say "the car is moving now." but how do we know? away back there in our babyhood there were some things that always remained in the same place, while others changed position. the _changing_ gave our baby minds a queer sensation; it made a definite impression; and sometimes we heard people say "move," when that impression came. finally, we call the feeling of that change "move," or "movement," or "motion." the word thereafter always brings to our minds a picture of a change from one place to another. the process--the slow comprehending of the baby mind--was buried in forgetfulness even at the time. but had not the subconscious been imprinted with the incident and all its succeeding associations, that particular phenomenon we could not name today. it would be an entirely unique experience. so our recognition of the impression is merely the rising into consciousness of the subconscious material in response to a stimulus from the outside world which appeals through the sense of sight. we can get no response whatever except as the stimulus asking our attention is related by "like" or "not like" something already experienced; that is, it must bear some relation to the known--and perhaps forgotten--just as the island cannot be, except as, from far down below, the sea-floor leaves its bed and raises itself through the deeps. the visible island is but a symbol of the submarine mountain. the present mental impression is but proof of a great bulk of past experiences. and so we might carry on the figure and compare the birth of consciousness to the instant of appearance of the mountain top above the water's surface. it is not a new bit of land. it is only emerging into a new world. "but," you ask, "do you mean to assert that the baby's mind is a finished product at birth; that coming into life is simply the last stage of its growth? how unconvincing your theory is." no, we only now have the soil for consciousness. the island and the submarine mountain are different things. the sea-floor is transformed when it enters into the new element. an entirely different vegetation takes place on this visible island than took place on the floor of the sea before it emerged. but the only new elements added to the hitherto submerged land come from the new atmosphere, and the sea-floor immediately begins to become a very different thing. nevertheless, what it is as an island is now, and forever will be due, primarily, to its structure as a submarine mountain. in the new atmosphere the soil is changed, new chemical elements enter in, seeds are brought to it by the four winds--and it is changed. but it is still the sea-floor transformed. just so the baby brain, complete in parts and mechanism at birth, is a different brain with every day of growth in its new environment, with every contact with the external world. but it is, primarily and in its elements, the brain evolved through thousands of centuries of pushing up to man's level through the sea of animal life, and hundreds of centuries more of the development of man's brain to its present complete mechanism through experience with constantly changing environment. hence, when the baby sees light and responds by tightly shutting his eyes, then later by opening them to investigate, his sensation is what it is because through the aëons of the past man has established a certain relation to light through experiencing it. to go further than this, and to find the very beginning, how the first created life came to respond to environment at all, is to go beyond the realm of the actually known. but that he did once _first_ experience his environment, and establish a reaction that is now racial, we know. so our baby soon shows certain "instinctive" reactions. he reaches out to grasp. he sucks, he cries, he looks at light and bright objects in preference to dark, he is carrying out the history of his race, but is making it personal. he has evolved a new life, but all his ancestors make its foundation. the personal element, added to his heritage, has made him different from any and all of his forebears. but he can have no consciousness except as a bit from the vast inherited accumulation of the past of his ancestors, of all the race, steps forth to meet a new environment. and again you ask, "how came the first consciousness?" and again i answer, "it is as far back as the first created or evolved organism which could respond in any way to a material world; and only metaphysics and the god behind metaphysics can say." we only know that careful laboratory work in psychology--experiments on the unconscious--today prove that our conscious life is what it is, because of: _first_, what is stored away in the unconscious (_i. e._, what all our past life and the past life of the race has put there); _second_, because of what we have accepted from our environment; and this comprises our material, intellectual, social, and spiritual environment. consciousness is complex the one fact we want at this stage of our inquiry is simply this: that consciousness, awaking at birth, very soon becomes complex. however single and simple in content immediate consciousness may be, it is so intimately linked with all preceding experience that a pure sensation is probably never known after the first second of life. as the sensation is registered it becomes a basis for comparison. that first sensation, perhaps, was just a feeling of _something_. the next is a feeling of something that is the same, or is not the same, as the first. so immediately perception is established. the baby consciousness recognizes that the vague feeling is, or is not, _that same thing_. and from perception to a complex consciousness of perceptions, of ideas, of memories and relations, and judgments, is so short a step that we cannot use our measuring rods to span it. thus through the various stages of life, from infancy to maturity, the conscious is passing into the unconscious, only to help form later a new conscious thought. hence the conscious thought is determined by the great mass of the unconscious, plus the external world. but every thought, relegated to the unconscious, through its association there--for it is plastic by nature--comes back to consciousness never quite the same, and meets never quite the same stimulus. and as a result a repeated mental experience is never twice exactly the same. so the conscious becomes the unconscious and the unconscious the conscious, and neither can be without the other. our problem is to understand the workings of the mind as it exists today, and to try to find some of its most constructive uses; and on that we shall focus attention. to that end we must first examine the various ways in which consciousness expresses itself. we have recognized two distinct mental states--the conscious and the unconscious--and have found them constantly pressing each on the other's domain. our study of consciousness reveals the normal in the aspects of sleeping and waking, also various abnormal states. consciousness may become excited, depressed, confused, delirious, or insane. we shall consider later some of the mental workings that account for these abnormal expressions. at present let us examine the mind's activities in sleep and in delirium. consciousness in sleep sleep seldom, if ever, is a condition of utter unconsciousness. we so frequently have at least a vague recollection, when we wake, of dreaming--whether or not we remember the dream material--that we are inclined to accept sleep as always a state of some kind of mental activity, though waking so often wipes the slate clean. a new word which serves our purpose well has come into common use these last years, and we describe sleep as a state of rest of the conscious mind made possible as weariness overpowers the _censor_, and this guard at the gate naps. the censor is merely that mental activity which forces the mind to keen, alert, constructive attention during our waking hours, a guard who _censors_ whatever enters the conscious mind and compares it with reality, forcing back all that is not of immediate use, or that is undesirable, or that contradicts established modes of life or thought. in sleep we might say that the censor, wearied by long vigilance, presses all the material--constantly surging from the unconscious into consciousness, there to meet and establish relations with matter--back into the unconscious realms, and locks the door, and lies and slumbers. then the half-thoughts, the disregarded material, the unfit, the unexpressed longings or fears, the forbidden thoughts; in fact, the whole accumulation of the disregarded or forgotten, good, bad, and indifferent--for the unconscious has no moral sense--seize their opportunity. the guard has refused to let them pass. he is now asleep. and the more insistent of them pick the lock and slip by, masquerading in false characters, and flit about the realms of the sleeping consciousness as ghosts in the shelter of darkness. if the guard half-wakes he sleepily sees only legitimate forms; for the dreams are well disguised. his waking makes them scurry back, sometimes leaving no trace of their lawless wanderings. so the unconscious thoughts of the day have become sleep-consciousness by play acting. consciousness in delirium at this time of our study it will suffice to say that in delirium and in insanity, which we might very broadly call a prolonged delirium, the toxic brain becomes a house in disorder. the censor is sick, and sequence and coherence are lost as the thronging thoughts of the unconscious mind press beyond the portals into consciousness, disordered and confused. we shall later find, however, that this very disorder falls into a sort of order of its own, and a dominant emotion of pain or ecstasy, of depression or fear, of exaltation or depreciation calls steadily upon the stored away incidents and remembered, related feelings of the past and interprets them as present reality. the censor of the sick brain is stupefied by toxins, shock, or exhaustion, and the citadel he is supposed to guard is thronged with besiegers from every side. the strongest--_i. e._, those equipped with most associations pertinent to the emotional status at the time--win out, occupy the brain by force, and demand recognition and expression from all the senses, deluding them by their guise of the reality of external matter. we find consciousness, then, determined by all past experience, by an external world, and by its organ of expression--the _brain_. consequently, our psychology leads us into anatomy and physiology, which, probably, we have already fairly mastered. in rapid review, only, in the following chapter we shall consider the organs of man's consciousness, the brain, spinal cord, and the senses, and try to establish some relation between the material body and its mighty propelling force--the _mind_. chapter iii organs of consciousness nothing is known to us until it has been transmitted to the mind by the senses. the nerves of special sense, of sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, the temperature sense ("hot or cold" sense), the muscular sense (sense of weight and position), these, and the nerves controlling voluntary motion, form the peripheral, or surface, nervous system. this acts as a connecting medium between the outside world and the central nervous system, which is composed of the brain and spinal cord. we might liken the nerves, singly, to wires, and all of them together to a system of wires. the things of the external world tap at the switchboard by using the organs of special sense; the nerves, acting as wires, transmit their messages; at the switchboard is the operator--consciousness--accepting and interpreting the jangle of calls. the recognition by the brain of the appeals coming by way of the transmitting sense, and its interpretation of these appeals, is the mind's function of consciousness, whether expressed by thinking, feeling, or willing. the central and peripheral nervous systems in action i am passing the open door of a bake-shop, and a pervading odor fills the air. i think "hot rolls," because my organ of smell--the nose--has received a stimulus which it transmits along my olfactory nerves to the brain; and there the odor is given a name--"hot rolls." the recognition of the stimulus as an odor and of that odor as "hot rolls" is consciousness in the form of thinking. but the odor arouses desire to eat--hunger; and this is consciousness in the form of feeling. the something which makes me walk into the shop and buy the rolls is consciousness in the form of willing. the sensory appeal from the outside world gained admission through the sense of smell; this transmitted the message, and consciousness recognized the stimulus, which immediately appealed to my hunger and incited action to satisfy that hunger. the ear of the operator in the telegraph office, again, might illustrate consciousness. it must be able to interpret mere clickings into terms of sense. to the operator the sounds say words, and the words are the expression of the object at the other end of the wire. the brain is the receiving operator for all the senses, which bring their messages in code, and which it interprets first as sound, vision, taste, touch, feel, smell, temperature; then more accurately as words, trees, sweet, soft, round, acrid, hot. the mind can know nothing except as the stimulus is transmitted by sense-channels over the nerves of sense, and received by a conscious brain. a baby born without sight, hearing, taste, smell, or touch would remain a mere bit of clay. he could have no awareness. but so long as any one sense channel remains open the mind may acquire some knowledge. suppose i am paralyzed, blind, and deaf, and you put a tennis-ball into my hand. i cannot tell you what it is, not even what it is like. it means nothing whatever to me, for the sense channels of touch, sight, and hearing, through which alone it could be impressed upon my brain, are gone. suppose i am blind and deaf, but have my sense of touch intact; that i never saw or touched or heard of a tennis-ball before, but i know "apple" and "orange." i can judge that the object is round, that it is about the size of a small orange or apple. it is very light, and has a feel of cloth. i know it to be something new in my experience. you tell me in the language of touch that it is "tennis-ball"; and thereafter i recognize it by its combination of size, feel, and weight, and can soon name it as quickly as you, who see it. suppose i am blind and my hands are paralyzed, but i have my hearing. you tell me this is a tennis-ball, and if i have known "tennis-ball" in the past, i can describe it to you. it has been impressed upon my brain through my sense of hearing; and memory immediately supplies the qualities that go with "tennis-ball." but if none of the senses has ever developed, my brain can receive no impression whatever; it cannot have even the stimulus of memory. hence conscious mind cannot be, except as some sense-channel or channels have been opened to carry thought material to the brain. so far as we know today, in this world, mind is absolutely dependent upon the sense organs and the brain--upon matter--for existence. the sympathetic nervous system associated with the central nervous system by connecting nerves--but located outside of it in various parts of the body--are groups of nerve-cells (gray matter) and their fibers, forming what we call the _sympathetic nervous system_--the direct connecting link between mind and body. the _central nervous system_ is the director of all conscious action of the body; the _sympathetic_ orders all unconscious action. the beating of the heart, the contraction of the blood-vessels, hence the flowing of the blood, the processes of digestion, the functioning of the glands, are all directed by the sympathetic. in other words, the _central nervous system_ normally controls the movements of the voluntary muscles; the _sympathetic_ controls those of the involuntary muscles. the quick blush, the sudden paling of the cheeks, the start of fear, the dilated pupils of fright are the direct result of the action of involuntary muscles under control of the sympathetic system. the stimulus is received by the central nervous system; the fibers connecting the central and the sympathetic systems carry the message quickly to the latter, which immediately respond by ordering contraction or expansion of involuntary muscles. so tears flow, we breathe freely again or we quake and tremble, our pupils widen or contract, the heart beats suffocatingly, or seems almost to stop. the _sympathetic system_, as the name implies, is influenced by suggestions from the emotions rather than from the intellect. we might say that it is controlled by the "feeling mind" rather than the thinking mind, for intellect cannot influence it in the least. the wise nurse, who knows something of the laws of the mind, soon realizes that the _sympathetic nervous system_, rather than physical disability, causes many indigestions, headaches, diarrheas, dry mouths, chills; is responsible for much nausea, much "exhaustion," etc. when she has had wider experience she finds that almost any known physical disorder can be unconsciously imitated by the suggestible patient, whose sympathetic nervous system causes physical reactions to respond to the feelings of a sick mind. let the nurse remember, however, that is it not for her to decide whether the disorders from which her patient suffers are of physical or nervous origin. it is for her, on the other hand, to study her patient's mentality and reactions, and to become expert in reporting symptoms of nervous as well as of physical significance. chapter iv relation of mind and body we have found that mind is entirely dependent upon the bodily organs for its existence. is the body in the same way dependent upon the mind? can the mind die and the body go on? given a perfect body with unblocked sense channels, and put the mind to sleep, paralyze the _central nervous system_ with alcohol in sufficient quantity so that the undamaged _peripheral nervous system_--the senses--can obtain no response or recognition from it, and that perfect body is as useless for the time as if dead. but here comes proof of the remarkable hold of the body on life. the unconscious mind takes up the burden of directing the sympathetic nerves to stimulate the muscles of breathing. the unconscious sees to the beating of the heart. it directs the contraction of the blood-carrying vessels. it maintains certain vital processes of secretion. thus automatically life goes on; the body still reacts to a limited field of stimuli, and consciousness recognizes it not. but when the unconscious mind ceases to function, then, indeed, does the body die. yet the conscious mind may "die" and the body live on, so long as the unconscious continues its activity. it is possible for the human body to live for years, utterly paralyzed, with many of the senses gone, with no consciousness of being--if cared for by other persons--a merely vegetable existence. the current of power is broken; but the spark is still glowing, though utterly useless because connected with nothing. and it may continue to glow for some time while properly stimulated from outside sources. we might liken the mind to the boiler in which steam is generated, and the body to the engine which the steam runs. if the boiler bursts, the engine stops; but it may not be otherwise damaged. it simply cannot carry out its main function of motion any longer. the fires under the boiler are still burning and can be kept burning so long as fuel is provided, but the connection is broken and the great bulk of iron is a useless thing in that it can no longer fulfil its purpose. in just such a way may the mind be paralyzed; but the spark of life, which has through all the years kindled the now lost mind to action, may still remain--a useless thing, which would die away if not tended from without by other bodies whose minds are still intact. but in the demented mind consciousness still remains, the awareness of the young child or baby stage of life. the connection between the upper or conscious brain centers and the body has been tampered with; it no longer is direct, but breaks off into switch-lines. but the contact still holds between the lower or unconscious mind and the body; so the automatic body functions go on, directed as they were in babyhood before the independent mind assumed control. hence, when all acute consciousness is finally gone, the unconscious mind, a perfect automaton, may still carry out the simplest vegetative activities of existence. when body is dead, mind, so far as its reactions to the world we know are concerned, ceases to act. but when the conscious mind is "dead" the body may yet live as a vegetable lives, with all its distinctively human functions lost. motionless, save for the beating of the heart and the reaction of the lungs to air, the body may still be alive, though the mind long since has ceased all earthly activity. so we discover that an organ of mind is an essential, here, to life of mind, and that mind only can induce this organ to any action above the vegetative stage. but, on the other hand, we find that life can exist without conscious mind, even if untended by others, for a limited time. if the direct nerve connections between the brain and the hand, the brain and the foot, or the brain and the trunk are cut off, the mind henceforth realizes nothing of that part except as the sense of sight reports upon it; for the optic nerves relate the hand and mind, through this sense, as truly as the motor nerves which carry the mind's message for motion to the hand, and the sensory nerves which carry back to the mind the hand's pain. but let the optic nerve be inert, the sensory and motor connections broken between brain and hand, or foot and trunk, or brain and trunk, and the hand or foot may be amputated and the mind never sense the fact; the trunk may be severely injured and the mind be serenely unconscious. so the brain in man is "the one immediate bodily condition of the mental operations." take away all the brain and man's body is a useless mass of protoplasm. the brain's varied and intricate nerve connections with all parts of the body, through nerves branching from the main trunks in the spinal cord, we shall not discuss, for you know them through your study of anatomy. for the purpose of our psychology we need consider only two of the main divisions of the brain--the _cerebrum_, which includes what we call the right and left hemispheres, and the _cerebellum_. the cerebrum or forebrain for convenience the various lobes of the cerebrum are known as frontal, temporal, parietal, and occipital, according to the parts of the brain referred to: as forehead, temples, crown, or occiput. the cerebellum, or hind brain, is also divided into two hemispheres, and is situated behind and below the hemispheres of the cerebrum. a system of localization has been roughly mapped out, the result of careful laboratory work on animals and of studying the loss of various functions in human beings as related to the location of brain injuries. from these experiments it seems proved that consciousness belongs only to the cortex or surface of the upper brain, and that the vast realm of the unconscious belongs to the lower brain centers. hence the cortex is the organ of consciousness, and the lower centers are the repository of the unconscious until it again becomes conscious. the motor zone of the cortex we now know to be situated in the convolutions bordering the fissure of rolando. vision is evidently excited from the occipital lobes, though not yet conclusively proved. smell, presumably, is located in the temporal lobes. considered action is directed from the upper hemispheres only. it is significant that the hemispheres of the cerebrum are also accepted as the seat of memory for man--that intellectual quality which makes him capable of acting from absent stimuli, stimuli only present to memory; which makes it possible for him to reason the present from the experiences of the past. but in all animal life, except the higher forms, the control of action is from the lower brain centers, centers which respond only to present objects. with them memory, as man knows it, is lacking; but the reactions of the past are indelibly imprinted upon motor nerves and muscles, so that when the present object presses the button, as it were, calling forth the experience of the race, the animal instinctively reacts. but of what use to man, then, are the lower brain centers? in man, as in lower animals, they care for the vegetative functions of life, so that our blood continues to circulate, the air enters and leaves our lungs, digestion is carried on, with no assistance from the upper centers, the hemispheres of the cerebrum being thus left free for concentration on the external world of matter, which it can transform into a world of thought. it is the lower or vegetative brain that may still exist and keep life intact when the functions of the cerebrum are destroyed. we can say, then, of the brain as a whole that it is the organ of the mind, the _sine qua non_ of the mind, the apparatus for the registration of sense impressions. the senses themselves are the rudiments of mind, are the means by which stimuli alighting on sense organs enter consciousness; for the nerves of special sense immediately carry the impetus to the brain, where it is recognized as the "not me," the _something_ definitely affecting the _me_, and demanding reaction from the _me_. the functions of the cerebrum we find grouping themselves in three classes: _intellect_, _emotion_, and _volition_, more simply, thinking, feeling, and willing; and we find no mental activity of the normal or abnormal mind which will not fall into one of these groupings. this does not mean that one part of the brain thinks, another part wills, another part feels; for in the performance of any one of these functions the mind acts as a whole. our thinking or our willing may be permeated with feeling, but the entire mind is simply reacting simultaneously upon various stimuli. chapter v the normal mind mind, we found, is born in the form of consciousness when the outside world impresses itself upon the brain-cells by way of the senses. this consciousness, observation and experiment prove, is first a feeling one, later a feeling-thinking-willing one. the mind, then, is really the activity of the brain as it feels, as it thinks, as it wills. we express this in descriptive terms when we speak of mind as the _flow of consciousness_, the sum of all mental associations, conscious and unconscious. for mind is never a final thing. looking within at our own mental processes we find that always our thought is just becoming something else. we reach a conclusion, but it is not a resting place, only a starting place for another. my thought was _that_ a moment ago, but while it was _that_ it was becoming _this_, and even now it is becoming something else. thinking is mind. feeling is mind. willing is mind. but for the sake of clearness we speak of feeling, thinking, and willing as being functions of mind. mind acts by using these powers. but to what end does it act? what purpose does it serve? for these functions are not the reasons of being for the mind, even as motion--while the immediate purpose of the locomotive--is not its chief end. the steam engine may stand in the same spot while its wheels revolve madly; it may move along the tracks alone, and accomplish nothing; or it may transport a great train of loaded cars. unless it moves to some definite point and carries merchandise or people there, it is a useless, indeed, a dangerous invention. we find, in fact, that it functions to the very definite end of taking man and his chattels to specified places. and so it is with the mind. if it is thinking and feeling and willing only for the sake of exercising these mental powers, it might better not be. but what end do we actually find these functions serving? mind, with its powers of thinking, feeling, and willing, gives an external world of matter; an internal world of thought, and so relates them to each other as to make them serve man's purposes. thus these functions exist for accomplishment. in the solving of a problem, for instance, the mind thinks, primarily; in the enjoyment of music it feels, primarily, though its feeling may be determined by the intellectual verdict on the music; in forcing its owner to sit at the piano and practice in the face of strong desire to attend the theater, it wills, primarily. now one of its functions predominates; now another. but the whole mind, not a feeling section, or a thinking section, or a willing section, operates together to produce action. when i play the piano it calls on all my mind. i think the music. i feel it. i make my fingers play it. but the thinking, the feeling, and the willing act together to result in the fingers playing. the mind, then, is an instrument of achievement. it fulfils its purpose when it makes matter serve useful ends. _emotion_ or _feeling_ is the function of the mind which associates a sense of pleasure or pain with every thought or act. feeling is the affective state of mind. by this we mean that it has the power to move us. and this emotion primarily does; for our feeling of pleasure or pain moves us to action, as well as precedes and accompanies and follows action. the word _emotion_ is usually employed to denote an acute feeling state, while the word _mood_ denotes a prolonged feeling condition, _i. e._, a less acute emotional state. the word _feeling_, however, is used to cover both; for in each case the sensational element manifests itself in a definite physical affect, pleasurable or painful in some degree. _thinking_ is a conscious mental activity exercised to evolve ideas from perceptions, and to combine and compare these ideas to form judgments. intellection, or thinking, might be explained as the mental process which converts sensation into percepts, groups percepts to form concepts or ideas, stores away ideas and sensations for future use, and recalls them when needed--the recalling being memory--and by reason combines, compares, and associates ideas to form judgments, then compares judgments to form new judgments. the process of intellect we name by terms denoting activity, such as intellection, thinking, the _stream of thought_, and the latter describes it most truly. _volition_ or _will_ is the function of the mind which compels the expression of thought or feeling in action. for clarity we might indicate the mind and its functions in the following diagram: / emotion { pleasure \ { { pain } { / eye } { { ear } { / sensation / nose } { { (impression < mouth } { { on mind from \ skin } { { some organs) { muscles } { { { viscera } { { \ general sensation } { { } { { perception } } { { (recognition of > of object } / { cause of sensation) } of quality \ mind < intellect, or / > mind \ the stream < { self / { of thought \ { organic } { { memory < inorganic } { { { percept } { { { concept } { { } { { { abstract } { { ideation < concrete } { { { imaginative { fanciful } { { { constructive } { { reason } { \ judgment } \ will / the following terms are ones constantly used in psychology, and are briefly defined that there may be no haziness in their application. _sensation_ is the uninterpreted response of the mind to stimuli brought by sense organs. { hot. examples: feeling of { cold. { pain. sensation may arouse instinct and cause reflex action, or start a feeling state, or a train of thought. _perception_ is the conscious recognition of the cause of a given sensation. { fluid--water. example: { cold--snow. { pain--cut. _percept_ is a word often used to denote the mind's immediate image of the thing perceived. percepts are of two kinds: object and quality. example: { object, as water. { quality, as fluid. _memory_ is the mind's faculty of retaining, recognizing, and reproducing sensations, percepts, and concepts. _organic memory_ is the mind's reproduction of past bodily sensations. example: i recall the physical sensations of a chill, and live it over in my mind, so that i can accurately describe how a chill feels to me, though i can but surmise how one feels to you. _inorganic memory_ is the mind's reproduction of its own reactions in the past. example: myself having a chill, how i acted; what i thought and my emotions during that chill. _ideation_ is the mind's grouping of percepts by the aid of memory, to form concepts. example: i perceive color, form, mouth, eyes, nose, chin, etc. these percepts i combine as a result of past experience (memory) to form my concept, _face_; and the process of combining is ideation. _concepts_ are mental representations of things or qualities, _i. e._, of object or quality percepts. we might say that the percept is the mind's immediate image of a thing or quality, and the concept is the result of the storing up and grouping and recombining of percepts. thus a lasting mental picture is secured; and my idea of horse, for instance, is so clear and definite a thing in my mind that if i should never again see a particular horse, i should yet always be able to think accurately of a horse. concepts are of two kinds--concrete and abstract. a _concrete concept_, or concrete idea (for concept and idea are interchangeably used), is an idea of a particular object or quality. examples: this wine-sap apple (object concept). this sweet orange (quality concept). an _abstract concept_, or abstract idea, is a mental reproduction of a quality or an object dissociated from any particular setting or particular experience. abstract ideas are of two kinds. we speak of them as _abstract object concepts_ and as _abstract quality concepts_. an _abstract object concept_ we might call a generalized idea, an idea comprehending all objects having certain things in common. example: my idea of animal includes many scores of very different individual animals, but they all have bodies and heads and extremities. they all have some kind of digestive apparatus; they breathe, and can move. an _abstract quality concept_ is easier to think than to explain. it is as though the mind in considering a multitude of different objects found a certain quality common to many of them, and it "abstracted," _i. e._, drew this particular quality, and only this, from them all, and then imagined it as a something in itself which it calls _redness_, or _whiteness_, or _goodness_. thereafter, whenever it finds something like it anywhere else again it says, "that is like my redness." so i call it "red." in other words, consciousness thereafter can determine in a newly discovered object something it knows well merely because that something corresponds to a representation which experience and memory have already formed. these comprehensive concepts, or _universals_, as some psychologists term them, the mind, having pieced together from experience and memory, holds as independent realities, not primarily belonging to _this_ or _that_, but lending themselves to this or that. for example: my mind says "white," and sees white in some object. but i see the white only because my mind has a quality concept, _whiteness_. this outside object corresponds to my concept. i recognize the likeness and call it "white." i speak of goodness, or purity, of benevolence; or of fulness, emptiness, scantiness. there is no object or quality in the outside world i can say is goodness, or fulness. but i do see things in the external world through my ideas of goodness or fulness that correspond to these ideas. they have some of the qualities the ideas embrace; and so i point them out and say, "this represents purity; that, impurity"; or, "this is full, that is empty." one satisfies my concept of purity, while the other does not. one fulfils my concept of fulness; the other does not. and because we can never point out any one quality in the outside world and say "this is purity, and all of purity; this is goodness; or this good plus this good plus this makes all of goodness"; because of this impossibility we speak of these concepts as having reality somewhere. they are _absolutes_, _universals_, _abstract quality concepts_--the unfound all of which the things we call pure and good are but the part. _apperception_ is the process of comparing the new with all that is in the mind, and of classifying it by its likeness to something already there. with an abstract idea of an object in mind we very deftly, through the use of memory and constructive imagination, deduce the whole from the part recognized as familiar. example: in walking through the field, along the bank of the brook, i glimpse under the low-hanging branches of the weeping willow a restlessly moving hoof. i see a certain kind of hoof and only that. or i hear a lowing sound. and i say "cow." i have not seen a cow, but only a part which tells me a cow is there; for all the cows i ever saw had hoofs of that general description, and so it fits into my concept _cow_, and into no others. or i have heard cows, only, give that lowing sound before. from my perception, then, of hoof or sound i apperceive _cow_. memory relates that hoof or that lowing sound to a certain kind of animal known in the past; and constructive imagination draws in all the rest of the picture that belongs with it. again, we may apperceive an object or quality from our recognition of something which in our experience has been associated, under those particular circumstances, with only that object or quality. i see smoke on the ocean's far horizon, and i decide instantly, "a steamer." i have not perceived any steamer, but only something that "goes with it," as it were. i see the ship with my mind, not with my eyes; for i know that a cloud of smoke out there always has, in my past experience, represented just that. i compare the newly appearing stimulus--smoke in that particular location--with all that is associated with it in my mind, and classify it with the known. i apperceive "steamer." in apperception, then, we construct from the known actually perceived by the senses, the unknown. how does the child realize that the moving speck on the distant hillside is his father? there is nothing to indicate it except that it is black and moves in this direction. but experience tells johnny that father comes home that way just about this time. moreover, it says that father looks so when at that distance. when johnny is as sure it is his father as if he could see his face close beside him he has apperceived him. the speck on the hill is the newly arriving stimulus. johnny compares it with what corresponds to it in his mind's experience and proclaims, as a fact, that he sees his father. _reason_ is the mind's comparison and grouping of concepts to form judgments, and its association of judgments to form new judgments. example: my concept _man_ includes the eventual certainty of his death. my concept mortal means "subject to death." therefore my judgment is, "man is mortal." reason has compared the concepts and found that the second includes the first. _judgment_ is the mind's decision arrived at through comparing concepts or other judgments. example: _man is mortal_ is my decision after comparing the concepts _man_ and _mortal_ and finding that the latter really includes the former. judgment at the same time says that "mortals are men," is not a true conclusion. for in this case the first concept is not all included in the second. mortals are all life that is subject to death. we may assume personal consciousness even as we recognize an individual body. psychology does not deal with any awareness separated from a person. it knows no central mind of which you partake or i partake, and which is the same for us both. a universal consciousness would simply mean one which is the sum of yours and mine and everybody's who lives today, or who has ever lived. so by _personal consciousness_ the psychologist means his consciousness, or yours, or mine. but they can never be the same; for mine is determined by my entire past and by how things and facts and qualities affect me; and yours, by your past, and by things and facts and qualities, and by how they affect you. _personal consciousness_ is the mind's recognition of self; and as the self changes with every added experience, so personal consciousness is modified. _stream of thought_ is a term _james_ has brought into common usage to illustrate the fact, already stressed, that thinking, as we know it, is never static, is never one thing, one percept, one concept, one judgment; but is a lot of these all together, just beginning to be or just beginning to change into something else. we never know a concept, for instance, except as it is a part of our entire consciousness, related to all the rest; just as we do not know the drop of water in the brook as it flows with the stream. we can take up one on our finger-tips, however, and separate it from all the rest. but analyzed in the laboratory, this drop will contain all the elements that a pint or gallon or a barrel of the same water contains. the drop is what it is because the stream has a certain composition. we only have a brook as drops of rain combine to make it, but we also have only the drops as we separate them from the steam. _imagination_ is the combining by the mind, in a new way, things already known. this may be either into fantastic groupings divorced from reality, or into new, possible, rational groupings not yet experienced. so imagination is of two kinds, the fantastic and the constructive. fantastic imagination, or fantasy, gives us gnomes, fairies, giants, and flying horses, and all the delights of fairy tales. constructive imagination is the basis for invention, for literature, and the arts and sciences. the word _thinking_, defined early in this chapter, is broadly used to denote the sum of all the intellectual faculties. thinking is really the stream of thought. chapter vi the normal mind (continued) instinct we have found that the mind's chief end is action, of itself, or of its body. but what are its incentives to action? we see the very young baby giving evidences of an emotional life, living in an affective, or feeling environment, leading a pleasure-pain existence, from the first. he acts as desire indicates. but from the very moment of his birth he performs actions with which he cannot as yet have a sense-memory connection, because he is doing them for the first time. how can he know how to respond to stimuli from the very beginning? no other possible explanation offers itself than that he is born with certain tendencies to definite action. these we call instincts--man's provision to keep him going, as it were, till reason develops. instincts are handed down from all the past. definite tendencies, they are, to certain specific reflex actions in response to certain sensations. these responses, from the very beginning of animal life, have been toward avoiding pain, and toward receiving pleasure. it is as though the stimulus presses the trigger--instinct--and the muscle responds instantly with reflex action. this mechanism is the means of protection and advancement, and takes largely the place of intelligence in all animal life. it is what makes the baby suck and cry, clutch and pull, until a sense memory is established. so instinct is really race memory. we call instinctive those immediate, unthought reactions which are the same with all mankind. the pugnacious instinct--the desire to fight--is the natural reaction of every human being of sane mind to attack. the inner necessity of avenging is so strong in the child or man of untrained mind or soul that he acts before he thinks. he strikes back, or shoots, or plots against his enemies. only rare development of spirit or the cautious warning of reason which foresees ill consequences, or a will trained to force control, can later make the instinct inactive. where instinct ends and sense memory, imitation, and desire step in is difficult to determine. later in life probably most of what we consider instinctive action is simply so-called reflex action, depending on sense memory, action learned so young that it is difficult to distinguish it from the true reflex action, which is due only to race memory. james, in his _talk to teachers_, gives us a partial list of the instincts. thus: fear ownership shyness love constructiveness secretiveness curiosity love of approbation the ambitious impulses: imitation, emulation, pride, ambition, pugnacity to this partial list we would add self-preservation, reproduction, etc. but instincts conflict with each other, and man carries about with him in babyhood many of them which may have been very useful to his prehistoric ancestors, but which only complicate things for him. fear and curiosity urge opposite lines of conduct. love of approbation and shyness are opposed. love and pugnacity are apt to be at odds. so, gradually, as intelligence increases, the child refuses to allow such impulses to lead him to action. when fear-instinct and love-instinct are at war, reason is provided to come to the rescue. _instincts_ are racial tendencies of sensational or emotional states to determine action. instincts are the germs of habit, and when instinct would give rise to a reaction no longer useful, reason, abetted by new habit formation, in the normal mind, weakens instinct's force; and the habit is discarded and the instinct gradually declines. in prehistoric times when food was scarce, and man had not learned the art of tilling the soil, hunger forced him to fight for what he got to eat. as there was often not enough to go around, he maimed or killed his fellow-man that he might have all he wanted, obeying the instinct to survive. so, now, the baby instinctively clutches for all that appeals to him. but an abundance of food for all, or the intelligent realization that co-operation brings more to the individual than does fighting, and a developed sense of responsibility toward others; or merely the fear of the scorn of fellow beings, or the desire to be protected by the love of his kind; perhaps a genuine love of people, acquired by spiritual development, puts the primitive habit of food-grabbing into the discard. finally, the very instinct of self-preservation may be transformed into desire to serve others. no better illustration of this can ever be offered than the sacrifices of the world war. memory no mind retains consciously everything that has ever impressed it. it is necessary that it put aside what ceases to be of importance or value and make way for new impressions. we found early in our study that the subconscious never forgets, but harbors the apparently forgotten throughout the years, allowing it to modify our thinking, our reactions. but the conscious mind cannot be cluttered with the things of little importance when the more essential is clamoring. so there is a forgetting that is very normal. we forget numberless incidents of our childhood and youth; we may forget the details of much that we have learned to do automatically; but the subconscious mind is attending to them for us. do you know how to skate? and if so, do you remember just how you did it the first time? probably all you recall is that you fell again and again because your feet would slip away from where you meant them to be. when you glide over the ice now it is as natural as walking, and as easy. you cannot remember in detail at all how you first "struck out," nor the position of your feet and arms and legs, which you felt forced to assume. at the time there was very real difficulty with every stroke--each one was an accomplishment to be attempted circumspectly, in a certain definite way. all you remember now is, vaguely, a tumble or two, soreness, and lots of fun. we forget details we have intrusted to others as not a part of our responsibility. we forget the things which in no way concern us, in which we have no interest and about which we have no curiosity. and it is well that we do so. if it were not for the ability to forget, our minds would be like a room in which we have lived a lifetime, where we have left everything that has been brought into it since our birth. it would be piled ceiling high, with no room for us, and with difficulty only could we find what we want. as we grow from babyhood to childhood, from childhood to youth, from youth to maturity the room changes with us. we put off childish things. they are stored away somewhere, in an attic or basement, or destroyed. and day after day something new is added, displacing something else. in the case of the mind all these things are stored and cataloged in the subconscious, and forgotten, until some need causes us to look into our catalog-index and see the experience again, or some association calls it back, relating it to something new. so our discussion of the subconscious involved also a discussion of memory. but what of the things we must use frequently and cannot find in our minds? what of absent-mindedness and faulty memory? in such cases our minds might be compared to a cluttered room full of things we need and want to use every day, but in confusion. we know where many of them are, the ones we care most about; but we have to rummage wildly to find the rest. we have no proper system of arrangement of our belongings. you laid down that book somewhere, absent-mindedly, and now you cannot tell where. you were thinking of something else at the time, and inattention proves a most common cause of poor memory. perhaps you simply have more books than the room can hold in an orderly way, and so you crowded that one in some corner, and now have no recollection of where you put it. poor memory is the result of lack of attention, or divided attention at the time the particular attention-stimulus knocked. you asked me to buy a ribbon of a certain shade and a certain width when i went to town. i was thinking of my dentist appointment. however, i heard your request, answered it graciously, took the money you offered, still wondering if the dentist would have to draw that tooth. and the chances are that i forgot your ribbon. i was giving you only a passive and divided attention. or i have more to do than i can possibly accomplish in the next six hours. you ask me to buy the ribbon. i attend accurately for the moment, think distractedly, "how can i do it all?--but i will"--and crowd the intention into an already overburdened corner of my mind, fail to associate it with the other thoughts already there, and return six hours later without the ribbon. my sense of hurry, of stress, of the more important thing to be done, or a reaction of impatience at the request, forced back the ribbon thought and allowed it to be hidden by others. i was really giving you only partial attention, or an emotion interfered with attention; and i forgot. hence we find that a faulty memory may exist in an otherwise normal mind when poor attention, or divided attention due to emotional stress or to an overcrowded mind, which makes it impossible to properly assort its material, interferes. again, we forget many things because they are unpleasant to remember. we have no desire, no emotional stimulus to make us remember; or because some of the associations with the forgotten incident are undesirable. we forget many things because if we remembered them we would feel called upon to do some unpleasant duty. you forgot your tennis engagement with b, perhaps, because you were so engrossed in a pleasure at hand, or in your work, that anything which interrupted was, under the circumstances, undesirable. you may have wanted very much to play with him, but some more pressing desire--to care well for your patient, or to continue the present amusement--was stronger. or you forgot because you did not want to play with him and had no excuse to offer at the time. you wished to forget. perhaps he does not play a good game, or you do not like him, or at least you like some one else much more, and he happened along; so you forgot b. the unconscious mind saw to it that something else was kept so prominently before your attention that it could not return to the less desired. thus a forgetting may be purely the result of an emotional interference which makes it, all in all, more pleasant to forget than to remember. if we would help ourselves or our patients whose memories are faulty, and who make them worse by their continual fretting over their disability, we must train ourselves to be willing to forget all that does not in the least concern our interests or those of the people about us, and does not add anything desirable to our knowledge. thus we may avoid overcrowding the mind. but when we would remember let us give our whole active attention at the moment of presentation of the new stimulus, and immediately tie it up with something in past experience; let us recognize what it is that we should remember, and call the reinforcement of will, which demands that we remember whether we want to or not. sincere desire to remember will inspire early and frequent recalling, with various associations, or hooks, until the impression becomes permanent. the average patient's poor memory is made worse by his agitation and attention to it, and his conviction that he cannot remember. the fear of forgetting often wastes mental energy which might otherwise provide keenness of memory. if the nurse ties up some pleasant association with the things she wants the sick man to remember, and disregards his painful effort to recall other things, then--unless the mind is disordered--he will often find normal memory reasserting itself. we shall consider this question of memory in more detail in a later chapter of practical suggestions for the nurse. the place of emotion _feeling cannot be separated from thinking._--emotion we found the constant accompaniment of every other mental activity. it is first on the stage of consciousness and, in the normal mind, last to withdraw. when i am working at a problem in doses or solutions, trying to learn my _materia medica_, or wrestling with the causes of disease in my _medical nursing_, or thinking how i can eke out my last ten dollars till i get some more, i am pursued with some vague or well-defined feeling of annoyance or satisfaction, of displeasure or pleasure. if all goes well, the latter; if not, the former. _feeling cannot be separated from will._--i cannot _will_ without a feeling accompaniment, pleasant or unpleasant. i may be using my will only in carrying out what intellect advises. but we found that intellect's operations are always affective, _i. e._, have some feeling of pleasure or pain. and the very act of will itself is a pleasant one and much easier if it is making me do what i want to do; it is a vaguely or actively unpleasant one if it is making me act against desire. in the end, however, if i act against desire in pursuance of reason or a sense of duty, the feeling of pleasure in the victory of my better self is asserted. and feeling cannot be separated from will. _feeling cannot be separated from action._--i cannot do anything without a feeling of comfort or discomfort, happiness or unhappiness. try it for yourself when you are feeding a patient, making a bed, giving a bath or massage, preparing a hypodermic. other things being normal, if you are performing the task perfectly, the feeling of satisfaction, of pleasure, of the very ability to work effectively, with speed and accuracy and nicety, comes with the doing. if you are bungling, there is a pervading sense of dissatisfaction, of unpleasantness. in the automatic or semi-automatic action a great economy of nature has conservatively put feeling at the absolute minimum; but it has not eradicated it. as you walk across the ward, though your predominating thought and feeling may be elsewhere, there is a sense of pleasure or displeasure in the very movement. if your body is fresh and you are of an energetic type and in happy frame of mind, a pervasive feeling of satisfaction is experienced. if tired or discouraged or sore from unaccustomed exercise, every step registers protest. thus we find by experiment that there is no thought we have, no single conscious movement or action, nor any expression of the will, but is accompanied with what the psychologist broadly terms _pleasure_ or _pain_. so _emotion_, the first expression of mentality, is never absent from any mental or physical act. it permeates all we do, as well as all we think and will, with the partial exception of automatic action, above indicated. the beginning of reason we found feeling by far the strongest factor in producing action in babyhood and childhood. our instinctive doing, we learned, is the result of a race impulse. will acts chiefly at emotion's bidding. but very early the baby's experience operates as a partial check to feeling's exclusive sway. it keeps him from touching the fire, no matter how its brightness attracts. it may be merely the sense memory of _hurt_ when fingers and that bright thing came together; and one such impression will probably prevent him from ever again touching it. or it may be the brain-cell's retention of the painful feeling of slapped hands when the fingers reaching out to the flame had not yet quite touched. these punishment experiences are only effective in many children after more or less repetition has set up an automatic prohibition from brain to motor nerves; but right here intellect begins to assert itself in the form of sense memory. the baby does not reason about the matter. his nerve-cells simply remember pain, and that particular brightness and glow, and finger touch--or that reaching out to the glow--and slapped hands, as occurring together. in the same way he early connects pleasure with the taste of certain forbidden things. he does not know they are sweet. he only knows "i want." even here his desire to taste may be checked in action by a vivid memory of what happened when he tasted that other time, and was spanked or put in his little room all alone with only milk and bread to eat for a long time. later on the child may think, from cause to effect, thus: "sweet, good, want, taste, spank, hurt (or no dinner, all by self, lonely), spank hurt more than sweets good. not taste." but long before he can work this out, consciously, two distinct memories, one of pleasure and one of pain, are aroused by the sight of the sweet. and what he will do with it depends upon which memory is stronger. in other words, his action is governed altogether by his feeling, though memory, which is an intellectual factor, supplies the material for feeling. development of reason and will later still, when the child is older, we may have somewhat the following mechanism: "sweets, good, want, taste; spank, hurt; don't care, spank not hurt much, maybe never found put, sweets very good." now the child is reasoning and choosing between two courses of action, _don't_ and _do_. his decision will depend upon whether immediate satisfaction of desire is stronger than the deferred satisfaction of being good, and the fear of punishment. he probably prefers to take a chance, and even if the worst comes, weighs it with the other worst, not having the sweet--and takes the "bird in the hand." he has reasoned, and has chosen between two emotions the one which his judgment says is the more desirable; and his will carries out the decision of his reasoning. his chief end in life is still to get the most immediate pleasure. still later in child-life, much later, perhaps, his decision about the jam is based on neither love of it nor fear of punishment, but--despite his still sweet tooth--on a reasoned conclusion that if he eats jam now he may be sick, or he may spoil his appetite for dinner; or on a consideration that sweets between meals are not best on dietetic principles; and _will_ very readily backs up the result of his reasoning. though his determination is largely based upon feeling, reason has chosen between feelings, between immediate desire to have, and desire to avoid future discomfort. reason is triumphant over present desire. judgment the conclusion or decision that reason has reached we call a judgment. the youth who decides against the sweet between meals, we say, has good judgment. and we base our commendation on the proved fact that sweets are real fuel, giving abundantly of heat and energy, and are not to be eaten as mere pastime when the body is already fully supplied with high calorie food not yet burned up; that if sweets are eaten at irregular intervals and at the call of appetite, and not earned by an adequate output of physical work, the digestive apparatus may become clogged, and an overacid condition of the entire intestinal tract threaten. we call judgment good, then, when it is the result of reasoning with correct or logical premises which correspond with the facts of life. we call it bad when it is the conclusion of incorrect or partial or illogic premises. a _premise_ "is a proposition laid down, proved, supposed, or assumed, that serves as a ground for argument or for a conclusion; a judgment leading to another judgment as a conclusion" (standard dictionary). let us illustrate good and bad judgment by following out two lines of reasoning, each quite accurate as such. i want sweets. sweets are good for people. they give heat and energy, and i need that, for i am chilly and tired. people say "don't eat sweets between meals." but why? they contain just what i need and the sooner i get them the better. so i have sweets when i want them. the judgment to take the sweets as desire indicates is entirely logical if we accept all the premises as correct. and they are, so far as they go; but they are partial; and so cannot altogether correspond with the facts of life. sweets are good for people who expend much physical energy. they prove injurious in more than limited amounts to the bed-ridden, the inactive, or the sluggish. hence this premise is partial and so far incorrect. sweets do give heat and energy, true. i am chilly and tired, also true. but why? because i am already toxic from the sweets and meats i have had throughout my sedentary years. the question is, do i need any more energy-producing food when i am not burning up what i have? so again the premise is partial. i do need heat and energy, but i already have the material for it, and my mode of life has disorganized my system's capacity to utilize these foods normally. so now sweets have become a detriment to my well-being. the judgment which determines me to the habit of eating sweets between meals is the result of logic, but of logic spent on tying up premises which do not fit the facts of the case. one of the most prevalent defects of judgment is illustrated in this common disability to select premises which fit the facts. ignorance, emotional reasoning, and a defective critical sense probably explain most poor judgments. the other judgment illustrates the logic of correct, provable premises. "no, i shall wait until dinner-time. i have no need of so rich a food, for i had an adequate meal at the usual time and have not worked hard enough to justify adding this burden to my digestive apparatus; besides only hard workers with their muscles can afford to eat many sweets. they cause an overacid condition when taken in excess; and any except at mealtimes would be excess for me, with my moderate physical exercise." this judgment we call good. its premises correspond to scientific facts. but much reasoning must always be done with probable premises, ones which seem to correspond to the facts, but which have yet to be proved. and our judgment from such suppositions cannot be final until we see if it works. some few centuries ago supposedly wise men called christopher columbus a fool. of course the world was flat. if it were round man would fall off. it was all spread out and the oceans were its limits. if it should be round, like a ball, as that mad man claimed, then the waters must reach from europe 'round the sphere and touch asia; or there might be land out there beyond the ocean's curve. but it wasn't round, and the idea of finding a new way to asia by sailing in the opposite direction was a fool's delusion. their logic was perfect. if the earth was flat, and asia lay east of europe, it was madness to sail west to reach it. but they argued from a wrong premise, so their judgment was imperfect--for they did not yet know the facts. the result of all reasoning is judgment. and judgment is good as the materials of the reasoning process correspond to facts, or are in line with the most probable of the yet unknown. it is poor as the reasoning material fails to meet the facts, or is out of harmony with the most probable of the yet unproved. it is of no avail, then, to attempt to improve our final judgments as such. we must examine the materials we reason with, then learn to group and compare them logically. and in the very separating of true premises from false, we use and train the judgment we would improve. and this the normal mind can do. reaction proportioned to stimuli in the normal mind the emotional or feeling accompaniment of thought and action is proportionate and adequate to the circumstances, _i. e._, there is a certain feeling, of a certain strength, natural to every thought and act; and when only that strength, not more or less, accompanies the thought or the act, we say, "that man is emotionally stable. his mind is normally balanced." joy naturally follows some stimuli; sorrow others. disappointment or loss, shock, failure, death of loved ones, illness in ourselves or others, do not normally bring joy. a keen sense of suffering, temporarily, perhaps, of numbness; the inability to grasp the calamity; or flowing tears, an aching heart, or the stress of willed endurance, are natural, and normal reactions to such stimuli. a developed will may refuse indulgence in the outward expression of the normal feeling of shock, grief, and loss; and this may be normal. but normal volition does not force us to laugh and dance and be wildly merry in the face of grief and loss and pain. it only suggests the adequate, reasonable acceptance of the facts that cannot be changed--the acceptance of love, faith, and hope that sees in present suffering a means of consecration to service; it does not convert the emotion of sorrow and loss into a pleasurable one. normal reason does not suggest that _will_ force the reactions to loss and suffering that belong by nature to attainment and success. nor does reason suggest the long face, the bitter tears, a storm of anger, in response to comedy and farce, in the face of a good joke, or to meet success; and normal will puts reason's counsel into effect. normal emotional reactions some emotions, that seem exaggerated at first thought, may be normal under the circumstances. for no one can know the whole background for emotional response in the life of another. after being long shut up in a darkened room, with bandaged eyes and aching head and sick body, the first visit to the bit of woods back of the house--when all the pains have gone--may bring almost delirious joy. the green of the foliage, the blue of the sky, the arousing tang of the air, the birds, the sense of freedom--all go to the head like new wine. the abandon of joy is a normal response under the circumstances, now. it would hardly be normal to one whose habit it is to visit this same bit of woods every day, to one who loved it, but for whom it had lost the force of newness. to the child, who has never in all his little life had a wish not gratified, the denial of a desired stick of candy is as great a calamity as is the loss of a fortune to the grown man. and the child reacts to feeling equally intense. these are normal reactions to stimuli--normal, under the circumstances. the normal mind the normal mind reasons clearly with the best data at hand to results that will stand the test of conformity to reality; the normal mind uses reason and feeling, guided by reasonable attitude; in the normal mind _reason_ advises action and _will_ brings it about; in the normal mind _feeling_ proportionate to the circumstances accompanies every thought and every action. and in the well-balanced man or woman every function of the mind leads to action as its final end. but man only approximates the normal. the perfectly balanced man or woman is so rare as to be a marked person. the average intelligent individual only in general approximates this standard. he goes beyond it in spurts of untrammeled genius, to wrench lightning from the heavens, and to send his trains through the air; or he allows his feelings to dictate to his reason, and much of the time so exaggerates or depreciates the simple facts of life that the results of his reasoning no longer conform sufficiently to reality as to be thoroughly dependable. chapter vii psychology and health in the use of its functions the mind manifests certain powers and certain modes of expression which can act as powerful allies or as damaging enemies of health. we speak of man as adaptable, but also as a being of habits. we speak of him as "feeling" when we wish to express the fact that his emotions influence his body. we expect of the average man a certain amount of suggestibility. we say that he is tremendously affected by his environment, which simply means that his attention, naturally centered chiefly on the things at hand, largely determines what he is. but we recognize that a man of trained mind can choose and will to substitute for his present surroundings thoughts upon more constructive things from past experience, or from future possibilities, or from within the mind's own storehouse. his ability to largely modify his life by his will, we recognize as man's greatest power. _adaptability_, emotional response, _suggestibility_, _attention_, _thought-substitution_, _habit-formation_, and _will_ can minister vitally to health, or can prove damaging avenues of disease. necessity of adaptability adaptability is as essential to life of mind as to life of body; and health of mind as well as health of body is determined by the individual ability to adjust himself to environment. there are dreamers who have lived in their ideal world so long that they cannot meet the stern realities of life when they come. the shock is too great for the mind that has accepted only the fantastic, the real as the dreamer would have it; and he lets go altogether his hold on the actual, accepting the would-be world as present fact. and we call him insane. other visionaries wakened rudely to life as it is, accept it as unchangeable fate, lose all their true ideals and become cynical, or victims of utter depression for whom life holds nothing that matters. still others go on through the years self-satisfied and serene because they simply refuse to believe unpleasant truths; they "pretend" that their wishes are realities, and acknowledge as facts only the pleasant things of existence. the first two groups have failed to adapt self to life as it is, and the mind is lost or so damaged as to no longer serve its body properly. the "pretenders" have adjusted themselves, and so long as they can remain happily self-deceived all goes well for them, though they complicate living for others. however, they have made an adaptation, a defective one, it is true, but one through which the mind may survive. some of this class, however, finally build up a more and more elaborate system of self-deception until they, too, are insane. the practically adaptable man can dream dreams, but always recognizes them as dreams, and can stop at will; can vision a beautiful ideal, but comprehends that it is not yet reality, though it may some time become so if he learns and fulfils the laws leading to its realization. the adaptable man or woman recognizes the real as fact, desirable or otherwise, the fantastic as unreal and only to be indulged in as a pastime, and the ideal as the possible, a thing for which to work and sacrifice. so perfect adaptability would mean perfect mental poise. it is for the nurse to realize that the greater number of her patients do not belong to any of these classes absolutely, but that some of them have tendencies leading in these various directions. and it is her privilege to recognize the trend of her sick patient's mental workings, and to so deftly and unobtrusively encourage the recognition of facts as things which are to be used--not as stumbling-blocks--that her mental nursing, as her physical, shall be directed toward health. she can help her patient to accept illness and suffering as realities to be faced, and treatment as a means, whether pleasant or not, of making it possible for health to replace them. the understanding nurse can actively help her charge one step at a time toward adaptation to the new environment, remembering that many of the sick, particularly the depressed, cannot be encouraged or incited to effort by having future health held out to them. they are capable only of living in the present and doubting all the future. _there can be no neurosis without a psychosis._--if the brain is the organ of the mind, then what affects the brain must perforce be at least registered by mind. so every physical shock, accident, toxic condition, infection--even the ordinary cold--rouses the mind at least to awareness, usually to discomfort. for the nerve-cells and fibers--those inseparable parts of the body mechanism--speedily report the fact that they are being tampered with. in the toxicity of the infections these very delicate tissues are nourished by toxic fluids; in accidents they carry all the messages from the injured part. then the brain--that center of all man's reactions and the organ of all his consciousness--receives the report of the disturbance and translates it into terms of more or less disability. the neurosis has become a psychosis. the physical condition has become a mental discomfort. normally this ensuing mind state should be in accordance with the extent of the injury to the nerve-cells and fibers. but under long-continued discipline, or influenced by emotion, the conscious mind may not recognize the neurosis; whereas, in the hypersuggestible, consciousness will translate it into entirely disproportionate suffering. a great problem of nervous education is what the mind will do with discomfort or pain. will it put all its attention there and respond with nervousness, irritability, demand for sympathy; or will it relegate all the minor pains to their own little places, accepted as facts but to be disregarded except in so far as actual treatment is needed? will it turn to attend to the host of other more desirable objects? or in case of acute suffering, will it take it as a challenge to endurance? will it use it as a means to strengthen volition, as a stepping-stone to self-mastery? realizing the force of the law--no neurosis without a psychosis--the nurse will try to eliminate unnecessary irritations to physical comfort, while she helps the patient to adjust himself to the ones which are inevitable. it is the doctor's problem rather than hers, except as she carefully fulfils orders, to eliminate the toxic causes of psychosis. it is hers to help the patient to meet adequately the effects of the infections or toxins, and to prevent as far as possible the surrender to uncontrolled nervousness. her object is to have him face the psychosis as one of the simple facts of science, then turn the sick mind's attention to more important things; she would encourage _will_ to force endurance; she would stimulate the feeling life to the forward look of confidence and faith, or to acceptance of life's suffering as a challenge. the nurse knows that pains beyond the power of endurance the doctor will lighten. and the patient's reaction to discomfort and suffering, the understanding nurse, without any preaching, can very largely influence. the power of suggestion one almost universal condition found in illness is _hypersuggestability_. here is the nurse's despair and her hope. suggestion may come from without or from within. when from within, we call it autosuggestion. many of the sick are temporarily resting their reasoning faculties and their judgment. the sick body is causing a feeling of "jangling nerves," and the mind, too, is strongly tempted to be sick. so every harsh sound, every jolt, almost every sentence spoken in their hearing suggests immediate nervous reactions. the mind does not wait to weigh them. the nervous system reacts to them the second the impression is registered. the whole self is oversensitive, and the very inflection of a voice has enormous significance. let the nurse remember that her way of giving a treatment, her expression, or her very presence becomes a potent stimulus on the second, one to which the patient's mind responds like a flash-light when the button is pressed. the nurse must comprehend the principle of the nervous effect on the patient of all that is done and said, and realize her tremendous privilege in making those stimuli wholesome. the nurse who has a sympathetic insight, with unswerving loyalty to orders, can carry them out with the average patient, unpleasant though they may be to him, in such a way that his wholesome emotional response will be called forth, a response of co-operation, or of faith or of good breeding, or of "downing" the impulse to indulgence; or a response directed toward holding the nurse's interest and attention, and so keeping her in the room; such a response as will gain some privilege, etc. but there are some patients in whose cases ordinary persuasion, suggestion or requests fail. they are too nervously or mentally sick to be moved by logic, or to respond with customary grace to a request which their reason is not awake to answer. all usual suggestions may fail of effect. and for these few, in order that health may be at all assured, even the discipline of force may be necessary. but the nurse must use this only as a last resort, of course, and in accordance with the doctor's orders, and then solely as treatment leading toward the ways of health. before turning to this final method she should clearly, firmly, and kindly explain the principle of the discipline if the patient's mind is at all capable of grasping it. in any case, force should be used only as the surgeon uses his knife. it hurts, but only to help and to save; and it is not called upon when other methods can secure the needed results. but force, thus limited in its application, may prove the only suggestion which will bring about the action necessary to health on the part of the patient. force unwisely and unkindly used proves a damaging suggestion, causing reactions of fear or anger; or it may lead to delusions of persecution and to strengthened resistance. many suggestions come to the patient from within. discomfort in the right side may suggest appendicitis. a slight indigestion, often purely nervous, may be interpreted as inability to care for certain diet, etc. the wise nurse will displace as many of these as she can by casual suggestions on her own part. she will demand of herself that her very presence be quieting, calming, happy; that her conversation with her patient shall vibrate with a certain something that gives him courage and strengthens the desire and the will to health; that her care of him shall prove confidence-breeding. the patient's attitude, when he is at all suggestible, is largely in the nurse's hands, and she can make his illness a calamity by dishonest, fear-breeding, or suspicion-forming suggestion. after all, the whole question here is one of the normality of the nurse's own outlook on life and people. the happier, truer, and more wholesome it is, the more really can she help her patient to both bodily and mental health. of one thing let the overzealous nurse beware. do not irritate your patient by a patent, blatant, hollow cheerfulness that any one of any sense knows is assumed for his benefit. personally i know of no more aggravating stimulus. _what we attend to determines what we are._--this is one of the first laws of education. if the child's attention from birth could be controlled, his future would be absolutely assured. but attention is a thing of free will and cannot be forced by others. it can be won through interest or self-directed by will. the child's attention is entirely determined by interest, interest in the morbid and painful as truly as in the bright and happy. punishment interests him tremendously because it affects him, it interferes with his plan of life, it holds his entire immediate attention to his injured self. but something more impelling quickly makes him forget his hurt feelings and he is happy again. the average sick person is emotionally very much like the child. his will at the time, as we noted before, is tempted to take a rest, and his interest is ready to follow bodily feeling unless something more impelling is offered. the nurse who can direct attention to other people, to analyzing the sounds of the street, to understanding something of the new life of a hospital or sick room, to planning a house, or choosing its furniture or equipping a library, or supplying a store; to intelligent references to books or current events; or to redecorating the room--all in his mind; to an appetizing tray, a dainty flower, a bit of sunshine, a picture, etc., is fixing the patient's attention on something constructive, helping him to get well by forgetting to think of himself. thus the nurse, knowing the laws of attention, can keep herself alert to divert and direct her patient's thought to wholesome interests. knowing the possibility of thought substitution, she can open up new channels of thinking. knowing the power of the will to assist in health bringing and health keeping, she can sometimes stimulate long-dormant determination. let her beware, however, of making the convalescent too dependent upon help from without, but prick his pride to gradually increasing doing for himself. arouse his reasonable ambition, but let him realize that life must be taken up again a step at a time; and that he _can_ do it. if limitations must be accepted, try to inspire the feeling of pride in accomplishing the utmost possible within a limitation, and an acceptance of the inevitable without bitterness. attending to the unhappy, the painful, the boring without looking beyond makes life unhappy, painful, and a bore. not that the nurse should ignore these realities, but she can accept them whole-souledly herself as not the final things, as merely the rocks that can be used to stand upon and get a view of the something better for everybody. when they are thus used by the wholesome mind, facts, the very barest and meanest of them, can be made useful as stepping-stones to the happier facts beyond them. if the nurse can direct or tactfully lead the patient's attention away from himself and his illness, she has found a big reinforcement to his treatment. this question is so vital in the care of patients that it will be discussed at greater length later on. one thought can be replaced by another if we control attention we control thought, and with the suggestible patient this principle depends upon the one just now considered. hope and courage-breeding thoughts can replace despairing and fearful ones, but it will be only when attention is directed through interest or by will to new material. there is no blank in waking consciousness. the last thought or feeling or perception, through association of ideas, brings up a related one, and so on indefinitely. we may start with a pebble on the road and go on logically, smoothly, until in five minutes we are thinking of the coronation of king george, with no sense of anything at all unusual in the succession. it may be a very roundabout process, from "pebble" through "rough way," "ways that hurt," "dangerous ways," "brigands," "uncertainties of life." "uncertain lies the head that wears a crown," "king george and his crown," "coronation." but this constant stream of thought can be broken into at any point by a spoken word, a passing vehicle, which diverts the mind's trend. so the nurse can take advantage of the mind's very suggestibility, and substitute for the unhappy and sickness breeding by turning attention to anything else of a happier color, and may divert the entire stream of thought in that direction. she who knows these simple laws of the mind, and who at all knows people, is a therapeutic agent of unlimited value. habit is a conserver of effort it is always easier to follow a beaten path than to break one's way through untrodden forests. it is easier to walk after we "learn how," and learning how is simply doing it over and over until the legs and feet have acquired habits of motion and accommodation to distances and to what is underfoot. it is easy to do anything after we have done it again and again, so that it has become second-nature, and "second-nature" is habit. the wise man early forms certain habits of personal care, of eating, sleeping, exercising; of study, of meeting the usual occurrences of life. the first day he spent at anything new was a hard one. nothing was done naturally. active attention had to be keenly held to each detail. he had to learn where things belonged, how to do this and that for the first time, how to work with his associates. do you remember the first hospital bed you ever made, the first bed-bath you gave, the first massage? you had to be taught bit by bit, detail by detail. you did not look upon the finished whole, but gave almost painful attention to each step that led to the made bed, the completed bath, or the given massage. your fingers were probably all thumbs unless you had experience in such things before you came to the hospital. your mind was tired from the strain of trying to remember each suggestion of your instructor. the second time, or certainly the third or fourth time, it went better. after a week of daily experience you gave the bath or massage or made the bed with much less effort. a month later the work was practically automatic and accomplished in a fraction of the time you spent on it that first day. now you can do it quickly and well with little conscious thought; and at the same time carry on a brisk conversation with your patient or think out your work for the day. your mind is free for other thoughts while you perform the task easily and perfectly. your method of doing the work has finally become a habit which saves the effort of conscious attention. the details of your routine work are directed by the subconscious. the habit will be energy and time saving in proportion to the accuracy of your first conscious efforts spent on the new undertaking. thus, useful habit is the result of active effort. we can acquire habits of thinking and habits of feeling as well as habits of doing. but the other habits, the bad ones, are not acquired with effort. we fall into them. hazy thinking is easier than clear thinking. suppose you are by nature rather oversanguine or overdespondent, and you make no genuine attempt to evolve that nature into poise. directing _will_ to do what _desire_ opposes is too difficult, and you go the way of least resistance. so easily are the bad habits formed; but only with tremendous effort of will and persistence in refusing their insistent demands can they be broken or replaced by helpful ones. but habits can be learned; and bad habits can be broken when an overpowering emotion is aroused against them, possesses the mind, and controls the will; or when reason weighs them in the balance and judgment finds them wanting, and volition directs the mind to displace them by others. the nurse meets in her patients numberless habits which retard recovery of body and make for an unwholesome mental attitude. some patients have the complaint habit, some the irritation habit, some the self-protection habit, some the habit of impatience, some of reckless expression of despair, some of loss of control, some of incessant self-attention. the nurse who can arouse an incentive to habits of cheer expression when the least cause of cheer appears, who can by reason, or if that is not possible, by suggestion; by holding out incentives, or by making some privilege depend upon control--this nurse can help her patient to displace habits of an illness-accepting mind by habits of a health-accepting one. above all, let her beware of opening the way to habits of invalidism. some people acquire the "hospital habit" because it is easier to give way to ill-feeling, however slight, and to be cared for with comfort, than to encourage themselves to build up endurance by giving little attention to minor ailments. the saving power of will it is not uncommon to hear a doctor say, "nothing but his will pulled him through that time." it does not mean quite what it says, for the patient's will would have been helpless to cure him without the medicine and the treatment. but it does mean that in some cases when life is hovering on the brink, even the most skilful treatment cannot hold it back if the _will to live_ is gone. the chances may be half and half. lack of desire to live may drop the balance on the death side. determination and hope and confidence may overweigh the life side. for the influence of will in refusing to surrender to depression may throw the needed hair's weight in favor of more normal circulation. depression and emotion may so effect the sympathetic nervous system as to cause a lowered circulatory activity. determination, based on volition, may stimulate a response from the sympathetic system which will increase heart activity. and certainly, when it is not a matter of life and death, but a prolonged recovery, will is a saving grace. the patient who sets all his sick energies to the task of winning health reaches his goal quicker than the hopeless and depressed. perhaps his will merely brings utter relaxation for the time, forces acceptance of present helplessness only for the sake of giving the body a better chance to recuperate; but the very fact that it is acting to hopefully carry out orders lightens by half the nurse's task of getting him well; and she can encourage this will to co-operate with the doctor's efforts by suggestion, by her directness and honesty, by the quiet assurance that at least a reasonable degree of health is won by effort. we have touched upon only a few of the laws of the mind. the nurse can help develop saving mental habits and wholesome attitudes while she helps to strengthen sick bodies; she can make a cure a little more certainly lasting who will remember that: . adaptability is essential to life and health. . there is no neurosis without a psychosis. . suggestion may be a powerful factor for health. . what we attend to determines what we are. . thought substitution is possible. . habit is a conserver of effort. . will is a saving power. chapter viii variations from normal mental processes disorders and perversions life would be a very simple proposition if the mental machinery always worked right. but this is peculiarly subject to damage both from without and from within. from without it may be damaged by the toxins of food, as in the acute toxic psychoses; by the poison of drink, as in the alcohol-produced psychoses, such as acute alcoholic hallucinosis; by lack of muscular exercise, resulting in a deficient supply of oxygen to burn up the accumulated toxins from energy-producing foods; by the infections, which may result in the infection-exhaustion psychoses; by wrong methods of education, and by surroundings which demand too severe a mental strain in the struggle toward adjustment. these damages from without we class roughly as environmental. from within the mental workings may be injured by emotional dominance; by bad habits of thinking and feeling and doing--often the result of wrong methods of education; by defective heredity; by undeveloped will; by the insanities. these danger sources from within we might classify as self-produced and hereditary. there may be disorders of any or every function of the intellect, disorders of feeling, and perversions of will. some of the most commonly met we list below. disorders of the _functions_ of _intellect_. / hyperesthesia (exaggeration of sensation) { as found in neurasthenia, or in mania. { anesthesia (absence of sensation) { as in the numbness of hysteria; in sensory { paralysis. disorders / retardation of < as in dementia and melancholia. sensation \ "clouding" or dulness { as in simple depression. { perversion { as in dementia and melancholia. sweet may taste \ sour; fresh food may smell decayed. / hyperesthesia (exaggeration) { as in neurasthenia or mania. { anesthesia disorders { as in hysteria or paralysis. of { retardation perception { as in dementia and melancholia. / "clouding" or dulness (being < as in simple depression. dependent \ illusion on sensation { found in normal mind--easily corrected; is always { found in many insanities. disturbed { hallucinations with it). { frequently met in the infection-exhaustion psychoses, { in dementia, in paranoia, in acute \ hallucinosis of alcoholism. / hypochondriasis { found in many of the hypersuggestible, frequent { in the mild depressions and in all victims of { self-attention. { retardation { found in most depressions. { deficiency { as in idiocy--the inability to form new concepts. { acceleration { as in hypo-mania. { poverty { as in the abnormally self-centered; { as in melancholia. { rambling ideas { as in chronic insanity. { flight of ideas { as in manias, hysterias, and acute deliriums. disorders / fixed ideas of < as in paranoia. ideation \ perversions (concepts change their meaning altogether) { as in dementia. { ideogenous pains { as in hysteria. { compulsive ideas { common in borderland states; { in psychasthenia, or hysteria. { disorientation { { thing, { (wrong idea of { place, or { { person); { found in confused conditions; { in delirium from infections; { in insanities. { confusion { as in the infection-exhaustion psychoses; \ in insanities. / absent-mindedness. { amnesia (morbid forgetfulness). { { temporary, disorders / aphasia { prolonged, of < {permanent (see later explanation). memory \ perversion { as fabrications, due to memory-confusion or { inaccuracy; also due to excessive ideation and \ defective judgment. / / somatic { { as in hypochondriasis. { { persecutory { { as in paranoia. { { unworthiness { { as in simple depression or { { melancholia. { delusions { grandeur { systematized / as in mania or paranoia. disorders / transient < nihilistic of < fixed \ often found in melancholia. reason \ { reference { { as in paranoia. { { altered personality { { as in hysteria. { { perverted personality { { (patient may believe he is a dog); { \ as in dementia. { emotional thinking. { shut-in personality { as seen in the deficient social capacity of potential \ dementia præcox. / defective judgment { in all insanities; { in hysteria. { _ex._: patient who accepts mental suggestion { of disability as reality. { perverted judgment disorders / in severe dementias--as influenced by unreasonable of < fear, hatred, etc.; judgment \ in all acute insanities--as manifested in inability { of patient to rid himself of his delusions. { absence of judgment { in all acute insanities; { in later dementias. { limitations \ in many so-called normal and in all the abnormal. / suggestibility { in hysteria. { excitement { in mania. { depression { in melancholia. disorders / phobias of < as found in psychasthenia. emotion \ deficiency { as in the apathy of depression. { perversion { in mania, in depression, in catatonia. { deterioration { in dementia. { sense of unreality \ found in all borderland cases. / wilfulness { in many "normal." very common in hypomania. { willessness (aboulia or paralysis of will) { often found in psychasthenia; and in depressive { states. { morbid inhibition { as in depressive states. { indecision { as in psychasthenia; { as in simple depression. { obsessions { found pre-eminently in psychasthenia. { tics disorders / in many borderland cases; of < in the hypersensitive as often the only expression will \ of any neuropathic tendency. { distractibility { as in hypomania and frequently in hysteria. { negativism { as in catatonia. { mutism { as in catatonia. { compulsive acts { as in psychasthenia, hysteria, etc. { psychomotor overactivity (volition unable to check) { as in mania. { psychomotor retardation (volition unable to energize) \ as in depression. from this limited survey of the mind's disorders we realize that every departure from the normal mental attitude tends to associate itself with one of the following five _states of mental disability_. depression, exaltation, perversion, enfeeblement, deficiency. chapter ix variations from normal mental processes (continued) _hyperesthesia_ is abnormal sensitiveness to stimulation. _anesthesia_ is loss, either temporary or permanent, of any of the senses. _perversion_ is morbid alteration of function which may occur in emotional, intellectual, or volitional fields. example: the odor of a rose causing an acute sense of physical pain. an _illusion_ is a false interpretation of a perception. the normal mind is quite subject to illusions, either due to a faulty sense organ, or to a preconceived state of mind which so strongly expects or presages something else than reality as to misinterpret what the senses bring. examples: the crooked stick as a snake. a ghost created from shadow. an ordinary ringing in the ears as sleigh-bells. milk tasting like blood. an _hallucination_ is a perception without an object. the hallucinated individual projects, as it were, the things of his mind's creation into the outer world, and accepts them as reality. he sees snakes where there is nothing to suggest them; sees a ghost where there is no shadow; believes that the taste of blood is constantly in his mouth. there are possible hallucinations of every sense. nonexistent objects are seen, touched, tasted, heard, or smelled. _hypochondriasis_ is a state characterized by persistent ideas of non-existent physical disabilities. the hypochondriac has every known symptom of indigestion, or of heart disease, or is threatened with tuberculosis--all in his mind; and whatever the disorder he seizes upon, his attention hovers there, while the ideas of that particular disability persist and strengthen. a _flight of ideas_ is an abnormal rapidity of the _stream of thought_. every perception so immediately is linked with some association of experience that expression is swift and often incoherent. one word will follow another with amazing rapidity, words suggested by sound association, usually, rather than by that of meaning. example: "made a rhyme, had a dime, did a crime, got the time, bring some lime." this association by rhyme is quite common. but the associations of meaning are not uncommon. example: "made a rhyme. mary was a poet. mary had a little lamb. where's mary?--mary!--no jim--jim, all my children--calling, calling, calling," etc. a _fixed idea_ is one which morbidly stays in the mind and cannot be changed by reason. example: in hypochondriasis, as given above. _ideogenous pains_ are either pains born of an erroneous idea, or mental reproductions of pains now having no physical cause. a suggestible person, learning that his grandfather died of an organic heart, conceives the idea that he has inherited the trouble, and begins to suffer cardiac pains; and as long as the idea persists the pain is felt. _compulsive ideas_ are ideas which intrude, recur, and persist despite reason and will. example: the compulsive idea of contamination may lead its victim to wash and rewash his hands at every contact with matter, until finally, though they are raw and sore, he is incapable of resisting the act. _disorientation_ is a state of mental confusion as to time, place, or identity. _amnesia_ is pathologic forgetfulness. example: as sometimes found in the infection-exhaustion psychoses, when the entire past of the patient may be wiped out for the time. cases of permanent amnesia are known. _aphasia_ is a defect in the interpretation or production of language. there may be motor aphasia, auditory aphasia, vocal aphasia, sight aphasia; and with disability to produce words, they may yet be recognized when seen; or when they can be spoken they may not be recognized when heard; or with inability to speak them, they are accurately sensed by hearing; or though understood when heard, they are incomprehensible when read. a _delusion_ is a false belief which cannot be corrected by reason. a _somatic delusion_ is one centering upon alterations in the organs or their functions. example: absence of a stomach, inability to swallow. a _nihilistic delusion_ is one which denies existence in whole or part. example: mother denies the existence of her child. a _delusion of reference_ is one in which the deluded individual believes himself an object of written, spoken, or implied comment. example: the actors on the stage are directing their remarks directly against the victim in the box. a _shut-in personality_ is one that habitually responds inadequately to normal social appeal. _sense of unreality_ is one of the commonest psychic alterations through which customary sensation states are displaced by unnatural and usually distressing ones. examples: the breakfast table appears undefinably altered. laughter is accompanied by strange, rather than by normal, sensations. _morbid inhibition_ is an abnormal, negative activity of the will. sometimes a patient will try pitifully to express some thought or feeling; the desire to explain is there, but will is blocked in action. or the patient attempts to dress, makes repeated new beginnings, but cannot succeed. we say, "he is inhibited." an _obsession_ is an idea which morbidly dominates the mind, constantly suggesting irrational action. obsessed patients may consistently step in such a way as to avoid the juncture of the flagstones on the pavement; may insist on removing their shoes in church; may hail each person met on the street and tap him on the arm; may refuse to ever leave the house without an open umbrella; or may try to attack every man they see, not because they want to hurt or kill, but because they are obsessed to the performance of the action. a _tic_ is a useless, habitual spasm of a muscle imitating a once purposeful action. motor tics, such as habitual jerking of the arms, shrugging the shoulder, contorting the face, shaking or nodding the head, snapping the fingers, etc., are very common among nervous children, and even in many otherwise normal grown-ups. _distractibility_ is an abnormal variation of attention. the common inability of the hypomanic patient to hold his attention to any subject when another is open, is very like the distractibility of the child who turns to every new interest as it is presented. _negativism_ is a state of persistent compulsion to contrary response to suggestion. it is with these patients as though not only initiative were lost but also the power to follow another's lead. but their independence asserts itself in opposing every suggestion and in acting so far as possible contrary to it. _mutism_, as used in psychiatry, is an abnormal inhibition to speech. patients sometimes speak no word in many months. to all appearance they are true mutes. then suddenly something may remove the mental blockade and they talk. _compulsive acts_ are acts contrary to reason, which the will cannot prevent. a seemingly quite normal patient will sometimes grab a vase from a stand in passing, and dash it to the floor. something "urged" him to do it, and he could not resist. others will tear their clothes to shreds, not in anger, but because they "could not help it." _psychomotor overactivity_ is abnormal activity of both mind and body, contrary to reason and uncontrolled by will. _psychomotor retardation_ is an underactivity of both mind and body in which consciousness is dulled and the body sluggish. a _neurosis_ is a disorder of the nerves, which may be functional or organic. _nervousness_ is properly termed a _psychoneurosis_--for we have learned that there can be no neurosis without an accompanying psychosis. _psychosis_ is the technical synonym for insanity. _borderland_ disorders constitute a group in which mental perversions do not yet so dominate reactions as to make them irrational. twilight is neither night nor day; the feelings of the hysteric are not insane, but the actions may be. _insanity_ is a prolonged departure from the individual's normal standard of thinking, feeling, and acting. _mania_ is insane excitement. _melancholia_ is the inability of the mind to react to any stimulus with other than gloom and depression. melancholia may be of the intellectual type or of the emotional type. the patient who tells you constantly that he has murdered all his children, that he is a criminal beyond the power of god to redeem, who seems chained to his delusions, yet shows no adequate feeling reaction, no genuine sorrow, we call a case of the intellectual type of melancholia. another patient misinterprets every normal reason for happiness until it becomes a cause of settled foreboding. the mother, whose son fought safely through the war and is now returning to her, feels that his coming forecasts calamity for him. he had better have died in france. she is of the emotional type of melancholia. _hysteria_ is a nervous disorder based upon suggestibility, and capable of imitating most known diseases. _insane impulses_ are morbid demands for reckless action beyond the control of the will. example: the impulse to kill, quite regardless of who may be the victim. _psychopathic personality_ is a term much used today to designate an hereditary tendency on the part of the individual to mental disorder. the _neuropath_ is the individual with an inborn tendency to the neurosis. _neurotic_ is a term broadly employed for the nervous in whom emotions predominate over reason. _neurasthenia_ is a nervous disorder characterized by undue fatiguability. _psychasthenia_ is a nervous disorder characterized by a sense of unreality, weakness of will, self-accusation, and usually by phobias and obsessions, all subject to temporary correction by reason or influence from without. _hypochondriasis_ is a disorder characterized by morbid attention to bodily sensations, and insistent ideas of bodily disorder. _phobia_ is a morbid fear or dread. factors causing variations from normal mental processes heredity when we consider the accumulated possibilities for disorder which the family tree of almost any one of us can show, the wonder is not that there are so many nervous or insane, but rather that any come within hailing distance of the normal. for multitudes are born of parents whose bodies were food poisoned or alcohol or drug poisoned, and whose nervous systems were tense and irritable, oversensitive, and suffering from the effect of these same toxins on the brain. others are of manic-depressive parentage; some are possibly even of paranoic or dementia præcox lineage; while many of our finest and best had psychopathic or neuropathic heredity. syphilis, itself, and the underpower bodies of tuberculosis are heritages of many. when we realize, too, that we are born with certain inherent tendencies of temperament, which are too often of the melancholic or overcholeric type, our wonder grows that we are not doomed to defeat at birth. were it not for the possibilities in the germ-plasm of choosing the much of good also in our heredity, often enough to overbalance the bad, and for the proved power of environment and training to modify or even altogether overcome the harmful parts of our birthright, there would be little hope for many. environment while environment may prove the saving grace from poor heredity, it may itself add heavily to the debit side. with the very best of health backgrounds, environment may damage body and mind beyond repair. under environment we include everything that touches life from without--people, things, work, play, home, school, social life, business life, college-life, etc. among factors of environment damaging to mental health are overemotional family life, overstrict home discipline or the lack of needed discipline; overfeeding, underfeeding, wrong diet, lack of proper exercise, stimulants, drugs, overstimulation, overprotection, too much hardship and privation, loneliness, poor educational methods, immorality, etc. personal reactions what will decide whether a human being can resist, successfully, bad tendencies in heredity, or in environment, or in both, and keep a reasonably balanced mind? it demands insight, ambition, will; and if these remain the body can be forced to saving ways of health, and body and mind can largely make their own environment. but with heavy handicaps of heredity or environment, or both, and poor insight, or lack of desire, or weak will, nothing can save the mind from neurotic taint or worse--nothing but obedience to some one strong enough to control the habits of that life, until self-control is born. and there is a hope that it _can_ be born in the most neurotic or neurasthenic, so long as the mind is sane. but after all, a large number of people whose mental processes are not normal, have only themselves, their poor emotions, their lazy wills, their hazy thinking to blame. we except what are called the heredity insanities--_dementia præcox_ and the other dementias and the _manic-depressive_ groups and _paranoia_ and _psychasthenia_--for in these cases, possibly with the exception of the _manic depressives_, even the most perfect environment could probably not prevent the disorder from asserting itself. many neurotics, neurasthenics, and hysterics are curable if they will seriously undertake to fulfil the laws of physical and mental health--simple laws, but ones which demand a strengthened will to carry out. chapter x attention the root of disease or health attitude the attention of interest attention naturally follows interest. it can, however, be held by will to the unappealing, with the usual result of transforming it into a thing of interest. one of the laws of the mind we have already stressed is that what we attend to largely determines what we are, or shall be. the interests which secure our consideration may be the passive result of emotional life, the things which naturally appeal, which give us sensations that the mind normally heeds; or they may be the active result of our will which has forced application upon the things which reason advised as worth acquiring. we found that the beginning of health of mind consists in the directing of thought toward the health-bringing attitude. we have seen how quickly the normal mind can be diverted from the undesirable by a new or stronger emotional stimulus. we found that the sole appeal to attention in the baby-life is through the emotions, and that it is natural throughout life for the mind to heed and follow the interesting; which is only another way of saying that thinking follows where emotion leads, unless volition steps in to prevent. the supreme test of the will's power is its ability to hold the train of thought in the line that reason directs, when feeling would draw it elsewhere. this ability marks the man who does big things; while the inability to ever turn attention away from the interests proposed by feeling assures weakness. some of the most charming people we shall ever know are those temperamental children of happiness whose interests are naturally wholesome and externalized, whose natures are spontaneous and joyous, and who live as they feel, seemingly never knowing the stress of forced concentration. with them attention follows feeling, feeling is sweet and true, and volition simply carries out what feeling dictates. and life may not be complicated. but there is another class whose attention also follows in the ways of least resistance; and life for them is a wallowing in the morbid and unwholesome. in them feeling is perverted, they seem to see life habitually through dark glasses; they passively attend to the sad, the distressing, sometimes the gruesome and the horrible with a sort of pallid joy in their own discolored images. the first group puts joy in all they see, because they are brimming full of joy themselves. these others find only the unwholesome in life because their minds are storehouses of it. we say that each type has projected himself, that is, has thrust himself out into the external world, and is standing back, looking at his own nature and calling that the universe. but neither of these two groups can long withstand the stress of a world they only feel and have never attempted to comprehend. the irresponsibly happy ones are too often crushed and broken when life proves to bring loss and failure and disappointment; the morbid probably will cease some day to enjoy their melancholic moods, and be unable to find their way out of them. if both had learned to control attention, they might have been saved. the happy, care-free child of the light is at desperate loss when the sun he loves is obscured, if he has not learned to look upon the far side of the clouds to find that there they glow golden with the rays temporarily shut from him. because clouds were not interesting to him he never attended to them--and now he cannot. if the pessimistic, morbid one had looked away from the shadow to the sun it hid he, too, in the end might have seen with sane eyes and lived so wholesomely as to find all the good there was in life. willed attention, rather than spineless feeling distractibility, might have saved him. when thinking can be forced to follow where trained reason directs, and can be kept in that direction, the greatest problem of physical and nervous well being is solved. to the nurse there is no other principle of psychology so important. but no child ever had his attention diverted by reasoning alone. the object at which you wish him to look must be made more impelling than the one he already sees, or he must want much to please you, else he only with his eyes will follow your command while his mind returns to his real interest; and the second you cease to command that eye service, he looks back to the thing that was holding him before. the beginning of all education is in arousing a _want to know_; in turning desire in the direction of knowledge. i am an undisciplined child and i want only candy for my lunch. it is not good for me. milk is what i should have. i don't want it. you may deprive me of the candy and force me to drink the milk, and i can do nothing but submit. but i rebel within, and i am only more convinced that i "hate" it and want candy, and that you are my natural enemy because you force the one upon me and deprive me of the other. if i were insane and so, of course, could not be reasoned with, this might be inevitable. but it would be unfortunate. in that case, if possible, do not let me see the candy; let only the food it is best for me to have be put before me, and perhaps eventually i shall come to want the more wholesome thing--for it is better than the hunger. but as it happens i am a perfectly normal person, only i am sick. i am tired of bed, and want to sit up--and it does seem that i should have my desire. the nurse, wise in her knowledge of sick "grown-ups," who are, after all, very like children, will find a way to divert my mind from the immediate "i want" to something which i also can be led to want. i may agree that i want more the better feeling an hour from now. perhaps her humorous picture of the effects of too early freedom on my condition, or of my body's urgent demand for rest, regardless of my mind's wish; perhaps only a joke which diverts me; perchance the "take-for-granted you want to help us out" air; mayhap the story to be read or told; or simply the poise and quiet assurance of the nurse who never questions my reasonableness and acquiescence; perhaps her confidence that this will serve as a means to the end i covet--will result in my gladly taking her advice, and my perfect willingness to wait for new orders, while i indulge in beautiful plans i shall carry out when they finally arrive. in other words, with the sick as with children, attention naturally follows interest. and the good nurse realizes that it is not wise to force co-operation when she can secure it by diverting her patient's thoughts to another interest than the one now holding him. very often, merely by chatting quietly about something she has learned has an appeal, she can make the patient forget his weariness and boredom, or his resistance to details of treatment. the very milk he is refusing to drink may be down before he realizes it. but right here lies a hidden reef which may cause wreckage in the future. it is good therapy to divert attention by appealing to another interest when the patient is too sick or too stubborn or not clear enough mentally to be reasoned with. but if this becomes a principle, and his reason and active co-operation are never secured to make him choose the way of health for himself, the hour he is out of the nurse's hands he reverts to the things that now happen to appeal to him. then unless some wise friend is near to continue her method of making the reasonable interesting, the advice of reason can "go to smash." there has been a very constant illustration throughout the past of the unwisdom of relying upon diverted attention alone as an effective therapeutic agent. we hope this will not illustrate our point so clearly in the future. the drunkard, who is just recovering from a big spree, and feels sick and disgusted with himself, and sore and ashamed, is appealed to in glowing terms of the wellness and strength and buoyancy of the man who never drinks. he has no "mornings after." the lord is just waiting to save this dejected victim of alcohol from his hateful enemy who has made him what he is at this hour, and will forgive all his sottishness, his sins. he will be respected; he can command the love of his family again. he will no longer be a slave, but a free man. right now, respect of the world and love of family and friends, and cleanness, and the forgiveness of a good god are infinitely more interesting than this splitting headache, this horrible sick feeling. and attention may be very readily diverted. this promised new life is more attractive than the present. it is easy to keep attention there. and he reforms. he swears off "for keeps." he is a happy man, a free man. for a few days or weeks, perhaps even longer, he glories in his new self-respect. it is a strange and enticing sensation. then one day something goes wrong. he loses some money, or he is awfully tired, or the wife and children bore him, and all of a sudden the one greatest interest in the world is a drink. and because his thinking can always be led by his feeling; because he has never learned to force it to go elsewhere, he has his drink. appealing to his emotions did not and cannot save him unless that appeal is followed at the right moment by awakened reason, which will look at the whole proposition when the mind is at its normal best, and choose to follow where rational feeling directs. nor will reason save unless volition comes to its support and strongly backs it up and enforces what it advises. the attention of reason and will so the good nurse will not consider her work done when she has diverted mental processes into channels of co-operation. when the patient, who is capable of reasoning, knows the why of his treatment, and realizes that he can only keep well as he himself takes over the job and puts his mind on things outside of his feelings, and carries out the doctor's instructions for the sake of securing a certain end--then he has been under a good nurse. this wise helper never "preaches," but makes the healthy goal very desirable, stirs up an ambition to attain it, and prods the will to keep on after it despite anything feeling may say. this attitude on the part of the nurse presupposes that her own attention, while with her patient, is upon him and upon securing his health, and not upon her tiredness, or boredom, or headache, or the party tonight, or the man who has asked her to go to the theater with him tomorrow. she, surely, must learn to direct her thoughts where reason suggests, and to gain new interests through willed attention, or as a nurse she is less than second rate. nor can she get the best results until she can turn with a single mind to the patient at hand as the immediate problem to be solved. and probably neither nurse nor doctor does any better service, except in saving life itself, than in keeping the patient from thinking constantly of himself and his ills. for it seems of little use to have made some people physically well, if they are to carry through prolonged years the curse of constant self-attention, self-centeredness, an ingrowing ego. there are a few simple laws of the mind hinging upon attention which are today being impressed upon teachers in every department, in kindergarten, public school, college, and university. and they are as necessary to the nurse as to the teacher. three of them we have already discussed: . attention naturally follows interest. . attention may be held by will where reason directs. . new interests grow out of willed attention. a fourth we shall stress before considering the use the nurse can make of them: . the thing to which our chief attention is given becomes the most important thing. do not contradict this too quickly. don't say that nursing gets your chief consideration because it is, of necessity, your profession; but that you love your music infinitely more, and look forward to that through all your hours on duty. if this merely proves that music is distracting your attention, you are doing your nursing as a means, and not as an end; you give it probably all the attention necessary for good work, but your real desire is music. your chief attention is directed toward that goal. hence music is to you the most important thing. if your will is sufficiently trained to keep you from consciously thinking of it, still you are dreaming of it and working for it. you may make a very good nurse, but you will never be as excellent a one as the woman from whom nursing demands first and chief attention. we sometimes speak of one woman as a born nurse, and say of another, "she's a good nurse, thoroughly conscientious, but not a natural one like miss x." it only means that miss x's main purpose in life has always been caring for the sick, while miss y's secondary concern is that. there is a third, however, who may be sidetracked into nursing, but whose chiefest interest and attention in life has not been so much a certain profession or accomplishment, but a passion for people, with an ability to enter into their lives understandingly. she may not care for nursing in itself. it is only accidental that her thoughts were turned to it. but her liking for people makes it easier for her to concentrate attention on the details of nursing, as thereby she is fulfilling her life's ambition in studying and serving human beings. she may be a real success if she can only convince herself that this is her forte. if not, and she dreams of other fields of service, her concentration on the thing at hand is not perfect enough for her to compete successfully with the "born nurse." whatever it is, the thing that gets our chief attention is the most important to us. it may be lack of appetite, or pain in the side, indigestion, general disability, discomfort, the mistreatment we once received, the mistake we once made, or the sin we committed--whatever it is that holds our attention, it is the most absorbing and interesting thing in the universe, though it may be an utterly morbid interest, an unhappy attention. but it blots out for the time the rest of the world. a big hint for the nurse exists therein. let her try in every lawful way to divert her patient's attention from the disease-breeding stimuli toward the happy and wholesome ones. for the nurse herself in the care of patients let us draw some conclusions from these laws of the mind's working: . have a goal in view for the patient's health of both body and mind. . work toward instilling in your patient a health ambition--a pride in health. . remember that overcrowding the mind defeats your purpose of making one clear impression. . win interest by any legitimate means to the next step toward the goal, and only the next. . work for attention to hopeful, courageous, and happy things. let us as nurses remember always that it is for the patient's sake and not for our own that certain results must be obtained. our work is usually in helping the doctor to get the best possibilities out of the material at hand, and we cannot hope to change the fabric. but we can help to repair it; we can sometimes influence the color and suggest some details of the pattern, or assist in the "making over" process; and when the fabric is substantial and beautiful we may assist in preventing its marring. so we may help to evolve a body-health and mind-health attitude from what seemed the wreckage of a disease-accepting mind; or we may have the great privilege of warding off the disease-accepting attitude. but always, in all our care of patients, let us not neglect or fail to use wisely this central fact of psychology; that anything that gains attention, even for a moment, leaves its impress on the mind; that the direction of attention determines our general reaction to life. chapter xi getting the patient's point of view what determines the point of view the point of view of any individual depends upon temperament, present conditions--mental and physical--and the aim of the life. that is, it depends upon his inherited tendencies plus a unique personal something, plus all the facts of his environment and experience, plus what he lives for. richard and jim both live in philadelphia, richard on walnut street and jim on sansom street. richard's father is of the best quaker stock, with hundreds of years of gentle and aristocratic ancestry behind him. he followed his father and his grandfather into the profession of medicine, and is a well-known specialist, alert, keen, expert, and deservedly honored. he is at home in greek and latin, french, and the sciences. he selects at a glance only the conservative best in art and music and literature. his world is a gentleman's world, a scholar's world, and the world of a scientist and a humanitarian. and richard, his son, is true to type. jim's father is the ash man. his world is in the alleys and basements. his pastime, cheap movies, and the park on sundays. when he is not working he is too "dead tired" for anything heavier than the sunday supplement or perhaps the socialist club-rooms, where he talks about the down-trodden working man and learns to hate the "idle" rich. he spends his money on food and cheap shows and showy clothes. he talks loudly, eats ravenously, works hard, is honest, and wants something better for his children than he and the "old woman" have had. his music is the street-organ, the movie piano, and the band--some of it excellent too--but none of your dreamy stuff--good and lively. and his son, jim, is true to type. after the armistice jim and richard, who have fought for months side by side, go to paris together. richard may "have a fling" at jim's amusements for the sake of playing the game and "seeing how the other half lives" and all that--but before long we shall find him in the high-class theaters and restaurants, visiting the wonderful art collections and libraries, riding in luxurious automobiles, and staying in the best hotels he can find. and even though jim may have saved richard's life and richard is eternally grateful, and loves jim as a "dandy good scout," their ways will inevitably drift apart when the one big common interest of fighting together for a free world is over. they will always remember each other. jim will decide that a "highbrow" can be a real man, and richard will ever after have a fellow-feeling for the "other half" and think of them now as "folks." but jim is not at home in richard's neighborhood and circle; and richard is a fish out of water in jim's. the point of view of each has been largely determined by his heredity and his environment. but suppose jim isn't true to type. from the time he was a mere youngster the ash-man life did not appeal to him. in school he liked the highbrow crowd; he "took to" latin and literature. he has a feeling of vague disgust when he sees a vulgar picture, a shudder when the street-organ grinds. there is something in jim different. he isn't in tune with either his immediate heredity or his environment. the contribution from some remote ancestor has overbalanced the rest, and jim becomes a professional man. or perhaps richard breaks his father's heart. instead of following the trail already made, he cuts loose, frequents vulgar resorts, hates his school work, becomes a loafer and a bum--and, finally, a second-rate day laborer. again, what he is himself, his "vital spark" has been stronger than immediate heredity and environment, and has broken through. getting the other man's point of view our points of view are very frequently merely hereditary or acquired prejudices, hence altogether emotional rather than rational. we only with great difficulty see things through another man's eyes. it necessitates comprehending his background fully, and standing exactly where he stands, so mind and eyes can both look out from the same conditions that confront him. and this is only possible for the man or woman possessed of a vicarious imagination. such an imagination, however, can be cultivated. you hate my father. he injured yours--unjustly, to your mind, of course, for yours can do no wrong. from my point of view this father of mine is a great, good man. from your point of view he is wicked and cruel. we are both honest in our emotion-directed opinions. until you can know my father as i know him, and i can know yours as you know him, we shall never agree about them. but i _can_ learn to understand _why_ you feel as you do, and you _can_ learn to understand _why_ i feel as i do. i can put myself, in imagination, in your place, and see that other man as my father, and pretty well grasp your point of view, and you can likewise get mine. after all, the law is very simple. each man is the result of the things he puts his attention chiefly upon; and he puts it naturally upon the things which his forebears and his surroundings have held before him. the rare person and the trained person can assert the "vital spark" of his own personality and tear attention away from the easy direction and force, and hold it somewhere else. so he can change his points of view by learning that there are other vantage grounds which direct to better results. with some one else to lead the way and give a bit of help, or with the urge of desire to understand the new viewpoint, or by the drive of his will, he can change his own. let us not forget that what we see depends on whether or not our eyes are normal, on where we look, or on what kind of spectacles we wear. two things we can change--where we look, and the spectacles. if our eyes were made wrong we probably cannot change that, but we can often correct poor vision by right artificial lenses. there are people doomed to live in most unattractive, crowded surroundings who make a flower-garden of charm and sweetness there, or, without grounds, keep a window-box of fragrance. the normal person can pretty largely either make the most impossible environment serve his ends or get into a better one. so we can usually look to something constructive, helpful, attractive, or beautiful; and we can refuse to wear blue spectacles. we nurses soon realize that there are just about as many points of view as there are people, and that if we would help cure attitudes as well as bodies, and so lessen the tendency to sickness, it behooves us to learn to see what the other man sees through his eyes or by the use of his glasses, from where he stands. let us try just a few experiments. hold your pain and suffering from your appendix operation, and disappointment because you can't be bridesmaid at your chum's wedding, up close to your eyes, and you cannot see anything else. they crowd the whole field of vision. look at the world from the eyes of a spoiled woman of wealth who for twenty years has had husband, friends, and servants obedient to her every whim. she has grown selfish and demanding. what she has asked for, hitherto, has been immediately forthcoming. now she is ill, and she naturally considers the doctors and nurses mere agents to secure her relief from discomfort. she is willing to pay any price for that--and still she is allowed to suffer. from her point of view it is utterly unreasonable, inexcusable. what are hospitals and nurses for, anyway? and she is carping, critical, and disagreeable. her attitude is as sick as her body. how could it be otherwise? look about you from an aching mind and body, after days of suffering and sleeplessness, and unless you are a rare person and have a soul that sees the sunshine back of everything--you will find the world a place of torture. look out from despair and loss of the ones you love best, or from failure of will to meet disaster, and everybody may be involved in bringing about your suffering, or in effecting your disgrace. look out on the world from the eyes of the immigrant who has lost all his illusions of the land where dollars grow on the street and where everyone has an equal chance to be president, and if you do not cringe in abject humility, you are not unlikely to be insufferably self-asserting, considering that the world has robbed you and that now it is your turn to get all that is coming to you. so you make loud demands in a rude, ordering voice. the nurse is there to wait upon you--and finally you will have your innings. look out from the resentful eyes and smarting mind of the negro who is just beginning in a northern city to realize that his boasted "equality" is a farce, and you will try to prove to the white nurse that you are as good as anybody. you are impossible; but back of all your bravado and swagger and rudeness and complaint of neglect because of your color, you realize that you cannot measure up. you know you belong to a different race, most of whose members are daily giving evidences of inferiority; and you are sure that the nurse is thinking that. look from the eyes of the "new rich," or the very economical, and you are going to get your money's worth out of your nurses. the nurse who can get back of her patient's forehead and put her mind there and let it work from the patient's point of view, will learn a saving sense of humor, will be strict without antagonizing, will clear away a lot of mental clouds and help to make permanent the cure the treatment brings. one can often judge very truly a patient's real character by his reaction to his sickness. on the other hand, frequently it only indicates that he has not yet properly adapted himself to a new experience and a trying one. we hear so often, "why, she's a different person these days, since she's feeling better. it's a joy to do things for her." she was the same person a while back, but had not learned to accept discomfort. any of the following list of adjectives we hear applied to our patient again and again by the nurses: unreasonable stubborn lazy deluded cranky resistive unco-operative will-less hipped obsessed hypocritical of mean disposition excitable fearful exacting dissatisfied undecided wilful self-centered morbid doubtful demanding retarded abusive depressed spineless self-satisfied unpleasant terms they are, and condemning ones if accepted as final. when the nurse realizes that under the same conditions she would probably merit them herself, she becomes more anxious to remove the conditions, and less bent upon blame. we must admit that the highest type person, when sick of any physical illness, does not deserve such descriptive terms as these. but they are the rare folks, few and far between; while the great mass of us have not acquired more than enough self-control and thoughtfulness for the ordinary routine of life. we are weakly upset by the unexpected. if it is a pleasant unexpected, we are plus in our enthusiasm, and people applaud; if the unpleasant unexpected, we fall short, and people deplore our weakness. if we learn our lesson of self-control and adaptability, and gain in beauty of character through experience, it has served a purpose. but the nurse deals with the average of human nature, and she finds their reaction faulty. very often, if she is observant, she will discover that a patient responds in a very different way to some other nurse, who somehow finds that "trying" sick woman charming or thoughtful, likable or sweet. of course, it may be because the other nurse weakens discipline and caters to the patient's whims; but it is just as likely to be because she has tempered her care and her strictness with understanding. she has grasped the patient's point of view; and with that start, the chances are  per cent. more in favor of the patient grasping and acceding to the wise nurse's point of view. shall we not remember that our trying, cranky, stubborn patient is a sick person, and learn to treat that stubbornness or crankiness as a symptom indicating her need, just as we would a rising temperature? when we can meet her attitude with comprehension, and, if necessary, with quietly firm disregard, then we are beginning to be good nurses. some of the most common of these sick reactions with which the nurse must deal are enhanced suggestibility, repression, oversensitiveness, stubbornness, fear, depression, and irritability. and each one demands a different method of approach if real help is to be given. old isaac walton wrote a book many, many years ago called "the complete angler." he was a famous amateur fisherman, and he says there are only three rules to be observed and they will bring sure success: . study your fish. . study your fish. . study your fish. if the angler follows these directions, he is not apt to offer the wrong bait. when he knows all their little peculiarities, he will know how to catch his fish. the "complete angler" has an unlimited patience and an infinite sense of repose and calm. he never hurries the fish, lest they become suspicious of his bait. and he proves that these three rules work. the nurse who accepts every patient as like every other, and treats him accordingly, will never be a great success. the nurse who "studies her fish" and learns their psychology, will be a therapeutic force. she will know the _why_ of the way that patient acts. the deluded patient if the patient's mind is temporarily clouded through infection or suffering, he may be reacting to a delusion, an obsession, a fixed idea of disability, a terrifying fear. sometimes he persistently refuses food, and gives no reason for it. the unthinking nurse is tried, puzzled, and irritated. in other ways, perhaps, the patient seems quite normal. but, after all, the explanation is very simple. he probably is as confident that the food is poisoned as you are that it is as it should be. no arguing would convince him, for, to his mind, the nurse is either a complete dupe or an agent of the people whom he knows are plotting his death. and urging him only strengthens his conviction. the writer recalls one such case of a patient who had to be tube fed through many months, though a tray was set before her three times a day--and as regularly refused. then one day she was seen slipping food from off another patient's tray and eating it greedily, not knowing she was observed. when questioned, though she had never before given a reason for refusing food served to her, she said that "they" had nothing against mrs. b., so wouldn't try to poison her. her reasoning was excellent when one accepted her premises. she had bitter enemies. they were not enemies of mrs. b. and would not harm mrs. b. therefore she dare not touch her own food, but could eat mrs. b.'s if no one knew. these deluded patients live in a world we often do not sense, a world whose reality we do not appreciate. the nurse, after much experience, finds that there is a key to every resistance, to every lack of co-operation, to abnormal attitudes and actions. she realizes that a powerful emotion of desire or fear, of love or hate, of ambition or self-depreciation, of hope or despair, of faith or distrust, unchecked by reason or judgment through the years, has provided a soil upon which emotional thinking alone can grow. the patient is a mere puppet of the suggestions of emotions which may not be at all pertinent to the facts. nursing the deluded patient the nurse soon realizes the uselessness of attempting to argue a patient out of his delusions, of trying to convince him that the things he sees and hears and perhaps tastes and feels, are but hallucinations. her very insistence only fastens his attention more firmly upon the false conclusion or makes him more convinced that his mind is giving him a true report from the senses of sight and hearing and taste and feeling. but often a quiet disregard of the delusions while the nurse goes on her way and holds her patient to his routine, consistently and confidently, as she would in case they were not true, will eventually cause him to question their reality just because no calamity results. the nurse acts as if these delusions and hallucinations were non-existent in reality, and when the occasion arises, through the patient's questioning, she urges him to exert his will to act also as if they were not true; to try it and see what happens. arguing, also, she finds, usually antagonizes or makes the patient stubborn. he cannot prove by her logic his point, but he "knows" from inner experience that he sees what he sees, hears what he hears, and knows what he knows. the fact that the nurse does not is merely annoying evidence that she is blind, deaf, or stupid to these things of his reality. he knows he is lost and damned, or tainted; that he is king george, cæsar, or the lord, as the case may be; or that his internal organs are all wrong. he "feels" it and the nurse can't--therefore, he alone has true knowledge of it. in the end, the wise nurse who never disputes with him, but leads him on to action which utterly disregards these things, may bring about a gradual conviction in the patient's mind that a man couldn't do what he does if all these things were true; and the delusion slowly may lose its force or the hallucination fade away. many patients drop them from their lives entirely. many others in whom dementia is not indicated, or in whose cases it is indefinitely delayed, can come to an intellectual realization that all these things are fantasies, and do not represent reality; that despite their continued, frequent, or occasional demands upon feeling life, they can be consistently ignored. these psychopathic individuals may act as they would if the delusions never came henceforth to their consciousness, and so be enabled to live a comparatively normal life. the obsessed patient a patient who is suffering from obsessions must carry out certain abnormal actions, or be wretched. she cannot do otherwise. it is as though she were forced by some outside agent, though the forcing is actually from within. when the nurse realizes this, and the more essential fact--that many patients, who have not true obsessions, yet have a tendency toward obsessed ways of thinking and doing--when she comprehends it almost as she would if she were the victim, then she is ready to help the patient by gently making the action impossible, and at the same time diverting attention. the mind a prey to false associations sometimes a nurse reminds a patient of some one in the past who has complicated her life in an unhappy way, so she distrusts or dreads her or is made constantly uncomfortable in her presence. in such a case, if the nurse reports her patient as resistive, or fearful or cringing, or distrustful, she is really misrepresenting her; for under another's care that patient may show an entirely opposite reaction. the nurse can only sense the strength of the influence of heredity and environment and habit of thought, which would give the explanation of many things in her patient's attitude. nor can she realize just what shade of meaning certain phrases and words have for her charge. to the nervously overwrought person the most innocent reference--father, sister, wife, home--may bring concepts that are unbearable. the association of the word may make for deep unhappiness, of which the nurse knows nothing. but she _can_ learn that all these things _do_ influence attitude, can appreciate the difficulty of her patient's effort at adjustment, and do all in her power to make that adjustment possible. if the patient is reasonable she can appeal to her reason. if she is too sick for that, the nurse can use happy suggestions. if the mind is deluded and obsessed she can use firm kindness. she can learn what loss of privileges will affect the rude and unco-operative patient, and may be allowed to try that. she can sometimes help the patient to self-control by making her realize that after each outburst she will be constructively ignored. but the point we wish to make is this: there are some sick reactions which the nurse, if she recognizes as such, can help the patient to transform into wholesome ones. at the very least the wise nurse can learn to simplify her own difficulties by accepting the unpleasant patient as possibly the result of her illness, and refusing to allow her trying attitude to get on her nerves. the patient may be reacting normally to the stimulus her untrained and toxic brain received. and when the nurse can see into the other's mental workings, get her point of view, she is ready to give fundamental help. chapter xii the psychology of the nurse the mind can be as definitely developed and strengthened as the body. the man who has suffered for years an organic disease will never have the same force as he who has never been seriously ill; but his constitution can be built up and made as efficient as possible within its limitations. many a man or woman who has an organic heart disorder, through treatment and the proper exercises gradually increased, can very often approximate through many years the output of a normally strong person. the individual weakened by a tuberculous infection can frequently, by following a prescribed regimen for a time, by wise, scientific diet and rest treatment and the help of the out-of-doors, then by carefully increased physical activity, finally live the useful, average life. but it takes scientific care to evolve the weak body into a strong one; and in some cases, at best, it can never stand the same strain that the uninjured one carries with ease. however, even damaged bodies can be made very productive within their limited spheres. also the naturally perfect physique can quickly become unfit through neglect or infections or misuse. in the same way, and just as definitely, can the mind be developed and strengthened. some are by nature keen, alert, brilliant. they may develop into masterfulness; or they, too, may degenerate, through abuse, or from the effect of body infections, into uselessness. the germ-plasm has foreordained some individuals to psychic disorders; but training and mode of life can modify many of these defects. and the average mind, like the average physical organs, can be made more efficient through partaking of the proper mental food, through careful training and wise use. no more urgent necessity faces the professional woman than this of training her mind to its highest productiveness. argument is not needed to convince intelligent people today that the accomplishment of life depends upon mentality. let us look into the very a, b, c's of mind development, and as nurses undertake to equip ourselves to master our profession from the ground up. the first essential is ability to think clearly. _steps to clear thinking_: . accurate perception, with attention to the thing that reason chooses. . association of ideas. . concentration, acquired by the help of emotion and will. . emotional equilibrium, which refuses to allow feeling to obscure judgment by leading reason astray. . self-correction. . automatic habits, which free the mind of all unnecessary crowding. accuracy of perception the beginning of learning is perception. keen, accurate perception at the time of first introduction of a new fact or thought, and the linking up of that new material with something already in consciousness, insures in the normal mind the ability to remember and use that fact or thought again. the things casually perceived and not definitely tied up with something else are soon forgotten by the conscious mind. you pass a florist shop where a score of different flowers and plants are displayed. if your thoughts are intently on your errand you may glance in, see flowers, color, perhaps a riot of colors only--and beauty; and you feel a glow of pleasure from the sight. but a moment later you cannot name the blooms in the window. perhaps roses come to mind because you have very special feeling for them; or carnations, or sweet peas. but the window as a whole you perceive only as flowers, and color, and beauty. you cannot describe it in detail, for you gave it only passive attention. but if you went to that window to know its contents; to find out what the florist had in his shop, because you are very interested in all flowers and plants, then you can tell minutely what is there. you had a purpose in perceiving the window; your will held attention upon each object in turn; and your love of flowers (an emotion) eased the effort of volition when it might have tired. perception, then, is of three kinds: passive, incited by interest, and directed by will. and the perception which is the basis of accurate knowledge is one of keen interest, or of will, or of interest plus will. training perception the nurse who demands of herself that she perceive accurately paves the way for accurate, deft service in her profession. there are constant means at hand for training in the art. suppose you try to get so definite a picture of each ward or room you enter, in a swift but attentive examination of its furnishings and their locations, and of the patients, that you can reproduce it to yourself or a friend some days later. you come into a large ward, with a row of beds on either side of the door, and a wide central space between. how many beds in each row? there is a table at the far end of the room, opposite the door, and a nurse in white is writing there. why does she wear white? what is her name? to your right is a closet-like room opening from the ward. that is a medicine-room, you are told. how many windows has the ward? you glance from bed to bed with a rapid passing in review of the patients. which ones seem to you very ill? there is a large white screen about one. you are told that when treatments are given the screen is put there, or that when a patient is dying the bed is screened. you look for the ventilators, and see how many are open and how they work. you see a room-thermometer, and ask at what temperature it is kept. the nurse explains that a certain degree is ordered, and that, so far as possible, the ventilators are operated to insure that. if your attention has followed all these details with careful, accurate perception; if you have grasped them clearly, one by one, at the time, you will be able to answer quickly next day when some one asks how many patients the wards accommodate, and how many beds are vacant. you can describe the lighting and ventilation, the room temperature, etc. and later on you will quickly see to it that a screen is properly placed when you know treatments are to be given. association of ideas after the first few years of life practically nothing enters consciousness that cannot by some likeness or contrast or kinship be connected with something already there. were it not for this saving economy memory would be helpless. so the nurse who is in earnest and eager to master her new work will not only perceive carefully each detail of arrangement, but in two or three days at most will know each patient there; she will have worked out a system of associations, remembering not a meaningless name, but an individual with certain characteristics which she ties up with her name, and so gives it a definite personality. she thereafter recalls not merely a patient, but a very special patient; and as she comes to mind she brings a title with her, which is her symbol. likewise when her name is spoken or thought, she herself comes into the nurse's immediate consciousness. a bed in a certain part of the room will be no longer merely a bed, but mrs. brown's bed. remembering can be made easy by using some such method as this: the first bed to the right as you enter is mrs. meade's. she is the woman with the broken hip. the next is mrs. blake's, that blonde, big woman who wants more attention than any one else. the third is mrs. bunting's. she has wonderful, curling black hair, and a nice response to everything done for her. the next beyond is mrs. o'neil's. she looks as irish as her name sounds, and you will remember her by that. so each bed comes to mean a certain patient, and each patient comes to suggest the ones on either side of her--her neighbors. blondeness and bigness together call mrs. blake to mind. broken hip means mrs. meade, etc. each individual on that side of the ward becomes associated with a name which stands for definite characteristics. then you begin at the left bed nearest the door and follow the occupants back on that side. you may remember better by jotting them down in order of the beds, with names and a brief comment on each patient. keep that list on a small card in your pocket for reference for a day or two, then depend on memory entirely. i have personally found this an excellent method. you are expected to be able to turn quickly to any medicines needed in emergency, and you soon learn to remember them and where they are placed by the arrangement into classes or kinds, which most hospitals require. cathartics are together, hypnotics together, etc. so when you want _cascara_ you associate it with cathartic and turn to that shelf. you learn very soon that poison medicines are kept apart from the others, and quickly associate the _poison_ label with danger to patients, necessity of locking safely away and hiding the key from any but those responsible for the care of the sick. learning to look closely at the patient's face, instead of casually glancing at her when you care for her, makes it possible for you to note changes of expression, heightened color, dilated pupils, a trace of strain, etc. then try to find the exact word that will express what you see. such experiments in perception and attention, association and memory, repeatedly demanded of yourself--_i. e._, the being able to recall and describe in detail the room- or ward-arrangements and to place the patients accurately, as we have just described--will prove invaluable practice, helping you to attend to every change in your patient's demeanor and expression, which may prove significant symptoms. and remember that while the mind can only contain so many isolated facts, yet there is no limit to its possibilities when the power of association of ideas is employed. your first step to clear thinking is accuracy of perception, with attention to the thing reason chooses; your second is association of the things perceived, a grouping of them to fit in with each other, and with what is already in the mind. and both imply the third--concentration, aided by emotion and will. for passive attention and haphazard associations assure the opposite of clear thinking. concentration _how to study._--you learn sooner or later from experience that the quickest and best way to learn anything new is to give it your undivided attention at the moment; to perceive one thing at a time and to perceive it as something that is definite, or as some quality that is unblurred. one of you will spend three hours on an anatomy lesson, another two hours, while a third nurse may give it a half-hour of concentrated study and know it better than either of you, if you have been day-dreaming, or talking, or rebelling at the "luck" which keeps you indoors learning about bones, when the tennis-court is so inviting. true, some minds have better natural equipment and some have better previous training than others. but the average mind could learn a lesson well in much less time than is spent upon learning it poorly. few people hold their attention strictly to the task at hand if something more interesting beckons, or if they feel tired, or "blue." but you can learn to do it. put aside a certain amount of time today for study; hold your undivided attention on your lesson, regardless of how many pleasanter things appeal. when your eyes or your thoughts wander from your note-book, bring them back forcibly, if need be. your first task is to keep your eyes there, instead of letting them follow your roommate's movements, or resting them by watching the street below. but it is easier to do this than to make your mind grasp the meaning of the things you see. you may read two or three pages, and not receive one idea, not even be able to recall any words from the context. your eyes are obeying your will and seeing the words, but your mind is "wool-gathering." now take yourself in hand firmly. if you are really a bit fagged, try some deep-breathing exercises before the open window, bathe your face in cold water. then read a paragraph, close your book, and write, if you are not alone, or repeat to yourself aloud, if your roommate is out, what that paragraph says--its meaning. if you cannot do it, read it again with that end in view. repeat the process, and hold yourself to it day after day, if necessary, until finally will has won the battle, or, better still, your will to learn has been reinforced by an interest in the very competition with yourself, if not yet in the contest. then, as you learn some facts from your notes, use your imagination to apply them in real life. the triceps muscle. what is it for? your notes inform you, and then it is really interesting to see how it performs its function. what origins and attachments must the triceps have to make it extend the arm? your notes say that a muscle tends to draw the part to which it is attached toward its origin. this triceps muscle straightens the arm. in that case it must oppose the flexion at the elbow. how is that likely to be done? the triceps must start somewhere above the elbow, and quite far above, too, to be able to make a straight angle of an acute one; it must start toward the back in order to draw back the forearm; and be attached to the back of the bone below. also it must be quite a long muscle. so much reason tells you. now let me see how it is done, in fact. and you find that the triceps has three origins high above its one attachment as a tendon, to give it a good strong pull. these are in the outside of the humerus and in the scapula. that is logical, and you will remember it. now how does the arm bend? what pulls against the triceps? and you are interested before you know it. there is nothing, good, bad, or indifferent, but has some points of interest if the mind turns its entire attention to it. but our tendency is to grow tired of calling back our wandering thoughts again and again to the thing that is hard, dry, or stupid. and we need more incentive than just the doing of the duty because it is to be done. we need a compelling interest in the goal to encourage our wills to concentration on the less interesting. let us first think out the _why_ of knowing anatomy if we are to be nurses. and if the profession of nursing is the goal, let anatomy become just the next stretch of the road that leads to it. concentration can be acquired. it may require three hours at first to learn your lesson; but later on you will do it in two, then in one, and perhaps in less. and when you can sit down with your notes and learn them with voices about you--perhaps; with some one else in the room; with a party an hour ahead; when you can disregard all but the work at hand, then you can concentrate, and the big battle of your life as a student is won. study is no longer drudgery. lessons occupy much less of your time and leave you more free hours. because you give them your whole mind you learn them in a fraction of the hours hitherto wasted upon them, when you studied with divided attention. when you are doing clear thinking on the thing at hand, satisfactory results are assured. self-training in memory hand in hand with clear thinking goes reliable memory. but so many of us have it not, and feel its need so strongly that we shall consider for a moment some means of training it. william james holds that brain-paths cannot be deepened; that memory is not strengthened in that way. there is a natural retentiveness with which some of us are born--the men of colossal intellect--and they remember and are able to use infinitely more things acquired in the past, because they have a brain substance of greater tenacity in holding impressions than others possess. james compares some brains to wax in which the mark left by the seal is permanent; and others he compares to jelly which vibrates at every touch, but retains no dent made in it. from our study of the subconscious we know that the dent did leave an impression on the brain; but it was in the subconscious. so we beg to change the figure and liken, in all mankind, that part of the brain that handles the subconscious to wax, while granting that in some rare cases parts handling the conscious material also hold impressions, as does the wax. consequently, according to this theory, we do not strengthen our memories by repetition of facts, lines, or phrases. we cannot grave any deeper the memory paths which nature has provided at birth. but the attention to the thing to be remembered, which repetition has required, has made a larger number of connections of the words with each other, of thought with thought, and of the new with the old. so we have tied the new together with the old by that many more strings, as it were; and any bit of the new tugs at other bits; and the old to which it is tied brings the new with it when it comes to the fore. in other words, careful attention, at the time, to the new stimulus, and its association with the already known, together with repetition, will form a whole system of relations in the mind, and the newly entered material soon become so well-known that it will be difficult to disregard it. when, in spite of determined effort to remember, the thing is forgotten, especially in the nurse's case, it is usually because the emotional reaction to weariness or to some like obstacle has interfered with proper attention. james advises us if we would improve memory, to improve our thinking processes; to pay more and keener attention, so that we will link things closely together. this in itself will help to arouse interest in the thing to be remembered; and keen interest alone, or careful attention at the time of introduction of the new, and repetition of the thing to be retained, with a will which holds the attention fast, will assure a good, workable memory in any normal mind. chapter xiii the psychology of the nurse (continued) emotional equilibrium suppose that when you first enter the ward you are wishing with all your heart you had never decided to become a probationer. perhaps the white screen and its possible meaning has so frightened you that your thoughts refuse to go beyond it. suppose the very sight of so much sickness has agitated you instead of strengthening your determination to help nurse it. that is, suppose your emotions, your feelings, so fill your mind that perception is necessarily inaccurate and blurred. then tomorrow your account of the ward will be hazy, and your desire will probably be against returning to a place where so many unpleasant feelings were aroused. the emotional balance which refuses to allow feelings to obscure judgment by leading reason astray is a necessary safeguard for the work of the nurse. there is little place in the profession for the woman who is "all sentiment," but perhaps there is less for the one without sentiment. feeling, we found, is the first expression of mind--feeling which in the early months is entirely selfish. the happiest baby you know is not sweet and winning to please you, but because he feels comfortable and happy and cannot keep from expressing it. his universe is his own little self and you exist only in your relation to him. if you give him pleasure he likes you; if pain, he does not want you. his mother often fails to please him, but satisfies him so much more frequently than anybody else that he loves her best. then comes nurse or father--if he proves the satisfactory kind of father, or she a nurse he can love. to the baby whatever he happens to want is good. what is not desirable is bad. and such emotional responses are altogether normal in early months, yes, even until the child is old enough to use reason to choose between two desires the one that will in the end prove more satisfying. but they are defects in adult life. the nurse who would always act as her first feeling dictates would not be in training many days. unpleasant sights and sounds, the fear of making a mistake which might harm a patient, the undesirability of long hours of hard work in caring for patients who frequently only find fault with her best efforts, would early decide her in favor of another life-work. comparatively few so-called "grown-ups" are guided only by feeling; and most of those are in institutions that are well safeguarded. but a great many mature men and women allow feeling to unduly influence their thinking. the sentimental nurse, for instance, may find it very difficult to give an ordered hypodermic. the patient dreads the pain and the nurse fears hurting her. suppose she were to fail to give it on such grounds. this is an almost unthinkable case. but the very nurse who agrees that such an emotional weakling should not be allowed to train, will help her patient, even when recuperating nicely, to grow inexcusably self-centered, by sympathizing with every complaint, warning her at every turn, by allowing her and even encouraging her, perhaps, to discuss her illness and suffering in the minutest detail. this nurse is more damaging than the sentimentalist who fails to give the hypodermic; for that slip is easily discovered, and the transgressor must immediately reform and obey orders, or be dismissed. but the second nurse may take perfect care of the sick body, and the doctor never realize that she is developing the sickness idea in her patient's mind. in both of these instances reason has followed the leadings of feeling. it is unpleasant to hurt the patient, and she is disagreeable, too, when you insist on carrying out the orders. it is easier to agree with her ideas and sympathize with her troubles, much easier than to find some other avenue for her thinking, or to search for feeling substitutes. it is pleasanter right now to allow her mind to slip unmolested into sick reactions than to lead her, unwilling as she is, into the ways of health. reason follows feeling's logic, which suggests that it is much better for the patient to talk of her ills than to keep them pent up inside; and judgment is sadly obscured. the emotionally balanced nurse hears the story once, that she may have the material for helping the need. feeling, perhaps deep and genuine sympathy with a real trouble, is aroused, and rightly. but this brings a keen desire to help the situation. reason insists that talking of sufferings, real or fancied, only makes them more insistently felt; that there must be some better way to meet them. it suggests various methods to divert the patient's attention, to change the train of thought until she is able herself to direct it into healthful channels; judgment weighs the propositions and decides upon the one which will lead toward establishing a health attitude. the nurse is continually meeting the necessity of acting contrary to fear and discouragement and weariness of spirit. how can she secure emotional equilibrium for herself? keep in mind the fact that most sick people are very suggestible; that you have a definite responsibility to make your suggestions to your patient wholesome; and that your mood is a constant suggestion to him. remember that he needs your best. then, if your own trouble seems too great to bear, determine that, so long as you remain on duty, you will not let it show. try an experiment. see if you can go through the day carrying your load of sorrow, or disappointment or chagrin, with so serene a face that the sick for whom you are caring will not suspect that you have a burden at all. that is a triumph worth the striving. then--if you can let it make you a little more comprehending of others' pain, a little more gentle with the sickest ones, a bit more patient with the trying ones, more kindly firm with the unco-operative, realizing that each one of them all has his burden too--you have not choked feeling, but you have fulfilled reason's counsel: that sick people are not the ones to help you in your stress; that a good nurse should rise above personal trouble to the duty at hand. your judgment has compared your reasons, and decided that you should act before your patients as you would if all were well. and _will_ holds you to emotional equilibrium. such a thing can be done in a very large measure; and no better opportunity for emotional control will ever be offered than the necessity of being calm and serene before your patients, no matter how you feel. but, while reason and judgment teach us to control the expression of certain feelings, they urge that this control be exercised in transforming those feelings into helpful ones and giving them an adequate outlet. such a substitution has been suggested above. let us not forget that nothing in existence is of personal value until it gives some one an emotion; that feeling is the beauty of life; that living, without the happy, wholesome affective glow, would not be worth the effort; that beauty and strength and sweetness of feeling make for a worthy self. remember, too, that feeling is the curse of life. it is feeling that would make us give up the whole struggle; and ugliness and weakness and bitterness of feeling make for a despicable self. hope lies for us all in the realization that we can choose our feelings, our responses. we can be utterly discouraged, and bitter and depressed at failure; or we can recognize it as a sign-board telling us that the other way than the one we just followed leads to the goal. and we can follow its pointing finger with faith in a new attempt because, now, we know at least how _not_ to go. we can learn despair from all the bitter and the hateful and the mean; or we can learn that they never could be called so if there were not the sweet, the lovable, and the generous with which to compare them. you can learn to search as with a microscope for all the undesirable traits of your patients, or you can calmly accept all that assert themselves as undeniable facts, but use your microscope to find their desirable characteristics which offer possibilities of being brought to the foreground. you cannot constructively help yourself or your patient by denying the existence of the less worthy traits; but you can resolve to call out the something better. and if you do not find it, as may rarely be the case, you can refuse to let it make you skeptical of finding it in others. let us remember always that, "it is not things or conditions or people that harm us; it is only the way we respond to them that can hurt." this one great truth, if really believed and made a part of all our thinking, would save scores of people from nervous wreckage. it is a favorite saying of a wise man who has helped a great many people to endure and take new courage when life seemed too hard to meet. that big, broken-arm case on the ward cursed you yesterday because you would not loosen his splints. and you rushed from the room angry and humiliated, wishing you could quit nursing forever, and asked to be moved because you had been insulted. but that man cannot harm you. he has never known a real lady in his life before. his training from childhood has been to regard women as chattels to do man's bidding; his experience in life is that they usually do what he asks--women of his kind. moreover, he has never had a serious pain before, and it is not to be endured. of course, the man must be dealt with and made to realize the distinction between his new surroundings and the old. probably the intern or the doctor is the one to do it. also he must be brought to apologize, or leave the hospital, perhaps. but he did not hurt you. your own reaction did that. for outside things or people cannot damage what we are in ourselves. the way we respond to them does the harm. when you can control your expression of anger and humiliation, and substitute for your intense feeling a desire that such a patient may learn that pain is often the gateway to healing; that some respect for women may be kindled in him, so that eventually such an outburst in the ward may be impossible for him or for anyone who heard it; then you are choosing between emotions the one of helpfulness, for the one of justified indignation; and feeling has followed reason, rather than leading reason astray. the judgment which decides you to try methods which will shame or inspire some manliness into the patient was one influenced by a well-balanced emotional life. if we would really acquire emotional poise, there are a few practical, proved methods we might adopt for ourselves. when we can hold back the expression of the almost overpowering impulse or passion of anger and resentment and hurt; absolutely shut tight our lips until we can think; then wait until we can think without the strain of intense feeling, we will not only keep ourselves out of trouble, but will be able to calmly state our position, right the wrong done us if wrong there was, or recognize that we ourselves were wrong. for we seldom analyze the situation properly under the influence of strong feeling. if we want to accomplish anything with our words, let us wait until we can speak them without having to choke down our sobs or cram back our hot anger, or forcibly restrain ourselves from tearing things or slamming doors. after all that "wild fire" of emotion is gone, judgment will lead us to wisely reasoned action. self-correction accuracy in work, a primary essential to the nurse, can become automatic if she will demand of herself accuracy of perception, and concentrate on learning and doing until details almost take care of themselves; if she will correct her own work by the standards taught her, and recognize just why and wherein she falls short. not that she can always do things with the nicety in which they were taught. she cannot give eighteen ward patients in eight hours the same detailed care her private patients would receive if she had only two of them for the same length of time. in such a case she must often sacrifice refinements of detail in service; but there is no excuse for sacrificing accuracy in the necessary treatments of her charges. the nurse merely chooses between the multitude of things which can be done for her ward, the important ones which must be done. because she is rushed is no excuse for giving a poor hypodermic injection or a careless bed-bath. accuracy in doing the essential things should be so automatic that it takes not a whit more time than inaccurate doing; and such accuracy is chiefly dependent on constant self-correction when the task is still new, and on never letting up in practice until the details of the doing become practically automatic. training the will there is no better opportunity for will-training than the hospital affords the nurse. the constant necessity of acting against desire, of doing tasks which in themselves cannot be agreeable, calls for a developed will, while it gives it constant exercise. moods of discouragement and depression cannot be indulged. the nurse must do her work no matter how tired or blue or "frazzled" she feels, if she is not too sick to be on duty; for all time lost, she knows, is to be made up to the hospital before training is completed. can this _will to do_, despite strong desire to the contrary, this mood control and the ability to disregard physical discomfort, be acquired; and if so, how? it is a law of the mind and of the body that any task becomes easier by repetition. we found that automatic habit eases much of the strain of action. what seemed repulsive service to the probationer on her first day in the hospital, she forced herself to do because she wanted to be a nurse. she may go on through her three years unreconciled to these particular duties, yet holding herself to them because she likes other features of her work, or because she must earn her living and this seems the best avenue open to her, or because her will to become a nurse is strong enough to make her act continually against desire. and finally, for almost every nurse, the interest in the end to be attained overshadows the unpleasant incidents in its way. the tasks are actually easier by their constant repetition, and her feeling of repugnance becomes only a mild dislike. she has strengthened her will by continuing to act against desire. but there is a better way to the same goal. the woman who has thought out the reasons for and against taking training; who has considered it carefully as a profession, and has chosen to put up with any obstacles in the way of becoming a graduate nurse, can find a happy adjustment to the disagreeable incidents it involves. realizing that the paths of learning are seldom thoroughly smooth, she can resolve to use their very roughness for firmer footholds, as a means to self-control, as a fitting for the sterner hardships of self-support, of nursing the dangerously ill, alone, of meeting suffering and death in her patients with quiet courage and faith. in other words, she can meet the thousand and one personal services which in themselves might be disagreeable and prove pure drudgery, not merely with the stern will to do them because they are a necessary part of obtaining a desired end, but also for the sake of adding to the comfort and well-being of each patient in her care. the emotion of interest and kindly desire will ease the strain which will undergoes in demanding that she not shirk the disagreeable. for there is little stress in doing what we wish to do. it is psychologically possible to find genuine pleasure in the meanest tasks if the doing is backed up by a strong desire to make life count as much for others as possible. the nurse who comes to realize the waste involved in carrying out against desire what _reason_ proposes and volition dictates, will try to secure the co-operation of desire, and save will-force for more worthy accomplishment. a constant opportunity for will-strengthening comes to many a nurse during the early weeks and months of training in the necessity of going on despite the sheer tiredness, the weary backs and swollen, tender, aching feet. the one who means to "see it through" disregards them as far as possible on duty, gets all the out-of-doors her time permits, takes special exercises to strengthen weak spots, and relaxes her body while she reads or studies or visits in her off-duty time. in the end, not only does her body adjust itself to the new work, but her will has become a better ally for the next demands upon it; her endurance is remarkably increased. when she can accept hardship, drudgery, weariness of mind and body and perhaps of soul, the nagging of unco-operative patients, and the demands on her sympathies of the suffering; when she can meet these as challenges to develop a strong will--a will not only to endure, but to find happiness and give service through it all--then the nurse has learned the art of making every circumstance a stepping-stone to mastery and achievement. chapter xiv the nurse of the future the student of life and of the sciences which deal with the origin and development of the human race, and with the relations of man to man and nation to nation--such sciences as biology and anthropology, sociology and ethics and history--comes to the conclusion that life exists for the development of mind. and mind is not merely intellect, but the only gateway we know to character, to soul. the deepest students of human science see no reason for life except as it "evolves" a perfect mind--man's goal, his ideal. and this visioned perfect mind is one which adjusts itself without friction to the body, making it fulfil the laws of health that it may help and not hinder mind's progress; one which adjusts itself to people and things, co-operating with other minds to develop manners and customs and laws of the most satisfactory community living; one which forces things to be servants of its will; one which makes harmony of life by fulfilling the laws of the soul as well as of the intellect and of the body. if we believe that life exists for the development of mind into a force of intellect and character and soul, then we need not ask why a nurse should know something of the laws of mind. she does not ask why she should know anatomy or pathology. her work is dependent upon such knowledge. but if the center of life, the thing which makes the body a living, moving, acting agent instead of a clod, is mind; if the one thing which makes a difference between animal life and mineral and vegetable life is consciousness, _i. e._, mind; and if everything that affects that body, its organ, affects mind also--then surely no nurse can afford to learn only the rules of repair or of keeping in order the instrument of consciousness, without knowing what effect her efforts have on the mind itself. it is as though an ignorant maid accepted a piano as merely a piece of furniture to be kept clean and shining, and in her zeal to that end scrubbed the keyboard with soap and water which, dripping down into the body of the instrument, swells and damages its felts, rusts and corrodes its keys, and ruins its notes. when she knows that she may thus make impossible the beautiful sounds she has heard it give, and that the more carefully the keyboard is handled the more sure is the beauty resulting, her care is to keep it as free as possible of dust, to see that the top is down and the keyboard covered when she sweeps--and to clean it hereafter in such a way as to never injure its tone. the nurse has a much greater function than merely to help in saving the body and keeping its machinery in order. if the aim of life is the strengthening and perfecting of the mind--that "urge" of life, then surely the nurse's big aim will be to help establish such health of body as leads toward health of mind. in the average man or woman this vital urge becomes temporarily blocked by the very weakness of the body it urges. the body _must_ give the life-flame some fuel, or it dies out; but with very little fuel it flickers on, waiting, hoping for the more that it may burn strongly again. in the cases the nurse handles very often the "vital spark" has been poorly fed by the disabled body, and so discouragement or depression, or "loss of grip" results, or the flame continues to shine brightly with whatever little sustenance it receives, and so encourages the body to greater effort for it; or sinks into embers, glowing steadily though dully; or it burns wildly, recklessly--it becomes what we call "wild fire," that has no direction and no purpose save to burn up everything it can find. in other words, the nurse deals with those in whom the "urge" is weakened--the depressed and discouraged; with those whose spirits never flag in their steady shining--those brave souls we could almost worship; and those others who hold grimly on with quiet grit and courage, but with no cheer; and with the unstable ones of neuropathic or psychopathic tendency who become hysteric or maniacal. what will the nurse do for them all? will not an understanding of how to recall the ambition to live, the will to get well, and the grit to see the thing through, be an incalculable asset. the nurse of the future the nurse of the future will not be merely a handmaiden to care for the sick body by deftly carrying out the doctor's orders. she will do this almost automatically as a matter of course, and skilfully; but it will be the merest beginning of her mission. that mission itself will be to eliminate the causes of disease; to teach the ways of health, to supervise the sanitary conditions of city, town, and country. practical ways and the wise means to this end will be taught in her hospital, which will become a community center with clinics, teaching through its doctors and nurses the way to health, instead of merely treating and advising the cases as they come. but the greatest contribution of the nurse of the future will be a wide-spread _desire for health_ and _will to health_, rather than a desire and will to avoid discomfort and pain and danger of death. this _will to health_ will doom in the sane mind the disease-accepting attitude. it will do all that common sense and applied medical science can do to strengthen the body; then it will take what life brings in the way of unavoidable disease and weakness and inability, with an uncringing mind. it will hold the mind's attitude to serenity and poise and accomplishment within the necessary limits of its disordered body. it will be master of its dwelling and make the most of the little the body can give, and force all bearable weakness and pain to be stepping-stones to endurance and will-strength and cheer. it will not accept physical limitations as final things. if life must be lived in a prison-house it will be its own jailer, and fill the rooms with flowers, music, friends, and happiness. no nurse is competent to help her patient to overcome any curable physical weakness, and keep the mind serene in the face of the incurable, until she herself has learned that the will to health is capable of transforming disease of body, from disaster, into health of mind and soul. the nurse of the future will know the laws of mind as she knows the course of disease; she will be dedicated to such wise care of existing disease as will lead to prevention of future disease; and she will be a sworn, trained ally of the health-accepting mind. index absent-mindedness, absolutes, abstract concept, object concepts, quality concepts, accuracy of perception, action cannot be separated from feeling, acts, compulsive, adaptability, necessity of, amnesia, anesthesia, aphasia, apperception, association of ideas, attention, of interest, of reason and will, root of disease or health attitude, autosuggestion, awareness, bad habits, beginning of reason, body and mind, relation of, borderland disorders, brain, hind, censor, central and peripheral nervous systems in action, cerebellum, cerebrum, functions of, clear thinking, steps to, compulsive acts, ideas, concentration, concepts, abstract, object, quality, concrete, concrete concepts, consciousness, , , definition, flow of, in delirium, in sleep, is complex, organs of, personal, delirium, consciousness in, deluded patient, nursing of, delusion, nihilistic, of reference, somatic, determination, development of reason and will, disease attitude, attention, root of, disorders, borderland, of emotion, of functions of intellect, of ideation, of judgment, of memory, of perception, of reason, of sensation, of will, disorientation, distractibility, effort, habit a conserver of, emotion, , , disorders of, the place of, emotional equilibrium, reaction, normal, environment as cause of variation from normal mental processes, equilibrium, emotional, false associations, mind a prey to, feeling, cannot be separated from action, from thinking, from will, fixed idea, flight of ideas, forebrain, future, the nurse of the, getting other man's point of view, patient's point of view, habit a conserver of effort, bad, hospital, habit-formation, hallucination, health and psychology, attitude, attention, root of, heredity as course of variation from normal mental processes, hind brain, hospital habit, how to study, hurt, hyperesthesia, hypersuggestability, hypochondriasis, , hysteria, idea, compulsive, fixed, ideas, association of, flight of, ideation, disorders of, ideogenous pains, illusion, imagination, impulses, insane, inhibition, morbid, inorganic memory, insane impulses, insanity, instinct, instincts, list of, intellect, , functions of, disorders of, interest, attention of, judgment, , disorders of, life, mental, conditions of, phenomena of, mania, melancholia, memory, , disorders of, inorganic, organic, self-training in, mental disability, states of, life, conditions of, phenomena of, processes, normal, variations from, , factors causing, mind, , a prey to false associations, and body, relation of, functions of, normal, , mood, morbid inhibition, motion, movement, mutism, necessity of adaptability, negativism, nervous systems, central and peripheral, in action, sympathetic, nervousness, neurasthenia, neuropath, neurosis, from psychosis, neurotic, nihilistic delusion, normal emotional reactions, normal mental processes, variations from, , factors causing, mind, , nurse of the future, psychology of, nursing deluded patient, obsessed patient, obsession, one thought replaced by another, organic memory, organs of consciousness, overactivity, psychomotor, pain, ideogenous, patient, deluded, nursing of, obsessed, patient's point of view, getting, what determines it, percept, , perception, accuracy of, disorders of, training of, peripheral and central nervous systems in action, personal consciousness, reactions as cause of variation from normal mental processes, personality, psychopathic, shut-in, perversions, , phenomena of mental life, phobia, place of emotion, pleasure, point of view, getting other man's, patient's, getting, what determines it, poor memory, power of suggestion, premise, protozoön, consciousness in, psychasthenia, psychology and health, definition, of the nurse, psychomotor overactivity, retardation, psychoneurosis, psychopathic personality, psychosis, neurosis from, pugnacious instinct, reactions, normal emotional, proportioned to stimuli, reason, and will, attention of, development of, beginning of, disorders of, reference, delusion of, relation of mind and body, retardation, psychomotor, saving power of will, science, second-nature, self-correction, self-training in memory, sensation, disorders of, sense of unreality, shut-in personality, sleep, consciousness in, somatic delusion, steps to clear thinking, stimuli, reaction proportioned to, stimulus, definition, stream of thought, , study, how to, suggestibility, suggestion, power of, sympathetic nervous system, the unconscious, thinking, , cannot be separated from feeling, clear, steps to, thought, stream of, , thought-substitution, tic, training perception, the will, unconscious, the, universals, unreality, sense of, variations from normal mental processes, , factors causing, volition, , what determines patient's point of view, we attend to determines what we are, will, , and reason, attention of, development of, cannot be separated from feeling, disorders of, saving power of, training of, =a short history= =of nursing= from the earliest times to the present day by =lavinia l. dock, r.n.= secretary, international council of nurses in collaboration with =isabel maitland stewart, a.m., r.n.= assistant professor, department of nursing and health, teachers college, columbia university, new york _ ^o. price, $ . _ =this new volume has been prepared especially= =for the use of student nurses= it is, in effect, a condensation of the four volumes of the larger _history of nursing_, prepared by miss dock in collaboration with miss nutting, a work which has been considered standard on the subject, but which, by its very nature, was too elaborate for class use. this condition has now been overcome by condensation into this single, comprehensive, inexpensive volume of all the salient facts of the larger work. it is generally believed that the best place in the nursing curriculum for the history of nursing is in the early part of the first year, when the student is just beginning to form her conception of nursing, and is being initiated into its traditions. =the many excellent features of this= =_short history of nursing_= will inevitably bring it into use in a very great number of hospital training schools; it should, of course, be in the library of every hospital which does not maintain a training school. it is believed that it will be found to be =the best volume on this important subject= (_over_) =some of the= =putnam nursing books= =maxwell and pope's practical nursing= price $ . . =cadmus' manual of obstetrical nursing= approximate price $ . . =dock's materia medica for nurses= price $ . . =higgins' psychology of nursing= price $ . . =pope's manual of nursing procedure= price $ . . =pope's essentials of anatomy and physiology for nurses= pages. price $ . . =pope's quiz book for nurses= pages. price $ . . =dock and nutting's history of nursing= in four volumes. illustrated volumes and , price $ . . volumes and , price $ . . =dock and stewart's short history of nursing= one volume, pages. price $ . . =pope's physics and chemistry for nurses= pages. price $ . . arthur w. isca medical and nurse books besse building minneapolis, minnesota * * * * * transcriber's note: here is a list of corrected errors. line numbers count from the start of the book itself not including the transcriber's note. alternatively, use the html version, in which the errors are marked. l : ecstacy changed to ecstasy l : missing full-stop in i. e. l : or changed to of l : pasttime changed to pastime l : strees changed to stress l : council changed to counsel l : , changed to . l : em-dash changed to hyphen l : hypochondrasis changed to hypochondriasis l : successfuly changed to successfully l : stubborness changed to stubbornness l : in changed to is l : weakenss changed to weakness the inconsistent hyphenation of hypo-mania is as in the original. aunt jane's nieces in the red cross by edith van dyne author of "aunt jane's nieces series," "flying girl series," etc. the reilly & britton co. chicago [illustration] foreword this is the story of how three brave american girls sacrificed the comforts and luxuries of home to go abroad and nurse the wounded soldiers of a foreign war. i wish i might have depicted more gently the scenes in hospital and on battlefield, but it is well that my girl readers should realize something of the horrors of war, that they may unite with heart and soul in earnest appeal for universal, lasting peace and the future abolition of all deadly strife. except to locate the scenes of my heroines' labors, no attempt has been made to describe technically or historically any phase of the great european war. the character of doctor gys is not greatly exaggerated but had its counterpart in real life. as for the little belgian who had no room for scruples in his active brain, his story was related to me by an american war correspondent who vouched for its truth. the other persona in the story are known to those who have followed their adventures in other books of the "aunt jane's nieces" series. edith van dyne contents chapter page i the arrival of the boy ii the arrival of the girl iii the decision of doctor gys iv the hospital ship v nearing the fray vi little maurie vii on the firing line viii the coward ix courage, or philosophy? x the war's victims xi patsy is defiant xii the other side xiii tardy justice xiv found at last xv dr. gys surprises himself xvi clarette xvii perplexing problems xviii a question of loyalty xix the capture xx the dunes chapter i the arrival of the boy "what's the news, uncle?" asked miss patricia doyle, as she entered the cosy breakfast room of a suite of apartments in willing square. even as she spoke she pecked a little kiss on the forehead of the chubby man addressed as "uncle"--none other, if you please, than the famous and eccentric multi-millionaire known in wall street as john merrick--and sat down to pour the coffee. there was energy in her method of doing this simple duty, an indication of suppressed vitality that conveyed the idea that here was a girl accustomed to action. and she fitted well into the homely scene: short and somewhat "squatty" of form, red-haired, freckle-faced and pug-nosed. wholesome rather than beautiful was patsy doyle, but if you caught a glimpse of her dancing blue eyes you straightway forgot her lesser charms. quite different was the girl who entered the room a few minutes later. hers was a dark olive complexion, face of exquisite contour, great brown eyes with a wealth of hair to match them and the flush of a rose in her rounded cheeks. the poise of her girlish figure was gracious and dignified as the bearing of a queen. "morning, cousin beth," said patsy cheerily. "good morning, my dear," and then, with a trace of anxiety in her tone: "what is the news, uncle john?" the little man had ignored patsy's first question, but now he answered absently, his eyes still fixed upon the newspaper: "why, they're going to build another huge skyscraper on broadway, at eleventh, and i see the political pot is beginning to bubble all through the bronx, although--" "stuff and nonsense, uncle!" exclaimed patsy. "beth asked for news, not for gossip." "the news of the war, uncle john," added beth, buttering her toast. "oh; the war, of course," he said, turning over the page of the morning paper. "it ought to be the allies' day, for the germans won yesterday. no--by cracky, beth--the germans triumph again; they've captured maubeuge. what do you think of that?" patsy gave a little laugh. "not knowing where maubeuge is," she remarked, "my only thought is that something is wrong with the london press bureau. perhaps the cables got crossed--or short circuited or something. they don't usually allow the germans to win two days in succession." "don't interrupt, please," said beth, earnestly. "this is too important a matter to be treated lightly. read us the article, uncle. i was afraid maubeuge would be taken." patsy accepted her cousin's rebuke with her accustomed good nature. indeed, she listened as intently as beth to the thrilling account of the destruction of maubeuge, and her blue eyes became quite as serious as the brown ones of her cousin when the tale of dead and wounded was recounted. "isn't it dreadful!" cried beth, clasping her hands together impulsively. "yes," nodded her uncle, "the horror of it destroys the interest we naturally feel in any manly struggle for supremacy." "this great war is no manly struggle," observed patsy with a toss of her head. "it is merely wholesale murder by a band of selfish diplomats." "tut-tut!" warned mr. merrick; "we americans are supposed to be neutral, my dear. we must not criticize." "that does not prevent our sympathizing with the innocent sufferers, however," said beth quietly. "my heart goes out, uncle, to those poor victims of the war's cruelty, the wounded and dying. i wish i could do something to help them!" uncle john moved uneasily in his chair. then he laid down his paper and applied himself to his breakfast. but his usual merry expression had faded into one of thoughtfulness. "the wounded haunt me by day and night," went on beth. "there are thousands upon thousands of them, left to suffer terrible pain--perhaps to die--on the spot where they fell, and each one is dear to some poor woman who is ignorant of her loved one's fate and can do nothing but moan and pray at home." "that's the hard part of it," said patsy, her cousin. "i think the mothers and wives and sweethearts are as much to be pitied as the fallen soldiers. the men _know_ what has happened, but the women don't. it isn't so bad when they're killed outright; the family gets a medal to indicate that their hero has died for his country. but the wounded are lost sight of and must suffer in silence, with no loving hands to soothe their agony." "my dears!" pleaded uncle john, plaintively, "why do you insist upon flavoring our breakfast with these horrors? i--i--there! take it away; i can't eat." the conversation halted abruptly. the girls were likewise unnerved by the mental pictures evolved by their remarks and it was now too late to restore cheerfulness to the morning meal. they sat in pensive silence for a while and were glad when mr. merrick pushed back his chair and rose from the table. as beth and patsy followed their uncle into the cosy library where he was accustomed to smoke his morning cigar, the little man remarked: "let's see; this is the seventh of september." "quite right, uncle," said patsy. "isn't this the day maud stanton is due to arrive?" "no," replied beth; "she will come to-morrow morning. it's a good four days' trip from california to new york, you know." "i wonder why she is coming here at this time of year," said patsy reflectively, "and i wonder if her aunt jane or her sister flo are with her." "she did not mention them in her telegram," answered beth. "all she said was to expect her wednesday morning. it seems quite mysterious, that telegram, for i had no idea maud thought of coming east." "well, we will know all about it when she arrives," observed uncle john. "i will be glad to see maud again, for she is one of my especial favorites." "she's a very dear girl!" exclaimed patsy, with emphasis. "it will be simply glorious to--" the doorbell rang sharply. there was a moment's questioning pause, for it was too early for visitors. the pattering feet of the little maid, mary, approached the door and next moment a boyish voice demanded: "is mr. merrick at home, or the young ladies, or--" "why, it's ajo!" shouted patsy, springing to her feet and making a dive for the hallway. "jones?" said mr. merrick, looking incredulous. "it must be," declared beth, for now patsy's voice was blended with that of the boy in a rapid interchange of question and answer. then in she came, dragging him joyously by the arm. "this is certainly a surprise!" said mr. merrick, shaking the tall, slender youth by the hand with evident pleasure. "when did you get to town?" asked beth, greeting the boy cordially. "and why didn't you let us know you were on the way from far-off los angeles?" "well," said jones, seating himself facing them and softly rubbing his lean hands together to indicate his satisfaction at this warm reception, "it's a long, long story and i may as well tell it methodically or you'll never appreciate the adventurous spirit that led me again to new york--the one place i heartily detest." "oh, ajo!" protested patsy. "is this the way to retain the friendship of new yorkers?" "isn't honesty appreciated here?" he wanted to know. "go ahead with your story," said uncle john. "we left you some months ago at the harbor of los angeles, wondering what you were going to do with that big ship of yours that lay anchored in the pacific. if i remember aright, you were considering whether you dared board it to return to that mysterious island home of yours at--at--" "sangoa," said patsy. "thank you for giving me a starting-point," returned the boy, with a smile. "you may remember that when i landed in your country from sangoa i was a miserable invalid. the voyage had ruined my stomach and wrecked my constitution. i crossed the continent to new york and consulted the best specialists--and they nearly put an end to me. i returned to the pacific coast to die as near home as possible, and--and there i met you." "and patsy saved your life," added beth. "she did. first, however, maud stanton saved me from drowning. then patsy doyle doctored me and made me well and strong. and now--" "and now you look like a modern hercules," asserted patsy, gazing with some pride at the bronzed cheeks and clear eyes of the former invalid and ignoring his slight proportions. "whatever have you been doing with yourself since then?" "taking a sea voyage," he affirmed. "really?" "an absolute fact. for months i dared not board the _arabella_, my sea yacht, for fear of a return of my old malady; but after you deserted me and came to this--this artificial, dreary, bewildering--" "never mind insulting my birthplace, sir!" "oh! were you born here, patsy? then i'll give the town credit. so, after you deserted me at los angeles--" "you still had mrs. montrose and her nieces, maud and flo stanton." "i know, and i love them all. but they became so tremendously busy that i scarcely saw them, and finally i began to feel lonely. those stanton girls are chock full of business energy and they hadn't the time to devote to me that you people did. so i stood on the shore and looked at the _arabella_ until i mustered up courage to go aboard. surviving that, i made captain carg steam slowly along the coast for a few miles. nothing dreadful happened. so i made a day's voyage, and still ate my three squares a day. that was encouraging." "i knew all the time it wasn't the voyage that wrecked your stomach," said patsy confidently. "what was it, then?" "ptomaine poisoning, or something like that." "well, anyhow, i found i could stand ocean travel again, so i determined on a voyage. the panama canal was just opened and i passed through it, came up the atlantic coast, and--the _arabella_ is at this moment safely anchored in the north river!" "and how do you feel?" inquired uncle john. "glorious--magnificent! the trip has sealed my recovery for good." "but why didn't you go home, to your island of sangoa?" asked beth. he looked at her reproachfully. "_you_ were not there, beth; nor was patsy, or uncle john. on the other hand, there is no one in sangoa who cares a rap whether i come home or not. i'm the last of the joneses of sangoa, and while it is still my island and the entire population is in my employ, the life there flows on just as smoothly without me as if i were present." "but don't they need the ship--the _arabella_?" questioned beth. "not now. i sent a cargo of supplies by captain carg when he made his last voyage to the island, and there will not be enough pearls found in the fisheries for four or five months to come to warrant my shipping them to market. even then, they would keep. so i'm a free lance at present and i had an idea that if i once managed to get the boat around here you folks might find a use for it." "in what way?" inquired patsy, with interest. "we might all make a trip to barbadoes, bermuda and cuba. brazil is said to be an interesting country. i'd prefer europe, were it not for the war." "oh, ajo, isn't this war terrible?" "no other word expresses it. yet it all seems like a fairy tale to me, for i've never been in any other country than the united states since i made my first voyage here from sangoa--the island where my eyes first opened to the world." "it isn't a fairy tale," said beth with a shudder. "it's more like a horrible nightmare." "i can't bear to read about it any more," he returned, musingly. "in fact, i've only been able to catch rumors of the progress of the war in the various ports at which i've touched, and i came right here from my ship. but i've no sympathy with either side. the whole thing annoys me, somehow--the utter uselessness and folly of it all." "maubeuge has fallen," said beth, and went on to give him the latest tidings. finding that the war was the absorbing topic in this little household, the boy developed new interest in it and the morning passed quickly away. jones stayed to lunch and then mr. merrick's automobile took them all to the river to visit the beautiful yacht _arabella_, which was already, they found, attracting a good deal of attention in the harbor, where beautiful yachts are no rarity. the _arabella_ was intended by her builders for deep sea transit and as patsy admiringly declared, "looked like a baby liner." while she was yacht-built in all her lines and fittings, she was far from being merely a pleasure craft, but had been designed by the elder jones, the boy's father, to afford communication between the island of sangoa, in the lower south seas, and the continent of america. sangoa is noted for its remarkable pearl fisheries, which were now owned and controlled entirely by this youth; but his father, an experienced man of affairs, had so thoroughly established the business of production and sale that little remained for his only son and heir to do, more than to invest the profits that steadily accrued and to care for the great fortune left him. whether he was doing this wisely or not no one--not even his closest friends--could tell. but he was frank and friendly about everything else. they went aboard the _arabella_ and were received by that grim and grizzled old salt, captain carg, with the same wooden indifference he always exhibited. but patsy detected a slight twinkle in the shrewd gray eyes that made her feel they were welcome. carg, a seaman of vast experience, was wholly devoted to his young master. indeed, the girls suspected that young jones was a veritable autocrat in his island, as well as aboard his ship. everyone of the sangoans seemed to accept his dictation, however imperative it might be, as a matter of course, and the gray old captain--who had seen much of the world--was not the least subservient to his young master. on the other hand, jones was a gentle and considerate autocrat, unconsciously imitating his lately deceased father in his kindly interest in the welfare of all his dependents. these had formerly been free-born americans, for when the island of sangoa was purchased it had no inhabitants. this fortunate--or perhaps unfortunate--youth had never been blessed with a given name, more than the simple initial "a." the failure of his mother and father to agree upon a baptismal name for their only child had resulted in a deadlock; and, as the family claimed a direct descent from the famous john paul jones, the proud father declared that to be "a jones" was sufficient honor for any boy; hence he should be known merely as "a. jones." the mother called her child by the usual endearing pet names until her death, after which the islanders dubbed the master's son--then toddling around in his first trousers--"ajo," and the name had stuck to him ever since for want of a better one. with the bohemian indifference to household routine so characteristic of new yorkers, the party decided to dine at a down-town restaurant before returning to willing square, and it was during this entertainment that young jones first learned of the expected arrival of maud stanton on the following morning. but he was no wiser than the others as to what mission could have brought the girl to new york so suddenly that a telegram was required to announce her coming. "you see, i left los angeles weeks ago," the boy explained, "and at that time mrs. montrose and her nieces were busy as bees and much too occupied to pay attention to a drone like me. there was no hint then of their coming east, but of course many things may have happened in the meantime." the young fellow was so congenial a companion and the girls were so well aware of his loneliness, through lack of acquaintances, that they carried him home with them to spend the evening. when he finally left them, at a late hour, it was with the promise to be at the station next morning to meet maud stanton on her arrival. chapter ii the arrival of the girl a sweet-faced girl, very attractive but with a sad and anxious expression, descended from the pullman and brightened as she found her friends standing with outstretched arms to greet her. "oh, maud!" cried patsy, usurping the first hug, "how glad i am to see you again!" beth looked in maud stanton's face and forbore to speak as she embraced her friend. then jones shook both hands of the new arrival and uncle john kissed her with the same tenderness he showed his own nieces. this reception seemed to cheer maud stanton immensely. she even smiled during the drive to willing square--a winning, gracious smile that would have caused her to be instantly recognized in almost any community of our vast country; for this beautiful young girl was a famous motion picture actress, possessing qualities that had endeared her to every patron of the better class photo-dramas. at first she had been forced to adopt this occupation by the stern necessity of earning a livelihood, and under the careful guidance of her aunt--mrs. jane montrose, a widow who had at one time been a favorite in new york social circles--maud and her sister florence had applied themselves so intelligently to their art that their compensation had become liberal enough to enable them to save a modest competence. one cause of surprise at maud's sudden journey east was the fact that her services were in eager demand by the managers of the best producing companies on the pacific coast, where nearly all the american pictures are now made. another cause for surprise was that she came alone, leaving her aunt jane and her sister flo--usually her inseparable companion--in los angeles. but they did not question her until the cosy home at willing square was reached, luncheon served and maud installed in the "guest room." then the three girls had "a good, long talk" and presently came trooping into the library to enlighten uncle john and ajo. "oh, uncle! what do you think?" cried patsy. "maud is going to the war!" "the war!" echoed mr. merrick in a bewildered voice. "what on earth can--" "she is going to be a nurse," explained beth, a soft glow of enthusiasm mantling her pretty face. "isn't it splendid, uncle!" "h-m," said uncle john, regarding the girl with wonder. "it is certainly a--a--surprising venture." "but--see here, maud--it's mighty dangerous," protested young jones. "it's a tremendous undertaking, and--what can one girl do in the midst of all those horrors?" maud seated herself quietly between them. her face was grave and thoughtful. "i have had to answer many such arguments before now, as you may suspect," she began in even tones, "but the fact that i am here, well on my journey, is proof that i have convinced my aunt, my sister and all my western friends that i am at least determined on my mission, whether it be wise or foolish. i do not think i shall incur danger by caring for the wounded; the red cross is highly respected everywhere, these days." "the red cross?" quoth uncle john. "yes; i shall wear the red cross," she continued. "you know that i am a trained nurse; it was part of my education before--before--" "i had not known that until now," said mr. merrick, "but i am glad you have had that training. beth began a course at the school here, but i took her away to europe before she graduated. however, i wish more girls could be trained for nursing, as it is a more useful and admirable accomplishment than most of them now acquire." "fox-trots and bunny-hugs, for instance," said patricia with fine disdain. "patsy is a splendid nurse," declared ajo, with a grateful look toward that chubby miss. "but untrained," she answered laughingly. "it was just common sense that enabled me to cure your malady, ajo. i couldn't bandage a cut or a bullet wound to save me." "fortunately," said maud, "i have a diploma which will gain for me the endorsement of the american red cross society. i am counting on that to enable me to get an appointment at the seat of war, where i can be of most use." "where will you go?" asked the boy. "to germany, austria, russia, belgium, or--" "i shall go to france," she replied. "i speak french, but understand little of german, although once i studied the language." "are you fully resolved upon this course, maud?" asked mr. merrick in a tone of regret. "fully decided, sir. i am going to washington to-morrow, to get my credentials, and then i shall take the first steamer to europe." there was no use arguing with maud stanton when she assumed that tone. it was neither obstinate nor defiant, yet it conveyed a quiet resolve that was unanswerable. for a time they sat in silence, musing on the many phases of this curious project; then beth came to mr. merrick's side and asked pleadingly: "may i go with her, uncle?" "great scott!" he exclaimed, with a nervous jump. "_you_, beth?" "yes, uncle. i so long to be of help to those poor fellows who are being so cruelly sacrificed; and i know i can soothe much suffering, if i have the opportunity." he stared at her, not knowing what to reply. this quaint little man was so erratic himself, in his sudden resolves and eccentric actions, that he could scarcely quarrel with his niece for imitating an example he had frequently set. still, he was shrewd enough to comprehend the reckless daring of the proposition. "two unprotected girls in the midst of war and carnage, surrounded by foreigners, inspired to noble sacrifice through ignorance and inexperience, and hardly old enough to travel alone from hoboken to brooklyn! why, the thing's absurd," he said. "quite impractical," added ajo, nodding wisely. "you're both too pretty, my dears, to undertake such an adventure. why, the wounded men would all fall in love with their nurses and follow you back to america in a flock; and that might put a stop to the war for lack of men to fight it." "don't be silly, ajo," said patsy, severely. "i've decided to go with maud and beth, and you know very well that the sight of my freckled face would certainly chill any romance that might arise." "that's nonsense, patsy!" "then you consider me beautiful, uncle john?" "i mean it's nonsense about your going with maud and beth. i won't allow it." "oh, uncle! you know i can twine you around my little finger, if i choose. so don't, for goodness' sake, start a rumpus by trying to set your will against mine." "then side with me, dear. i'm quite right, i assure you." "you're always right, nunkie, dear," she cried, giving him a resounding smack of a kiss on his chubby cheek as she sat on the arm of his chair, "but i'm going with the girls, just the same, and you may as well make up your mind to it." uncle john coughed. he left his chair and trotted up and down the room a moment. then he carefully adjusted his spectacles, took a long look at patsy's face, and heaved a deep sigh of resignation. "thank goodness, that's settled," said patsy cheerfully. uncle john turned to the boy, saying dismally: "i've done everything in my power for these girls, and now they defy me. they've declared a thousand times they love me, and yet they'd trot off to bandage a lot of unknown foreigners and leave me alone to worry my heart out." "why don't you go along?" asked jones. "i'm going." "you!" "of course. i've a suspicion our girls have the right instinct, sir--the tender, womanly instinct that makes us love them. at any rate, i'm going to stand by them. it strikes me as the noblest and grandest idea a girl ever conceived, and if anything could draw me closer to these three young ladies, who had me pretty well snared before, it is this very proposition." "i don't see why," muttered uncle john, wavering. "i'll tell you why, sir. for themselves, they have all the good things of life at their command. they could bask in luxury to the end of their days, if they so desired. yet their wonderful womanly sympathy goes out to the helpless and suffering--the victims of the cruellest war the world has ever known--and they promptly propose to sacrifice their ease and brave whatever dangers may befall, that they may relieve to some extent the pain and agony of those wounded and dying fellow creatures." "foreigners," said uncle john weakly. "human beings," said the boy. patsy marched over to ajo and gave him a sturdy whack upon the back that nearly knocked him over. "the spirit of john paul jones still goes marching on!" she cried. "my boy, you're the right stuff, and i'm glad i doctored you." he smiled, looking from one to another of the three girls questioningly. "then i'm to go along?" he asked. "we shall be grateful," answered maud, after a moment's hesitation. "this is all very sudden to me, for i had planned to go alone." "that wouldn't do at all," asserted uncle john briskly. "i'm astonished and--and grieved--that my nieces should want to go with you, but perhaps the trip will prove interesting. tell me what steamer you want to catch, maud, and i'll reserve rooms for our entire party." "no," said jones, "don't do it, sir." "why not?" "there's the _arabella_. let's use her." "to cross the ocean?" "she has done that before. it will assist our enterprise, i'm sure, to have our own boat. these are troublous times on the high seas." patsy clapped her hands gleefully. "that's it; a hospital ship!" she exclaimed. they regarded her with various expressions: startled, doubtful, admiring, approving. presently, with added thought on the matter, the approval became unanimous. "it's an amazing suggestion," said maud, her eyes sparkling. "think how greatly it will extend our usefulness," said beth. uncle john was again trotting up and down the room, this time in a state of barely repressed excitement. "the very thing!" he cried. "clever, practical, and--eh--eh--tremendously interesting. now, then, listen carefully--all of you! it's up to you, jones, to accompany maud on the night express to washington. get the red cross society to back our scheme and supply us with proper credentials. the _arabella_ must be rated as a hospital ship and our party endorsed as a distinct private branch of the red cross--what they call a 'unit.' i'll give you a letter to our senator and he will look after our passports and all necessary papers. i--i helped elect him, you know. and while you're gone it shall be my business to fit the ship with all the supplies we shall need to promote our mission of mercy." "i'll share the expense," proposed the boy. "no, you won't. you've done enough in furnishing the ship and crew. i'll attend to the rest." "and beth and i will be uncle john's assistants," said patsy. "we shall want heaps of lint and bandages, drugs and liniments and--" "and, above all, a doctor," advised ajo. "one of the mates on my yacht, kelsey by name, is a half-way physician, having studied medicine in his youth and practiced it on the crew for the last dozen years; but what we really need on a hospital ship is a bang-up surgeon." "this promises to become an expensive undertaking," remarked maud, with a sigh. "perhaps it will be better to let me go alone, as i originally expected to do. but, if we take along the hospital ship, do not be extravagant, mr. merrick, in equipping it. i feel that i have been the innocent cause of drawing you all into this venture and i do not want it to prove a hardship to my friends." "all right, maud," returned uncle john, with a cheerful grin, "i'll try to economize, now that you've warned me." ajo smiled and patsy doyle laughed outright. they knew it would not inconvenience the little rich man, in the slightest degree, to fit out a dozen hospital ships. chapter iii the decision of doctor gys uncle john was up bright and early next morning, and directly after breakfast he called upon his old friend and physician, dr. barlow. after explaining the undertaking on which he had embarked, mr. merrick added: "you see, we need a surgeon with us; a clever, keen chap who understands his business thoroughly, a sawbones with all the modern scientific discoveries saturating him to his finger-tips. tell me where to get him." dr. barlow, recovering somewhat from his astonishment, smiled deprecatingly. "the sort of man you describe," said he, "would cost you a fortune, for you would oblige him to abandon a large and lucrative practice in order to accompany you. i doubt, indeed, if any price would tempt him to abandon his patients." "isn't there some young fellow with these requirements?" "mr. merrick, you need a physician and surgeon combined. wounds lead to fever and other serious ailments, which need skillful handling. you might secure a young man, fresh from his clinics, who would prove a good surgeon, but to master the science of medicine, experience and long practice are absolutely necessary." "we've got a half-way medicine man on the ship now--a fellow who has doctored the crew for years and kept 'em pretty healthy. so i guess a surgeon will about fill our bill." "h-m, i know these ship's doctors, mr. merrick, and i wouldn't care to have you and your nieces trust your lives to one, in case you become ill. believe me, a good physician is as necessary to you as a good surgeon. do you know that disease will kill as many of those soldiers as bullets?" "no." "it is true; else the history of wars has taught us nothing. we haven't heard much of plagues and epidemics yet, in the carefully censored reports from london, but it won't be long before disease will devastate whole armies." uncle john frowned. the thing was growing complicated. "do you consider this a wild goose chase, doctor?" he asked. "not with your fortune, your girls and your fine ship to back it. i think miss stanton's idea of venturing abroad unattended, to nurse the wounded, was quixotic in the extreme. some american women are doing it, i know, but i don't approve of it. on the other hand, your present plan is worthy of admiration and applause, for it is eminently practical if properly handled." dr. barlow drummed upon the table with his fingers, musingly. then he looked up. "i wonder," said he, "if gys would go. if you could win him over, he would fill the bill." "who is gys?" inquired uncle john. "an eccentric; a character. but clever and competent. he has just returned from yucatan, where he accompanied an expedition of exploration sent out by the geographical society--and, by the way, nearly lost his life in the venture. before that, he made a trip to the frozen north with a rescue party. between times, he works in the hospitals, or acts as consulting surgeon with men of greater fame than he has won; but gys is a rolling stone, erratic and whimsical, and with all his talent can never settle down to a steady practice." "seems like the very man i want," said uncle john, much interested. "where can i find him?" "i've no idea. but i'll call up collins and inquire." he took up the telephone receiver and got his number. "collins? say, i'm anxious to find gys. have you any idea--eh? sitting with you now? how lucky. ask him if he will come to my office at once; it's important." uncle john's face was beaming with satisfaction. the doctor waited, the receiver at his ear. "what's that, collins?... he won't come?... why not?... absurd!... i've a fine proposition for him.... eh? he isn't interested in propositions? what in thunder _is_ he interested in?... pshaw! hold the phone a minute." turning to mr. merrick, he said: "gys wants to go on a fishing trip. he plans to start to-night for the maine woods. but i've an idea if you could get him face to face you might convince him." "see if he'll stay where he is till i can get there." the doctor turned to the telephone and asked the question. there was a long pause. gys wanted to know who it was that proposed to visit him. john merrick, the retired millionaire? all right; gys would wait in collins' office for twenty minutes. uncle john lost no time in rushing to his motor car, where he ordered the driver to hasten to the address dr. barlow had given him. the offices of dr. collins were impressive. mr. merrick entered a luxurious reception room and gave his name to a businesslike young woman who advanced to meet him. he had called to see dr. gys. the young woman smothered a smile that crept to her lips, and led uncle john through an examination room and an operating room--both vacant just now--and so into a laboratory that was calculated to give a well person the shivers. here was but one individual, a man in his shirt-sleeves who was smoking a corncob pipe and bending over a test tube. uncle john coughed to announce his presence, for the woman had slipped away as she closed the door. the man's back was turned partially toward his visitor. he did not alter his position as he said: "sit down. there's a chair in the southwest corner." uncle john found the chair. he waited patiently a few moments and then his choler began to rise. "if you're in such a blamed hurry to go fishing, why don't you get rid of me now?" he asked. the shoulders shook gently and there was a chuckling laugh. the man laid down his test tube and swung around on his stool. for a moment mr. merrick recoiled. the face was seared with livid scars, the nose crushed to one side, the mouth crooked and set in a sneering grin. one eye was nearly closed and the other round and wide open. a more forbidding and ghastly countenance mr. merrick had never beheld and in his surprise he muttered a low exclamation. "exactly," said gys, his voice quiet and pleasant. "i don't blame you and i'm not offended. do you wonder i hesitate to meet strangers?" "i--i was not--prepared," stammered uncle john. "that was barlow's fault. he knows me and should have told you. and now i'll tell you why i consented to see you. no! never mind your own proposition, whatever it is. listen to mine first. i want to go fishing, and i haven't the money. none of my brother physicians will lend me another sou, for i owe them all. you are john merrick, to whom money is of little consequence. may i venture to ask you for an advance of a couple of hundred for a few weeks? when i return i'll take up your proposition, whatever it may be, and recompense you in services." he refilled and relighted the corncob while mr. merrick stared at him in thoughtful silence. as a matter of fact, uncle john was pleased with the fellow. a whimsical, irrational, unconventional appeal of this sort went straight to his heart, for the queer little man hated the commonplace most cordially. "i'll give you the money on one condition," he said. "i object to the condition," said gys firmly. "conditions are dangerous." "my proposition," went on uncle john, "won't wait for weeks. when you hear it, if you are not anxious to take it up, i don't want you. indeed, i'm not sure i want you, anyhow." "ah; you're frightened by my features. most people with propositions are. i'm an unlucky dog, sir. they say it's good luck to touch a hunchback; to touch me is the reverse. way up north in a frozen sea a poor fellow went overboard. i didn't get him and he drowned; but i got caught between two cakes of floating ice that jammed my nose out of its former perfect contour. in yucatan i tumbled into a hedge of poisoned cactus and had to operate on myself--quickly, too--to save my life. wild with pain, i slashed my face to get the poisoned tips of thorn out of the flesh. parts of my body are like my face, but fortunately i can cover them. it was bad surgery. on another i could have operated without leaving a scar, but i was frantic with pain. don't stare at that big eye, sir; it's glass. i lost that optic in pernambuco and couldn't find a glass substitute to fit my face. indeed, this was the only one in town, made for a fat spanish lady who turned it down because it was not exactly the right color." "you certainly have been--eh--unfortunate," murmured uncle john. "see here," said gys, taking a leather book from an inside pocket of the coat that hung on a peg beside him, and proceeding to open it. "here is a photograph of me, taken before i embarked upon my adventures." uncle john put on his glasses and examined the photograph curiously. it was a fine face, clean-cut, manly and expressive. the eyes were especially frank and winning. "how old were you then?" he asked. "twenty-four." "and now?" "thirty-eight. a good deal happened in that fourteen years, as you may guess. and now," reaching for the photograph and putting it carefully back in the book, "state your proposition and i'll listen to it, because you have listened so patiently to me." mr. merrick in simple words explained the plan to take a hospital ship to europe, relating the incidents that led up to the enterprise and urging the need of prompt action. his voice dwelt tenderly on his girls and the loyal support of young jones. dr. gys smoked and listened silently. then he picked up the telephone and called a number. "tell hawkins i've abandoned that fishing trip," he said. "i've got another job." then he faced mr. merrick. his smile was not pretty, but it was a smile. "that's my answer, sir." "but we haven't talked salary yet." "bother the salary. i'm not mercenary." "and i'm not sure--" "yes, you are. i'm going with you. do you know why?" "it's a novel project, very appealing from a humanitarian standpoint and--" "i hadn't thought of that. i'm going because you're headed for the biggest war the world has ever known; because i foresee danger ahead, for all of us; but mainly because--" "well?" "because i'm a coward--a natural born coward--and i can have a lot of fun forcing myself to face the shell and shrapnel. that's the truth; i'm not a liar. and for a long time i've been wondering--wondering--" his voice died away in a murmur. "well, sir?" dr. gys roused himself. "oh; do you want a full confession? for a long time, then, i've been wondering what's the easiest way for a man to die. no, i'm not morbid. i'm simply ruined, physically, for the practice of a profession i love, a profession i have fully mastered, and--i'll be happier when i can shake off this horrible envelope of disfigurement." chapter iv the hospital ship the energy of doctor gys was marvelous. he knew exactly what supplies would be needed to fit the _arabella_ thoroughly for her important mission, and with unlimited funds at his command to foot the bills, he quickly converted the handsome yacht into a model hospital ship. gys from the first developed a liking for kelsey, the mate, whom he found a valuable assistant, and the two came to understand each other perfectly. kelsey was a quiet man, more thoughtful than experienced in medical matters, but his common sense often guided him aright when his technical knowledge was at fault. captain carg accepted the novel conditions thrust upon him, without a word of protest. he might secretly resent the uses to which his ship was being put, but his young master's commands were law and his duty was to obey. the same feeling prevailed among the other members of the crew, all of whom were sangoans. in three days jones and maud stanton returned from washington. they were jubilant over their success. "we've secured everything we wanted," the boy told uncle john, beth and patsy, with evident enthusiasm. "not only have we the full sanction of the american red cross society, but i have letters to the different branches in the war zone, asking for us every consideration. not only that, but your senator proved himself a brick. what do you think? here's a letter from our secretary of state--another from the french charge d'affairs--half a dozen from prominent ambassadors of other countries! we've a free field in all europe, practically, that will enable us to work to the best advantage." "it's wonderful!" cried patsy. "mr. merrick is so well known as a philanthropist that his name was a magic talisman for us," said maud. "moreover, our enterprise commands the sympathy of everyone. we had numerous offers of financial assistance, too." "i hope you didn't accept them," said uncle john nervously. "no," answered the boy, "i claimed this expedition to be our private and individual property. we can now do as we please, being under no obligations to any but ourselves." "that's right," said uncle john. "we don't want to be hampered by the necessity of advising with others." "by the way, have you found a doctor?" "yes." "a good one?" asked maud quickly. "highly recommended, but homely as a rail fence," continued patsy, as her uncle hesitated. "that's nothing," said ajo lightly. "nothing, eh? well, wait till you see him," she replied. "you'll never look doctor gys in the face more than once, i assure you. after that, you'll be glad to keep your eyes on his vest buttons." "i like him immensely, though," said beth. "he is clever, honest and earnest. the poor man can't help his mutilations, which are the result of many unfortunate adventures." "sounds like just the man we wanted," declared ajo, and afterward he had no reason to recall that assertion. a week is a small time in which to equip a big ship, but money and energy can accomplish much and the news from the seat of war was so eventful that they felt every moment to be precious and so they worked with feverish haste. the tide of german success had turned and their great army, from paris to vitry, was now in full retreat, fighting every inch of the way and leaving thousands of dead and wounded in its wake. "how long will it take us to reach calais?" they asked captain carg eagerly. "eight or nine days," said he. "we are not as fast as the big passenger steamers," explained young jones, "but with good weather the _arabella_ may be depended upon to make the trip in good shape and fair time." on the nineteenth of september, fully equipped and with her papers in order, the beautiful yacht left her anchorage and began her voyage. the weather proved exceptionally favorable. during the voyage the girls busied themselves preparing their modest uniforms and pumping dr. gys for all sorts of information, from scratches to amputations. he gave them much practical and therefore valuable advice to guide them in whatever emergencies might arise, and this was conveyed in the whimsical, half humorous manner that seemed characteristic of him. at first gys had shrunk involuntarily from facing this bevy of young girls, but they had so frankly ignored his physical blemishes and exhibited so true a comradeship to all concerned in the expedition, that the doctor soon felt perfectly at ease in their society. during the evenings he gave them practical demonstrations of the application of tourniquets, bandages and the like, while uncle john and ajo by turns posed as wounded soldiers. gys was extraordinarily deft in all his manipulations and although maud stanton was a graduate nurse--with little experience, however--and beth de graf had studied the art for a year or more, it was patsy doyle who showed the most dexterity in assisting the doctor on these occasions. "i don't know whether i'll faint at the sight of real blood," she said, "but i shall know pretty well what to do if i can keep my nerve." the application of anaesthetics was another thing fully explained by gys, but this could not be demonstrated. patsy, however, was taught the use of the hypodermic needle, which maud and beth quite understood. "we've a big stock of morphia, in its various forms," said the doctor, "and i expect it to prove of tremendous value in comforting our patients." "i'm not sure i approve the use of that drug," remarked uncle john. "but think of the suffering we can allay by its use," exclaimed maud. "if ever morphia is justifiable, it is in war, where it can save many a life by conquering unendurable pain. i believe the discovery of morphine was the greatest blessing that humanity has ever enjoyed. don't you, doctor gys?" the one good eye of gys had a queer way of twinkling when he was amused. it twinkled as the girl asked this question. "morphine," he replied, "has destroyed more people than it has saved. you play with fire when you feed it to anyone, under any circumstances. nevertheless, i believe in its value on an expedition of this sort, and that is why i loaded up on the stuff. let me advise you never to tell a patient that we are administering morphine. the result is all that he is concerned with and it is better he should not know what has relieved him." on a sunny day when the sea was calm they slung a scaffold over the bow and painted a big red cross on either side of the white ship. everyone aboard wore the red cross emblem on an arm band, even the sailors being so decorated. uncle john was very proud of the insignia and loved to watch his girls moving around the deck in their sober uniforms and white caps. jones endured the voyage splendidly and by this time had convinced himself that he was not again to be subject to the mal-de-mer of his first ocean trip. as they drew near to their destination an atmosphere of subdued excitement pervaded the _arabella_, for even the sailors had caught the infection of the girls' eagerness and were anxious to get into action at the earliest moment. it was now that uncle john began to busy himself with his especial prize, a huge motor ambulance he had purchased in new york and which had been fully equipped for the requirements of war. indeed, an enterprising manufacturer had prepared it with the expectation that some of the belligerent governments would purchase it, and mr. merrick considered himself fortunate in securing it. it would accommodate six seriously wounded, on swinging beds, and twelve others, slightly wounded, who might be able to sit upon cushioned seats. the motor was very powerful and the driver was protected from stray bullets by an armored hood. in addition to this splendid machine, mr. merrick had secured a smaller ambulance that had not the advantage of the swinging beds but could be rushed more swiftly to any desired location. both ambulances were decorated on all sides with the emblem of the red cross and would be invaluable in bringing the wounded to the _arabella_. the ship carried a couple of small motor launches for connecting the shore with her anchorage. they had purposely brought no chauffeurs with them, as uncle john believed foreign drivers, who were thoroughly acquainted with the country, would prove more useful than the american variety, and from experience he knew that a french chauffeur is the king of his profession. during the last days of the voyage mr. merrick busied himself in carefully inspecting every detail of his precious vehicles and explaining their operation to everyone on board. even the girls would be able to run an ambulance on occasion, and the boy developed quite a mechanical talent in mastering the machines. "i feel," said young jones, "that i have had a rather insignificant part in preparing this expedition, for all i have furnished--aside from the boat itself--consists of two lots of luxuries that may or may not be needed." "and what may they be?" asked dr. gys, who was standing in the group beside him. "thermos flasks and cigarettes." "cigarettes!" exclaimed beth, in horror. the doctor nodded approvingly. "capital!" said he. "next to our anodynes and anaesthetics, nothing will prove so comforting to the wounded as cigarettes. they are supplied by nurses in all the hospitals in europe. how many did you bring?" "ten cases of about twenty-five thousand each." "a quarter of a million cigarettes!" gasped beth. "too few," asserted the doctor in a tone of raillery, "but we'll make them go as far as possible. and the thermos cases are also valuable. cool water to parched lips means a glimpse of heaven. hot coffee will save many from exhaustion. you've done well, my boy." chapter v nearing the fray on september twenty-eighth they entered the english channel and were promptly signalled by a british warship, so they were obliged to lay to while a party of officers came aboard. the _arabella_ was flying the american flag and the red cross flag, but the english officer courteously but firmly persisted in searching the ship. what he found seemed to interest him, as did the papers and credentials presented for his perusal. "and which side have you come to assist?" he asked. "no side at all, sir," replied jones, as master of the _arabella_. "the wounded, the sick and helpless, whatever uniform they chance to wear, will receive our best attention. but we are bound for calais and intend to follow the french army." the officer nodded gravely. "of course," said he, "you are aware that the channel is full of mines and that progress is dangerous unless you have our maps to guide you. i will furnish your pilot with a diagram, provided you agree to keep our secret and deliver the diagram to the english officer you will meet at calais." they agreed to this and after the formalities were concluded the officer prepared to depart. "i must congratulate you," he remarked on leaving, "on having the best equipped hospital ship it has been my fortune to see. there are many in the service, as you know, but the boats are often mere tubs and the fittings of the simplest description. the wounded who come under your care will indeed be fortunate. it is wonderful to realize that you have come all the way from america, and at so great an expense, to help the victims of this sad war. for the allies i thank you, and--good-bye!" they remembered this kindly officer long afterward, for he proved more generous than many of the english they met. captain carg now steamed ahead, watching his chart carefully to avoid the fields of mines, but within two hours he was again hailed, this time by an armored cruiser. the first officer having vised the ship's papers, they were spared the delay of another search and after a brief examination were allowed to proceed. they found the channel well patrolled by war craft and no sooner had they lost sight of one, than another quickly appeared. at cherbourg a french dreadnaught halted them and an officer came aboard to give them a new chart of the mine fields between there and calais and full instructions how to proceed safely. this officer, who spoke excellent english, asked a thousand questions and seemed grateful for their charitable assistance to his countrymen. "you have chosen a dangerous post," said he, "but the red cross is respected everywhere--even by the germans. have you heard the latest news? we have driven them back to the aisne and are holding the enemy well in check. antwerp is under siege, to be sure, but it can hold out indefinitely. the fighting will be all in belgium soon, and then in germany. our watchword is 'on to berlin!'" "perhaps we ought to proceed directly to ostend," said uncle john. "the germans still hold it, monsieur. in a few days, perhaps, when belgium is free of the invaders, you will find work enough to occupy you at ostend; but i advise you not to attempt to go there now." in spite of the friendly attitude of this officer and of the authorities at cherbourg, they were detained at this port for several days before finally receiving permission to proceed. the delay was galling but had to be endured until the infinite maze of red tape was at an end. they reached calais in the early evening and just managed to secure an anchorage among the fleet of warships in the harbor. again they were obliged to show their papers and passports, now vised by representatives of both the english and french navies, but this formality being over they were given a cordial welcome. uncle john and ajo decided to go ashore for the latest news and arrived in the city between nine and ten o'clock that same evening. they found calais in a state of intense excitement. the streets were filled with british and french soldiery, with whom were mingled groups of citizens, all eagerly discussing the war and casting uneasy glances at the black sky overhead for signs of the dreaded german zeppelins. "how about antwerp?" jones asked an englishman they found in the lobby of one of the overcrowded hotels. the man turned to stare at him; he looked his questioner up and down with such insolence that the boy's fists involuntarily doubled; then he turned his back and walked away. a bystander laughed with amusement. he also was an englishman, but wore the uniform of a subaltern. "what can you expect, without a formal introduction?" he asked young jones. "but i'll answer your question, sir; antwerp is doomed." "oh; do you really think so?" inquired uncle john uneasily. "it's a certainty, although i hate to admit it. we at the rear are not very well posted on what is taking place over in belgium, but it's said the bombardment of antwerp began yesterday and it's impossible for the place to hold out for long. perhaps even now the city has fallen under the terrific bombardment." there was something thrilling in the suggestion. "and then?" asked jones, almost breathlessly. the man gave a typical british shrug. "then we fellows will find work to do," he replied. "but it is better to fight than to eat our hearts out by watching and waiting. we're the reserves, you know, and we've hardly smelled powder yet." after conversing with several of the soldiers and civilians--the latter being mostly too unnerved to talk coherently--the americans made their way back to the quay with heavy hearts. they threaded lanes filled with sobbing women, many of whom had frightened children clinging to their skirts, passed groups of old men and boys who were visibly trembling with trepidation and stood aside for ranks of brisk soldiery who marched with an alertness that was in strong contrast with the terrified attitude of the citizens. there was war in the air--fierce, relentless war in every word and action they encountered--and it had the effect of depressing the newcomers. that night an earnest conference was held aboard the _arabella_. "as i understand it, here is the gist of the situation," began ajo. "the line of battle along the aisne is stationary--for the present, at least. both sides are firmly entrenched and it's going to be a long, hard fight. antwerp is being bombarded, and although it's a powerful fortress, the general opinion is that it can't hold out for long. if it falls, there will be a rush of germans down this coast, first to capture dunkirk, a few miles above here, and then calais itself." "in other words," continued uncle john, "this is likely to be the most important battleground for the next few weeks. now, the question to decide is this: shall we disembark our ambulances and run them across to arras, beginning our work behind the french trenches, or go on to dunkirk, where we are likely to plunge into the thickest of the war? we're not fighters, you know, but noncombatants, bent on an errand of mercy. there are wounded everywhere." they considered this for a long time without reaching a decision, for there were some in the party to argue on either side of the question. uncle john continued to favor the trenches, as the safest position for his girls to work; but the girls themselves, realizing little of the dangers to be encountered, preferred to follow the fortunes of the belgians. "they've been so brave and noble, these people of belgium," said beth, "that i would take more pleasure in helping them than any other branch of the allied armies." "but, my dear, there's a mere handful of them left," protested her uncle. "i'm told that at dunkirk there is still a remnant of the belgian army--very badly equipped--but most of the remaining force is with king albert in antwerp. if the place falls they will either be made prisoners by the germans or they may escape into holland, where their fighting days will be ended for the rest of the war. however, there is no need to decide this important question to-night. to-morrow i am to see the french commandant and i will get his advice." the interview with the french commandant of calais, which was readily accorded the americans, proved very unsatisfactory. the general had just received reports that antwerp was in flames and the greater part of the city already demolished by the huge forty-two-centimetre guns of the germans. the fate of king albert's army was worrying him exceedingly and he was therefore in little mood for conversation. the american consul could do little to assist them. after the matter was explained to him, he said: "i advise you to wait a few days for your decision. perhaps a day--an hour--will change the whole angle of the war. strange portents are in the air; no one knows what will happen next. come to me, from time to time, and i will give you all the information i secure." dr. gys had accompanied jones and mr. merrick into calais to-day, and while he had little to say during the various interviews his observations were shrewd and comprehensive. when they returned to the deck of the _arabella_, gys said to the girls: "there is nothing worth while for us to do here. the only wounded i saw were a few frenchmen parading their bandaged heads and hands for the admiration of the women. the hospitals are well organized and quite full, it is true, but i'm told that no more wounded are being sent here. the sisters of mercy and the regular french red cross force seem very competent to handle the situation, and there are two government hospital ships already anchored in this port. we would only be butting in to offer our services. but down the line, from arras south, there is real war in the trenches and many are falling every day. arras is less than fifty miles from here--a two or three hours' run for our ambulances--and we could bring the wounded here and care for them as we originally intended." "fifty miles is a long distance for a wounded man to travel," objected maud. "true," said the doctor, "but the roads are excellent." "remember those swinging cots," said ajo. "we might try it," said patsy, anxious to be doing something. "couldn't we start to-morrow for arras, uncle?" "it occurs to me that we must first find a chauffeur," answered mr. merrick, "and from my impressions of the inhabitants of calais, that will prove a difficult task." "why?" "every man jack of 'em is scared stiff," said ajo, with a laugh. "but we might ask the commandant to recommend someone. the old boy seems friendly enough." the next day, however, brought important news from antwerp. the city had surrendered, the belgian army had made good its escape and was now retreating toward ostend, closely followed by the enemy. this news was related by a young orderly who met them as they entered the hotel de ville. they were also told that the commandant was very busy but would try to see them presently. this young frenchman spoke english perfectly and was much excited by the morning's dispatches. "this means that the war is headed our way at last!" he cried enthusiastically. "the germans will make a dash to capture both dunkirk and calais, and already large bodies of reinforcements are on the way to defend these cities." "english, or french?" asked uncle john. "this is french territory," was the embarrassed reply, "but we are glad to have our allies, the english, to support us. their general french is now at dunkirk, and it is probable the english will join the french and belgians at that point." "they didn't do much good at antwerp, it seems," remarked ajo. "ah, they were naval reserves, monsieur, and not much could be expected of them. but do not misunderstand me; i admire the english private--the fighting man--exceedingly. were the officers as clever as their soldiers are brave, the english would be irresistible." as this seemed a difficult subject to discuss, uncle john asked the orderly if he knew of a good chauffeur to drive their ambulance--an able, careful man who might be depended upon in emergencies. the orderly reflected. "we have already impressed the best drivers," he said, "but it may be the general will consent to spare you one of them. your work is so important that we must take good care of you." but when they were admitted to the general they found him in a more impatient mood than before. he really could not undertake to direct red cross workers or advise them. they were needed everywhere; everywhere they would be welcome. and now, he regretted to state that he was very busy; if they had other business with the department, captain meroux would act as its representative. before accepting this dismissal uncle john ventured to ask about a chauffeur. rather brusquely the general stated that they could ill afford to spare one from the service. a desperate situation now faced the allies in flanders. captain meroux must take care of the americans; doubtless he could find a driver for their ambulance--perhaps a belgian. but in the outer office the orderly smiled doubtfully. a driver? to be sure; but such as he could furnish would not be of the slightest use to them. all the good chauffeurs had been impressed and the general was not disposed to let them have one. "he mentioned a belgian," suggested uncle john. "i know; but the belgians in calais are all fugitives, terror-stricken and unmanned." he grew thoughtful a moment and then continued: "my advice would be to take your ship to dunkirk. it is only a little way, through a good channel, and you will be as safe there as at calais. for, if dunkirk falls, calais will fall with it. from there, moreover, the roads are better to arras and peronne, and it is there you stand the best chance of getting a clever belgian chauffeur. if you wish--" he hesitated, looking at them keenly. "well, sir?" "if you are really anxious to get to the firing line and do the most good, dunkirk is your logical station. if you are merely seeking the notoriety of being charitably inclined, remain here." they left the young man, reflecting upon his advice and gravely considering its value. they next visited one of the hospitals, where an overworked but friendly english surgeon volunteered a similar suggestion. dunkirk, he declared, would give them better opportunities than calais. the remainder of the day they spent in getting whatever news had filtered into the city and vainly seeking a competent man for chauffeur. on the morning of october eleventh they left calais and proceeded slowly along the buoyed channel that is the only means of approaching the port of dunkirk by water. the coast line is too shallow to allow ships to enter from the open sea. on their arrival at the flemish city--twelve miles nearer the front than calais--they found an entirely different atmosphere. no excitement, no terror was visible anywhere. the people quietly pursued their accustomed avocations and the city was as orderly as in normal times. the town was full of belgians, however, both soldiers and civilians, while french and british troops were arriving hourly in regiments and battalions. general french, the english commander in chief, had located his headquarters at a prominent hotel, and a brisk and businesslike air pervaded the place, with an entire lack of confusion. most of the belgians were reservists who were waiting to secure uniforms and arms. they crowded all the hotels, cafés and inns and seemed as merry and light-hearted as if no news of their king's defeat and precipitate retreat had arrived. not until questioned would they discuss the war at all, yet every man was on the _qui vive_, expecting hourly to hear the roar of guns announcing the arrival of the fragment of the belgian army that had escaped from antwerp. to-day the girls came ashore with the men of their party, all three wearing their red cross uniforms and caps, and it was almost pathetic to note the deference with which all those warriors--both bronzed and fair--removed their caps until the "angels of mercy" had passed them by. they made the rounds of the hospitals, which were already crowded with wounded, and gys stopped at one long enough to assist the french doctor in a delicate operation. patsy stood by to watch this surgery, her face white and drawn, for this was her first experience of the sort; but maud and beth volunteered their services and were so calm and deft that doctor gys was well pleased with them. chapter vi little maurie it was nearly evening when the americans finally returned to the quay, close to which the _arabella_ was moored. as they neared the place a great military automobile came tearing along, scattering pedestrians right and left, made a sudden swerve, caught a man who was not agile enough to escape and sent him spinning along the dock until he fell headlong, a crumpled heap. "ah, here is work for us!" exclaimed doctor gys, running forward to raise the man and examine his condition. the military car had not paused in its career and was well out of sight, but a throng of indignant civilians gathered around. "there are no severe injuries, but he seems unconscious," reported gys. "let us get him aboard the ship." the launch was waiting for them, and with the assistance of jones, the doctor placed the injured man in the boat and he was taken to the ship and placed in one of the hospital berths. "our first patient is not a soldier, after all," remarked patsy, a little disappointed. "i shall let beth and maud look after him." "well, he is wounded, all right," answered ajo, "and without your kind permission beth and maud are already below, looking after him. i'm afraid he won't require their services long, poor fellow." "why didn't he get out of the way?" inquired patsy with a shudder. "can't say. preoccupied, perhaps. there wasn't much time to jump, anyhow. i suppose that car carried a messenger with important news, for it isn't like those officers to be reckless of the lives of citizens." "no; they seem in perfect sympathy with the people," she returned. "i wonder what the news can be, ajo." for answer a wild whistling sounded overhead; a cry came from those ashore and the next instant there was a loud explosion. everyone rushed to the side, where captain carg was standing, staring at the sky. "what was it, captain?" gasped patsy. carg stroked his grizzled beard. "a german bomb, miss patsy; but i think it did no damage." "a bomb! then the germans are on us?" "not exactly. an aeroplane dropped the thing." "oh. where is it?" "the aeroplane? pretty high up, i reckon," answered the captain. "i had a glimpse of it, for a moment; then it disappeared in the clouds." "we must get our ambulances ashore," said jones. "no hurry, sir; plenty of time," asserted the captain. "i think i saw the airship floating north, so it isn't likely to bother us again just now." "what place is north of us?" inquired the girl, trembling a little in spite of her efforts at control. "i think it is nieuport--or perhaps dixmude," answered carg. "i visited belgium once, when i was a young man, but i cannot remember it very well. we're pretty close to the belgian border, at dunkirk." "there's another!" cried ajo, as a second whistling shriek sounded above them. this time the bomb fell into the sea and raised a small water-spout, some half mile distant. they could now see plainly a second huge aircraft circling above them; but this also took flight toward the north and presently disappeared. uncle john came hurrying on deck with an anxious face and together the group of americans listened for more bombs; but that was all that came their way that night. "well," said patsy, when she had recovered her equanimity, "we're at the front at last, uncle. how do you like it?" "i hadn't thought of bombs," he replied. "but we're in for it, and i suppose we'll have to take whatever comes." now came the doctor, supporting the injured man on one side while maud stanton held his opposite arm. gys was smiling broadly--a rather ghastly expression. "no bones broken, sir," he reported to mr. merrick. "only a good shake-up and plenty of bruises. he can't be induced to stay in bed." "bed, when the germans come?" exclaimed the invalid, scornfully, speaking in fair english. "it is absurd! we can sleep when we have driven them back to their dirty faderland--we can sleep, then, and rest. now, it is a crime to rest." they looked at him curiously. he was a small man--almost a tiny man--lean and sinewy and with cheeks the color of bronze and eyes the hue of the sky. his head was quite bald at the top; his face wrinkled; he had a bushy mustache and a half-grown beard. his clothing was soiled, torn and neglected; but perhaps his accident accounted for much of its condition. his age might be anywhere from thirty to forty years. he looked alert and shrewd. "you are belgian?" said uncle john. he leaned against the rail, shaking off the doctor's support, as he replied: "yes, monsieur. belgian born and american trained." there was a touch of pride in his voice. "it was in america that i made my fortune." "indeed." "it is true. i was waiter in a new york restaurant for five years. then i retired. i came back to belgium. i married my wife. i bought land. it is near ghent. i am, as you have guessed, a person of great importance." "ah; an officer, perhaps. civil, or military?" inquired ajo with mock deference. "of better rank than either. i am a citizen." "now, i like that spirit," said uncle john approvingly. "what is your name, my good man?" "maurie, monsieur; jakob maurie. perhaps you have met me--in new york." "i do not remember it. but if you live in ghent, why are you in dunkirk?" he cast an indignant glance at his questioner, but uncle john's serene expression disarmed him. "monsieur is not here long?" "we have just arrived." "you cannot see belgium from here. if you are there--in my country--you will find that the german is everywhere. i have my home at brussels crushed by a shell which killed my baby girl. my land is devastate--my crop is taken to feed german horse and german thief. there is no home left. so my wife and my boy and girl i take away; i take them to ostend, where i hope to get ship to england. at ostend i am arrested by germans. not my wife and children; only myself. i am put in prison. for three weeks they keep me, and then i am put out. they push me into the street. no one apologize. i ask for my family. they laugh and turn away. i search everywhere for my wife. a friend whom i meet thinks she has gone to ypres, for now no belgian can take ship from ostend to england. so i go to ypres. the wandering people have all been sent to nieuport and dunkirk. still i search. my wife is not in nieuport. i come here, three days ago; i cannot find her in dunkirk; she has vanished. perhaps--but i will not trouble you with that. this is my story, ladies and gentlemen. behold in me--a wealthy landowner of liege--the outcast from home and country!" "it is dreadful!" cried patsy. "it is fierce," said the man. "only an american can understand the horror of that word." "your fate is surely a cruel one, maurie," declared mr. merrick. "perhaps," ventured beth, "we may help you to find your wife and children." the belgian seemed pleased with these expressions of sympathy. he straightened up, threw out his chest and bowed very low. "that is my story," he repeated; "but you must know it is also the story of thousands of belgians. always i meet men searching for wives. always i meet wives searching for husbands. well! it is our fate--the fate of conquered belgium." maud brought him a deck chair and made him sit down. "you will stay here to-night," she said. "that's right," said dr. gys. "he can't resume his search until morning, that's certain. such a tumble as he had would have killed an ordinary man; but the fellow seems made of iron." "to be a waiter--a good waiter--develops the muscles," said maurie. ajo gave him a cigarette, which he accepted eagerly. after a few puffs he said: "i heard the german bombs. that means the enemy grows insolent. first they try to frighten us with bombs, then they attack." "how far away do you think the germans are?" asked beth. "nieuport les bains. but they will get no nearer." "no?" "surely not, mamselle. our soldiers are there, awaiting them. our soldiers, and the french." "and you think the enemy cannot capture dunkirk?" inquired jones. "dunkirk! the germans capture dunkirk? it is impossible." "why impossible?" "dunkirk is fortified; it is the entrance to calais, to dover and london. look you, m'sieur; we cannot afford to lose this place. we cannot afford to lose even nieuport, which is our last stand on belgian soil. therefore, the germans cannot take it, for there are still too many of us to kill before kitchener comes to save us." he spoke thoughtfully, between puffs of his cigarette, and added: "but of course, if the great english army does not come, and they kill us all, then it will not matter in the least what becomes of our country." maurie's assertion did not wholly reassure them. the little belgian was too bombastic to win their confidence in his judgment. yet jones declared that maurie doubtless knew the country better than anyone they had yet met and the doctor likewise defended his patient. indeed, gys seemed to have taken quite a fancy to the little man and long after the others had retired for the night he sat on deck talking with the belgian and getting his views of the war. "you say you had land at ghent?" he once asked. "it is true, doctor." "but afterward you said brussels." maurie was not at all confused. "ah; i may have done so. you see, i traded my property." "and, if i am not mistaken, you spoke of a home at liege." maurie looked at him reproachfully. "is there not much land in belgium?" he demanded; "and is a rich man confined to one home? liege was my summer home; in the winter i removed to antwerp." "you said ghent." "ghent it was, doctor. misfortune has dulled my brain. i am not the man i was," he added with a sigh. "nevertheless," said gys, "you still possess the qualities of a good waiter. whatever happens here, maurie, you can always go back to america." chapter vii on the firing line next morning they were all wakened at an early hour by the roar of artillery, dimly heard in the distance. the party aboard the _arabella_ quickly assembled on deck, where little maurie was found leaning over the rail. "they're at it," he remarked, wagging his head. "the germans are at nieuport, now, and some of them are over against pervyse. i hear sounds from dixmude, too; the rattle of machine guns. it will be a grand battle, this! i wonder if our albert is there." "who is he?" asked patsy. "the king. they told me yesterday he had escaped." "we must get the ambulances out at once," said beth. "i'll attend to that," replied uncle john, partaking of the general excitement. "warp up to the dock, captain carg, and i'll get some of those men to help us swing the cars over the side." "how about a chauffeur?" asked dr. gys, who was already bringing out bandages and supplies for the ambulances. "if we can't find a man, i'll drive you myself," declared ajo. "but you don't know the country." gys turned to the little belgian. "can't you find us a driver?" he asked. "we want a steady, competent man to run our ambulance." "where are you going?" asked maurie. "to the firing line." "good. i will drive you myself." "you? do you understand a car?" "i am an expert, monsieur." "a waiter in a restaurant?" "pah! that was five years ago. i will show you. i can drive any car ever made--and i know every inch of the way." "then you're our man," exclaimed mr. merrick, much relieved. as the yacht swung slowly alongside the dock the belgian said: "while you get ready, i will go ashore for news. when i come back--very quick--then i will know everything." before he ran down the ladder patsy clasped around his arm a band bearing the insignia of the red cross. he watched her approvingly, with little amused chuckles, and then quickly disappeared in the direction of the town. "he doesn't seem injured in the least by his accident," said the girl, looking after him as he darted along. "no," returned gys; "he is one of those fellows who must be ripped to pieces before they can feel anything. but let us thank heaven he can drive a car." mr. merrick had no difficulty in getting all the assistance required to lower the two ambulances to the dock. they had already been set up and put in order, so the moment they were landed they were ready for use. a few surgical supplies were added by dr. gys and then they looked around for the belgian. although scarce an hour had elapsed since he departed, he came running back just as he was needed, puffing a little through haste, his eyes shining with enthusiasm. "albert is there!" he cried. "the king and his army are at nieuport. they will open the dykes and flood all the country but the main road, and then we can hold the enemy in check. they will fight, those germans, but they cannot advance, for we will defend the road and the sand dunes." "aren't they fighting now?" asked jones. "oh, yes, some of the big guns are spitting, but what is that? a few will fall, but we have yet thousands to face the german horde." "let us start at once," pleaded maud. maurie began to examine the big ambulance. he was spry as a cat. in ten minutes he knew all that was under the hood, had tested the levers, looked at the oil and gasoline supply and started the motor. "i'll sit beside you to help in case of emergency," said ajo, taking his place. dr. gys, dr. kelsey and the three girls sat inside. patsy had implored uncle john not to go on this preliminary expedition and he had hesitated until the last moment; but the temptation was too strong to resist and even as the wheels started to revolve he sprang in and closed the door behind him. "you are my girls," he said, "and wherever you go, i'll tag along." maurie drove straight into the city and to the north gate, jones clanging the bell as they swept along. every vehicle gave them the right of way and now and then a cheer greeted the glittering new red cross ambulance, which bore above its radiator a tiny, fluttering american flag. they were not stopped at the gate, for although strict orders had been issued to allow no one to leave dunkirk, the officer in charge realized the sacred mission of the americans and merely doffed his cap in salutation as the car flashed by. the road to furnes was fairly clear, but as they entered that town they found the streets cluttered with troops, military automobiles, supply wagons, artillery, ammunition trucks and bicycles. the boy clanged his bell continuously and as if by magic the way opened before the red cross and cheers followed them on their way. the eyes of the little belgian were sparkling like jewels; his hands on the steering wheel were steady as a rock; he drove with skill and judgment. just now the road demanded skill, for a stream of refugees was coming toward them from nieuport and a stream of military motors, bicycles and wagons, with now and then a horseman, flowed toward the front. a mile or two beyond furnes they came upon a wounded soldier, one leg bandaged and stained with blood while he hobbled along leaning upon the shoulder of a comrade whose left arm hung helpless. maurie drew up sharply and beth sprang out and approached the soldiers. "get inside," she said in french. "no," replied one, smiling; "we are doing nicely, thank you. hurry forward, for they need you there." "who dressed your wounds?" she inquired. "the red cross. there are many there, hard at work; but more are needed. hurry forward, for some of our boys did not get off as lightly as we." she jumped into the ambulance and away it dashed, but progress became slower presently. the road was broad and high; great hillocks of sand--the dunes--lay between it and the ocean; on the other side the water from the opened dykes was already turning the fields into an inland sea. in some places it lapped the edges of the embankment that formed the roadway. approaching nieuport, they discovered the dunes to be full of soldiers, who had dug pits behind the sandy hillocks for protection, and in them planted the dog-artillery and one or two large machine guns. these were trained on the distant line of germans, who were also entrenching themselves. all along the edge of the village the big guns were in action and there was a constant interchange of shot and shell from both sides. as maurie dodged among the houses with the big car a shell descended some two hundred yards to the left of them, exploded with a crash and sent a shower of brick and splinters high into the air. a little way farther on the ruins of a house completely blocked the street and they were obliged to turn back and seek another passage. thus partially skirting the town they at last left the houses behind them and approached the firing line, halting scarcely a quarter of a mile distant from the actual conflict. as far as the eye could reach, from nieuport to the sea at the left, and on toward ypres at the right of them, the line of belgians, french and british steadily faced the foe. close to where they halted the ambulance stood a detachment that had lately retired from the line, their places having been taken by reserves. one of the officers told mr. merrick that they had been facing bullets since daybreak and the men seemed almost exhausted. their faces were blackened by dust and powder and their uniforms torn and disordered; many stood without caps or coats despite the chill in the air. and yet these fellows were laughing together and chatting as pleasantly as children just released from school. even those who had wounds made light of their hurts. clouds of smoke hovered low in the air; the firing was incessant. our girls were thrilled by this spectacle as they had never been thrilled before--perhaps never might be again. while they still kept their seats, maurie started with a sudden jerk, made a sharp turn and ran the ambulance across a ridge of solid earth that seemed to be the only one of such character amongst all that waste of sand. it brought them somewhat closer to the line but their driver drew up behind a great dune that afforded them considerable protection. fifty yards away was another ambulance with its wheels buried to the hubs in the loose sand. red cross nurses and men wearing the emblem on their arms and caps were passing here and there, assisting the injured with "first aid," temporarily bandaging heads, arms and legs or carrying to the rear upon a stretcher a more seriously injured man. most of this corps were french; a few were english; some were belgian. our friends were the only americans on the field. uncle john's face was very grave as he alighted in the wake of his girls, who paid no attention to the fighting but at once ran to assist some of the wounded who came staggering toward the ambulance, some even creeping painfully on hands and knees. in all mr. merrick's conceptions of the important mission they had undertaken, nothing like the nature of this desperate conflict had even dawned upon him. he had known that the red cross was respected by all belligerents, and that knowledge had led him to feel that his girls would be fairly safe; but never had he counted on spent bullets, stray shells or the mad rush of a charge. "very good!" cried maurie briskly. "here we see what no one else can see. the red cross is a fine passport to the grand stand of war." "come with me--quick!" shouted ajo, his voice sounding shrill through the din. "i saw a fellow knocked out--there--over yonder!" as he spoke he grabbed a stretcher and ran forward, maurie following at his heels. uncle john saw the smoke swallow them up, saw beth and maud each busy with lint, plasters and bandages, saw patsy supporting a tall, grizzled warrior who came limping toward the car. then he turned and saw doctor gys, crouching low against the protecting sand, his disfigured face working convulsively and every limb trembling as with an ague. chapter viii the coward "great heavens!" gasped mr. merrick, running toward the doctor. "are you hit?" gys looked up at him appealingly and nodded. "where did it strike you? was it a bullet--or what?" the doctor wrung his hands, moaning pitifully. uncle john bent over him. "tell me," he said. "tell me, gys!" "i--i'm scared, sir--s-s-scared stiff. it's that yellow s-s-s-streak in me; i--i--can't help it, sir." then he collapsed, crouching lifelessly close to the sand. uncle john was amazed. he drew back with such an expression of scorn that gys, lying with face upward, rolled over to hide his own features in the sand. but his form continued to twist and shake convulsively. patsy came up with her soldier, whose gaudy uniform proclaimed him an officer. he had a rugged, worn face, gray hair and mustache, stern eyes. his left side was torn and bleeding where a piece of shell had raked him from shoulder to knee. no moan did he utter as mr. merrick and the girl assisted him to one of the swinging beds, and then patsy, with white, set face but steady hands, began at once to cut away the clothing and get at the wound. this was her first practical experience and she meant to prove her mettle or perish in the attempt. uncle john skipped over to the sand bank and clutched gys savagely by the collar. "get up!" he commanded. "here's a man desperately wounded, who needs your best skill--and at once." gys pulled himself free and sat up, seeming dazed for the moment. then he rubbed his head briskly with both hands, collected his nerve and slowly rose to his feet. he cast fearful glances at the firing line, but the demand for his surgical skill was a talisman that for a time enabled him to conquer his terror. with frightened backward glances he ran to the ambulance and made a dive into it as if a pack of wolves was at his heels. safely inside, one glance at the wounded man caused gys to stiffen suddenly. he became steady and alert and noting that patsy had now bared a portion of the gaping wound the doctor seized a thermos flask of hot water and in a moment was removing the clotted blood in a deft and intelligent manner. now came jones and maurie bearing the man they had picked up. as they set the stretcher down, uncle john came over. "shall we put him inside?" asked mr. merrick. "no use, i think," panted the belgian. "where's the doctor?" asked ajo. kelsey, who had been busy elsewhere, now approached and looked at the soldier on the stretcher. "the man is dead," he said. "he doesn't need us now." "off with him, then!" cried maurie, and they laid the poor fellow upon the sand and covered him with a cloth. "come, then," urged the little chauffeur, excitedly, "lots more out there are still alive. we get one quick." they left in a run in one direction while kelsey, who had come to the ambulance for supplies, went another way. mr. merrick looked around for the other two girls. only maud stanton was visible through the smoky haze. uncle john approached her just as a shell dropped into the sand not fifty feet away. it did not explode but plowed a deep furrow and sent a shower of sand in every direction. maud had just finished dressing a bullet wound in the arm of a young soldier who smiled as he watched her. then, as she finished the work, he bowed low, muttered his thanks, and catching up his gun rushed back into the fray. it was a flesh wound and until it grew more painful he could still fight. "where are the germans?" asked uncle john. "i haven't seen one yet." as he spoke a great cheer rose from a thousand throats. the line before them wavered an instant and then rushed forward and disappeared in the smoke of battle. "is it a charge, do you think?" asked maud, as they stood peering into the haze. "i--i don't know," he stammered. "this is so--so bewildering--that it all seems like a dream. where's beth?" "i don't know." "are you looking for a young lady--a nurse?" asked a voice beside them. "she's over yonder," he swung one arm toward the distant sand dunes. the other was in a sling. "she has just given me first aid and sent me to the rear--god bless her!" then he trailed on, a british tommy atkins, while with one accord maud and uncle john moved in the direction he had indicated. "she mustn't be so reckless," said beth's uncle, nervously. "it's bad enough back here, but every step nearer the firing line doubles the danger." "i do not agree with you, sir," answered maud quietly. "a man was killed not two paces from me, a little while ago." he shuddered and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, but made no reply. they climbed another line of dunes and in the hollow beyond came upon several fallen soldiers, one of whom was moaning with pain. maud ran to kneel beside him and in a twinkling had her hypodermic needle in his arm. "bear it bravely," she said in french. "the pain will stop in a few minutes and then i'll come and look after you." he nodded gratefully, still moaning, and she hurried to rejoin mr. merrick. "beth must be in the next hollow," said uncle john as she overtook him, and his voice betrayed his nervous tension. "i do wish you girls would not be so reckless." yes; they found her in the next hollow, where several men were grouped about her. she was dressing the shattered hand of a soldier, while two or three others were patiently awaiting her services. just beside her a sweet-faced sister of mercy was bending over a dying man, comforting him with her prayers. over the ridge of sand could be heard the "ping" of small arms mingled with the hoarse roar of machine guns. another great shout--long and enthusiastic--was borne to their ears. "that is good," said a tall man standing in the group about beth; "i think, from the sound, we have captured their guns." "i'm sure of it, your majesty," replied the one whom beth was attending. "there; that will do for the present. i thank you. and now, let us get forward." as they ran toward the firing uncle john exclaimed: "his majesty! i wonder who they are?" "that," said a private soldier, an accent of pride in his voice, "is our albert." "the king?" "yes, monsieur; he is the tall one. the other is general mays. i'm sure we have driven the germans back, and that is lucky, for before our charge they had come too close for comfort." "the king gave me a ring," said beth, displaying it. "he seemed glad i was here to help his soldiers, but warned me to keep further away from the line. king albert speaks english perfectly and told me he loves america better than any other country except his own." "he has traveled in your country," explained the soldier. "but then, our albert has traveled everywhere--before he was king." betwixt them maud and beth quickly applied first aid to the others in the group and then uncle john said: "let us take the king's advice and get back to the ambulance. we left only patsy and dr. gys there and i'm sure you girls will be needed." on their return they came upon a man sitting in a hollow and calmly leaning against a bank of sand, smoking a cigarette. he wore a gray uniform. "ah, a german!" exclaimed maud. she ran up to him and asked: "are you hurt?" he glanced at her uniform, nodded, and pointed to his left foot. it had nearly all been torn away below the ankle. a handkerchief was twisted about the leg, forming a rude tourniquet just above the wound, and this had served to stay the flow of blood. "run quickly for the stretcher," said maud to uncle john. "i will stay with him until your return." without a word he hurried away, beth following. they found, on reaching the ambulance, that maurie and jones had been busy. five of the swinging beds were already occupied. "save the other one," said beth. "maud has found a german." then she hurried to assist patsy, as the two doctors had their hands full. jones and maurie started away with the stretcher, uncle john guiding them to the dunes where maud was waiting, and presently they had the wounded german comfortably laid in the last bed. "now, then, back to the ship," said gys. "we have in our care two lives, at least, that can only be saved by prompt operations." maurie got into the driver's seat. "careful, now!" cautioned jones, beside him. "of course," replied the belgian, starting the motor; "there are many sores inside. but if they get a jolt, now and then, it will serve to remind them that they are suffering for their country." he began to back up, for the sand ahead was too deep for a turn, and the way he managed the huge car along that narrow ridge aroused the admiration of ajo, who alone was able to witness the marvelous performance. slowly, with many turns, they backed to the road, where maurie swung the ambulance around and then stopped with a jerk that drew several groans from the interior of the car. "what's wrong?" asked mr. merrick, sticking his head from a window. "we nearly ran over a man," answered jones, climbing down from his seat. "our front wheels are right against him, but maurie stopped in time." lying flat upon his face, diagonally across the roadway, was the form of a man in the blue-and-red uniform of the belgian army. maurie backed the ambulance a yard or so as maud sprang out and knelt beside the prostrate form. the firing, which had lulled for a few minutes, suddenly redoubled in fury. there rose a wild, exultant shout, gradually drawing nearer. "quick!" shouted gys, trembling and wringing his hands. "the germans are charging. drive on, man--drive on!" but maurie never moved. "the germans are charging, sure enough," he answered, as the line of retreating belgians became visible. "but they must stop here, for we've blocked the road." all eyes but those of maud were now turned upon the fray, which was practically a hand to hand conflict. nearer and nearer came the confused mass of warriors and then, scarce a hundred yards away, it halted and the belgians stood firm. "he isn't dead," said maud, coming to the car. "help me to put him inside." "there is no room," protested gys. the girl looked at him scornfully. "we will make room," she replied. a bullet shattered a pane of glass just beside the crouching doctor, but passed on through an open window without injuring anyone. in fact, bullets were singing around them with a freedom that made others than dr. gys nervous. it was chubby little uncle john who helped jones carry the wounded man to the ambulance, where they managed to stretch him upon the floor. this arrangement sent patsy to the front seat outside, with maurie and ajo, although her uncle strongly protested that she had no right to expose her precious life so wantonly. there was little time for argument, however. even as the girl was climbing to her seat the line of belgians broke and came pouring toward them. maurie was prompt in starting the car and the next moment the ambulance was rolling swiftly along the smooth highway in the direction of dunkirk and the sounds of fray grew faint behind them. chapter ix courage, or philosophy? "i never realized," said maud, delightedly, "what a strictly modern, professional hospital ship uncle john has made of this, until we put it to practical use. i am sure it is better than those makeshifts we observed at calais, and more comfortable than those crowded hospitals on land. every convenience is at our disposal and if our patients do not recover rapidly it will be because their condition is desperate." she had just come on deck after a long and trying session in assisting doctors gys and kelsey to care for the injured, a session during which beth and patsy had also stood nobly to their gruesome task. there were eleven wounded, altogether, in their care, and although some of these were in a critical condition the doctors had insisted that the nurses needed rest. "it is dr. gys who deserves credit for fitting the ship," replied mr. merrick, modestly, to maud's enthusiastic comment, "and ajo is responsible for the ship itself, which seems admirably suited to our purpose. by the way, how is gys behaving now? is he still shaking with fear?" "no, he seems to have recovered his nerve. isn't it a terrible affliction?" "cowardice? well, my dear, it is certainly an unusual affliction in this country and in these times. i have been amazed to-day at the courage i have witnessed. these belgians are certainly a brave lot." "but no braver than the german we brought with us," replied maud thoughtfully. "one would almost think he had no sensation, yet he must be suffering terribly. the doctor will amputate the remnants of his foot in an hour or so, but the man positively refuses to take an anaesthetic." "does he speak english or french?" "no; only german. but captain carg understands german and so he has been acting as our interpreter." "how about the belgian we picked up on the road?" "he hasn't recovered consciousness yet. he is wounded in the back and in trying to get to the rear became insensible from loss of blood." "from what i saw i wouldn't suppose any belgian could be wounded in the back," remarked uncle john doubtfully. "it was a shell," she said, "and perhaps exploded behind him. it's a bad wound, dr. gys says, but if he regains strength he may recover." during this conversation patsy doyle was lying in her stateroom below and crying bitterly, while her cousin beth strove to soothe her. all unused to such horrors as she had witnessed that day, the girl had managed to retain her nerve by sheer force of will until the red cross party had returned to the ship and extended first aid to the wounded; but the moment dr. gys dismissed her she broke down completely. beth was no more accustomed to bloodshed than her cousin, but she had anticipated such scenes as they had witnessed, inasmuch as her year of training as nurse had prepared her for them. she had also been a close student of the daily press and from her reading had gleaned a knowledge of the terrible havoc wrought by this great war. had patsy not given way, perhaps beth might have done so herself, and really it was maud stanton who bore the ordeal with the most composure. after a half hour on deck maud returned to the hospital section quite refreshed, and proceeded to care for the patients. she alone assisted gys and kelsey to amputate the german's foot, an operation the man bore splendidly, quite unaware, however, that they had applied local anaesthetics to dull the pain. dr. gys was a remarkably skillful surgeon and he gave himself no rest until every one of the eleven had received such attention as his wounds demanded. even kelsey felt the strain by that time and as maud expressed her intention of remaining to minister to the wants of the crippled soldiers, the two doctors went on deck for a smoke and a brief relaxation. by this time beth had quieted patsy, mainly by letting her have her cry out, and now brought her on deck to join the others and get the fresh air. so quickly had events followed one another on this fateful day that it was now only four o'clock in the afternoon. none of them had thought of luncheon, so the ship's steward now brought tea and sandwiches to those congregated on deck. as they sat together in a group, drinking tea and discussing the exciting events of the day, little maurie came sauntering toward them and removed his cap. "your pardon," said he, "but--are the wounded all cared for?" "as well as we are able to care for them at present," answered beth. "and let me thank you, jakob maurie--let us all thank you--for the noble work you did for us to-day." "pah! it was nothing," said he, shifting from one foot to another. "i enjoyed it, mamselle. it was such fun to dive into the battle and pull out the wounded. it helped them, you see, and it gave us a grand excitement. otherwise, had i not gone with you, i would be as ignorant as all in dunkirk still are, for the poor people do not yet know what has happened at the front." "we hardly know ourselves what has happened," said uncle john. "we can hear the boom of guns yet, even at this distance, and we left the battle line flowing back and forth like the waves of the ocean. have a cup of tea, maurie?" the man hesitated. "i do not like to disturb anyone," he said slowly, "but if one of the young ladies is disengaged i would be grateful if she looks at my arm." "your arm!" exclaimed beth, regarding him wonderingly as he stood before her. maurie smiled. "it is hardly worth mentioning, mamselle, but a bullet--" "take off your coat," she commanded, rising from her seat to assist him. maurie complied. his shirt was stained with blood. beth drew out her scissors and cut away the sleeve of his left arm. a bullet had passed directly through the flesh, but without harming bone or muscle. "why didn't you tell us before?" she asked reproachfully. "it amounted to so little, beside the other hurts you had to attend," he answered. "i am shamed, mamselle, that i came to you at all. a little water and a cloth will make it all right." patsy had already gone for the water and in a few minutes beth was deftly cleansing the wound. "how did it happen, maurie?" asked jones. "i was with you most of the time and noticed nothing wrong. besides, you said nothing about it." "it was on the road, just as we picked up that fallen soldier with the hole in his back. the fight jumped toward us pretty quick, you remember, and while i sat at the wheel the bullet came. i knew when it hit me, but i also knew i could move my arm, so what did it matter? i told myself to wait till we got to the ship. had we stayed there longer, we might all have stopped bullets--and some bullets might have stopped us." he grinned, as if the aphorism amused him, and added: "to know when to run is the perfection of courage." "does it hurt?" asked uncle john, as beth applied the lint and began winding the bandage. "it reminds me it is there, monsieur; but i will be ready for another trip to-morrow. thank you, mamselle. instead of the tea, i would like a little brandy." "give him some in the tea," suggested gys, noting that maurie swayed a little. "sit down, man, and be comfortable. that's it. i'd give a million dollars for your nerve." "have you so much money?" asked maurie. "no." "then i cannot see that you lack nerve," said the little belgian thoughtfully. "i was watching you to-day, m'sieur doctor, and i believe what you lack is courage." gys stared so hard at him with the one good eye that even maurie became embarrassed and turned away his head. sipping his tea and brandy he presently resumed, in a casual tone: "never have i indulged in work of more interest than this. we go into the thick of the fight, yet are we safe from harm. we do good to both sides, because the men who do the fighting are not to blame for the war, at all. the leaders of politics say to the generals: 'we have declared war; go and fight.' the generals say to the soldiers: 'we are told to fight, so come on. we do not know why, but it is our duty, because it is our profession. so go and die, or get shot to pieces, or lose some arms and legs, as it may happen.' the business of the soldiers is to obey; they must back up the policies of their country, right or wrong. but do those who send them into danger ever get hurt? not to the naked eye." "why, you're quite a philosopher, maurie," said patsy. "it is true," agreed the belgian. "but philosophy is like courage--easy to assume. we strut and talk big; we call the politicians sharks, the soldiers fools; but does it do any good? the war will go on; the enemy will destroy our homes, separate our families, take away our bread and leave us to starve; but we have the privilege to philosophize, if we like. for myself, i thank them for nothing!" "i suppose you grieve continually for your wife," said patsy. "not so much that, mamselle, but i know she is grieving for me," he replied. "as soon as we find time," continued the girl, "we intend to search for your wife and children. i am sure we can find them for you." maurie moved uneasily in his chair. "i beg you to take no trouble on my account," said he. "with the red cross you have great work to accomplish. what is the despair of one poor walloon to you?" "it is a great deal to us, maurie," returned the girl, earnestly. "you have been a friend in need; without you we could not have made our dash to the front to-day. we shall try to repay you by finding your wife." he was silent, but his troubled look told of busy thoughts. "what does she look like?" inquired beth. "have you her photograph?" "no; she would not make a good picture, mamselle," he answered with a sigh. "clarette is large; she is fat; she has a way of scowling when one does not bring in more wood than the fire can eat up; and she is very religious." "with that description i am sure we can find her," cried patsy enthusiastically. he seemed disturbed. "if you please," said he plaintively, "clarette is quite able to take care of herself. she has a strong will." "but if you know she is safe it will relieve your anxiety," suggested beth. "you told us yesterday you had been searching everywhere for her." "if i said everywhere, i was wrong, for poor clarette must be somewhere. and since yesterday i have been thinking with more deliberation, and i have decided," he added, his tone becoming confidential, "that it is better i do not find clarette just now. it might destroy my usefulness to the red cross." "but your children!" protested patsy. "surely you cannot rest at ease with your two dear children wandering about, in constant danger." "to be frank, mamselle," said he, "they are not my children. i had a baby, but it was killed, as i told you. the boy and girl i have mentioned were born when clarette was the wife of another man--a blacksmith at dinant--who had a sad habit of beating her." "but you love the little ones, i am sure." he shook his head. "they have somewhat the temper of their father, the blacksmith. i took them when i took clarette--just as i took the silver spoons and the checkered tablespread she brought with her--but now that a cruel fate has separated me from the children, perhaps it is all for the best." the doctor gave a snort of disgust, while ajo smiled. the girls were too astonished to pursue the conversation, but now realized that maurie's private affairs did not require their good offices to untangle. uncle john was quite amused at the belgian's confession and was the only one to reply. "fate often seems cruel when she is in her happiest mood," said he. "perhaps, maurie, your clarette will come to you without your seeking her, for all belgium seems headed toward france just now. what do you think? will the germans capture dunkirk?" the man brightened visibly at this turn in the conversation. "not to-day, sir; not for days to come," he replied. "the french cannot afford to lose dunkirk, and by to-morrow they will pour an irresistible horde against the german invader. if we stay here, we are sure to remain in the rear of the firing line." chapter x the war's victims while the others were conversing on deck maud stanton was ministering to the maimed victims of the war's cruelty, who tossed and moaned below. the main cabin and its accompanying staterooms had been fitted with all the conveniences of a modern hospital. twenty-two could easily be accommodated in the rooms and a dozen more in the cabin, so that the eleven now in their charge were easily cared for. of these, only three had been seriously injured. one was the german, who, however, was now sleeping soundly under the influence of the soothing potion that followed his operation. the man's calmness and iron nerve indicated that he would make a rapid recovery. another was the young belgian soldier picked up in the roadway near the firing line, who had been shot in the back and had not yet recovered consciousness. dr. gys had removed several bits of exploded shell and dressed the wound, shaking his head discouragingly. but since the young man was still breathing, with a fairly regular respiration, no attempt was made to restore him to his senses. the third seriously injured was a french sergeant whose body was literally riddled with shrapnel. a brief examination had convinced gys that the case was hopeless. "he may live until morning," was the doctor's report as he calmly looked down upon the moaning sergeant, "but no longer. meanwhile, we must prevent his suffering." this he accomplished by means of powerful drugs. the soldier soon lay in a stupor, awaiting the end, and nothing more could be done for him. of the others, two belgians with bandaged heads were playing a quiet game of écarté in a corner of the cabin, while another with a slight wound in his leg was stretched upon a couch, reading a book. a young french officer who had lost three fingers of his hand was cheerfully conversing with a comrade whose scalp had been torn by a bullet and who declared that in two days he would return to the front. the others maud found asleep in their berths or lying quietly to ease their pain. it was remarkable, however, how little suffering was caused these men by flesh wounds, once they were properly dressed and the patients made comfortable with food and warmth and the assurance of proper care. so it was that maud found her duties not at all arduous this evening. indeed, the sympathy she felt for these brave men was so strong that it wearied her more than the actual work of nursing them. a sip of water here, a cold compress there, the administration of medicines to keep down or prevent fever, little attentions of this character were all that were required. speaking french fluently, she was able to converse with all those under her charge and all seemed eager to relate to their beautiful nurse their experiences, hopes and griefs. soon she realized she was beginning to learn more of the true nature of war than she had ever gleaned from the correspondents of the newspapers. when dinner was served in the forward cabin beth relieved maud and after the evening meal dr. gys made another inspection of his patients. all seemed doing well except the young belgian. the condition of the french sergeant was still unchanged. some of those with minor injuries were ordered on deck for a breath of fresh air. patsy relieved beth at midnight and maud came on duty again at six o'clock, having had several hours of refreshing sleep. she found patsy trembling with nervousness, for the sergeant had passed away an hour previous and the horror of the event had quite upset the girl. "oh, it is all so unnecessary!" she wailed as she threw herself into maud's arms. "we must steel ourselves to such things, dear," said maud, soothing her, "for they will be of frequent occurrence, i fear. and we must be grateful and glad that we were able to relieve the poor man's anguish and secure for him a peaceful end." "i know," answered patsy with a little sob, "but it's so dreadful. oh, what a cruel, hateful thing war is!" from papers found on the sergeant uncle john was able to notify his relatives of his fate. his home was in a little village not fifty miles away and during the day a brother arrived to take charge of the remains and convey them to their last resting place. the following morning captain carg was notified by the authorities to withdraw the _arabella_ to an anchorage farther out in the bay, and thereafter it became necessary to use the two launches for intercourse between the ship and the city. continuous cannonading could be heard from the direction of nieuport, dixmude and ypres, and it was evident that the battle had doubled in intensity at all points, owing to heavy reinforcements being added to both sides. but, as maurie had predicted, the allies were able to hold the foe at bay and keep them from advancing a step farther. uncle john had not been at all satisfied with that first day's experience at the front. he firmly believed it was unwise, to the verge of rashness, to allow the girls to place themselves in so dangerous a position. during a serious consultation with jones, kelsey, captain carg and dr. gys, the men agreed upon a better plan of procedure. "the three nurses have plenty to do in attending to the patients in our hospital," said gys, "and when the ship has its full quota of wounded they will need assistance or they will break down under the strain. our young ladies are different from the professional nurses; they are so keenly sensitive that they suffer from sympathy with every patient that comes under their care." "i do not favor their leaving the ship," remarked dr. kelsey, the mate. "there seems to be plenty of field workers at the front, supplied by the governments whose troops are fighting." "therefore," added jones, "we men must assume the duty of driving the ambulances and bringing back the wounded we are able to pick up. as maurie is too stiff from his wound to drive to-day, i shall undertake the job myself. i know the way, now, and am confident i shall get along nicely. who will go with me?" "i will, of course," replied kelsey quietly. "doctor gys will be needed on the ship," asserted uncle john. "yes, it will be best to leave me here," said gys. "i'm too great a coward to go near the firing line again. it destroys my usefulness, and kelsey can administer first aid as well as i." "in that case, i think i shall take the small ambulance to-day," decided ajo. "with dr. kelsey and one of the sailors we shall manage very well." a launch took them ashore, where the ambulances stood upon the dock. maurie had admitted his inability to drive, but asked to be allowed to go into the town. so he left the ship with the others and disappeared for the day. ajo took the same route he had covered before, in the direction of nieuport, but could not get within five miles of the town, which was now held by the germans. from furnes to the front the roads were packed with reinforcements and wagon trains bearing ammunition and supplies, and further progress with the ambulance was impossible. however, a constant stream of wounded flowed to the rear, some with first aid bandages covering their injuries, others as yet uncared for. kelsey chose those whom he considered most in need of surgical care or skillful nursing, and by noon the ambulance was filled to overflowing. it was jones who advised taking none of the fatally injured, as the army surgeons paid especial attention to these. the americans could be of most practical use, the boy considered, by taking in charge such as had a chance to recover. so nine more patients were added to the ship's colony on this occasion, all being delivered to the care of dr. gys without accident or delay--a fact that rendered ajo quite proud of his skillful driving. while the ambulance was away the girls quietly passed from berth to berth, encouraging and caring for their wounded. it was surprising how interested they became in the personality of these soldiers, for each man was distinctive either in individuality or the character of his injury, and most of them were eager to chat with their nurses and anxious for news of the battle. during the morning the young belgian who had lain until now in a stupor, recovered consciousness. he had moaned once or twice, drawing maud to his side, but hearing a different sound from him she approached the berth where he lay, to find his eyes wide open. gradually he turned them upon his nurse, as if feeling her presence, and after a moment of observation he sighed and then smiled wanly. "still on earth?" he said in french. "i am so glad," she replied. "you have been in dreamland a long time." he tried to move and it brought a moan to his lips. "don't stir," she counseled warningly; "you are badly wounded." he was silent for a time, staring at the ceiling. she held some water to his lips and he drank eagerly. finally he said in a faint voice: "i remember, now. i had turned to reload and it hit me in the back. a bullet, mademoiselle?" "part of a shell." "ah, i understand.... i tried to get to the rear. the pain was terrible. no one seemed to notice me. at last i fell, and--then i slept. i thought it was the end." she bathed his forehead, saying: "you must not talk any more at present. here comes the doctor to see you." gys, busy in the cabin, had heard their voices and now came to look at his most interesting patient. the soldier seemed about twenty years of age; he was rather handsome, with expressive eyes and features bearing the stamp of culture. already they knew his name, by means of an identification card found upon him, as well as a small packet of letters carefully pinned in an inner pocket of his coat. these last were all addressed in the same handwriting, which was undoubtedly feminine, to andrew denton. the card stated that andrew denton, private, was formerly an insurance agent at antwerp. doctor gys had rather impatiently awaited the young man's return to consciousness that he might complete his examination. he now devoted the next half hour to a careful diagnosis of denton's injuries. by this time the patient was suffering intense pain and a hypodermic injection of morphine was required to relieve him. when at last he was quietly drowsing the doctor called maud aside to give her instructions. "watch him carefully," said he, "and don't let him suffer. keep up the morphine." "there is no hope, then?" she asked. "not the slightest. he may linger for days--even weeks, if we sustain his strength--but recovery is impossible. that bit of shell tore a horrible hole in the poor fellow and all we can do is keep him comfortable until the end. without the morphine he would not live twelve hours." "shall i let him talk?" "if he wishes to. his lungs are not involved, so it can do him no harm." but andrew denton did not care to talk any more that day. he wanted to think, and lay quietly until beth came on duty. to her he gave a smile and a word of thanks and again lapsed into thoughtful silence. when ajo brought the new consignment of wounded to the ship the doctors and nurses found themselves pretty busy for a time. with wounds to dress and one or two slight operations to perform, the afternoon passed swiftly away. the old patients must not be neglected, either, so captain carg said he would sit with the german and look after him, as he was able to converse with the patient in his own tongue. the german was resting easily to-day but proved as glum and uncommunicative as ever. that did not worry the captain, who gave the man a cigarette and, when it was nonchalantly accepted, lighted his own pipe. together they sat in silence and smoked, the german occupying an easy chair and resting his leg upon a stool, for he had refused to lie in a berth. through the open window the dull boom of artillery could constantly be heard. after an hour or so: "a long fight," remarked the captain in german. the other merely looked at him, contemplatively. carg stared for five minutes at the bandaged foot. finally: "hard luck," said he. this time the german nodded, looking at the foot also. "in america," resumed the captain, puffing slowly, "they make fine artificial feet. walk all right. look natural." "vienna," said the german. "yes, i suppose so." another pause. "name?" asked the german, with startling abruptness. but the other never winked. "carg. i'm a sailor. captain of this ship. live in sangoa, when ashore." "sangoa?" "island in south seas." the wounded man reached for another cigarette and lighted it. "carg," he repeated, musingly. "german?" "why, my folks were, i believe. i've relations in germany, yet. munich. visited them once, when a boy. mother's name was elbl. the cargs lived next door to the elbls. but they've lost track of me, and i of them. nothing in common, you see." the german finished his cigarette, looking at the captain at times reflectively. carg, feeling his biography had not been appreciated, had lapsed into silence. at length the wounded man began feeling in his breast pocket--an awkward operation because the least action disturbed the swathed limb--and presently drew out a leather card case. with much deliberation he abstracted a card and handed it to the captain, who put on his spectacles and read: "otto elbl. th uhlans" "oh," he said, looking up to examine the german anew. "otto elbl of munich?" "yes." "h-m. number friedrichstrasse?" "yes." "i didn't see you when i visited your family. they said you were at college. your father was william elbl, my mother's brother." the german stretched out his hand and gripped the fist of the captain. "cousins," he said. carg nodded, meditating. "to be sure," he presently returned; "cousins. have another cigarette." chapter xi patsy is defiant that evening the captain joined dr. gys on deck. "that german, lieutenant elbl," he began. "oh, is that his name?" asked gys. "yes. will he get well?" "certainly. what is a foot, to a man like him? but his soldiering days are past." "perhaps that's fortunate," returned the captain, ruminatively. "when i was a boy, his father was burgomaster--mayor--in munich. people said he was well-to-do. the germans are thrifty, so i suppose there's still money in the elbl family." "money will do much to help reconcile the man to the loss of his foot," declared the doctor. "will he suffer much pain, while it is getting well?" "not if i can help it. the fellow bears pain with wonderful fortitude. when i was in yucatan, and had to slash my face to get out the poisoned darts of the cactus, i screamed till you could have heard me a mile. and i had no anaesthetic to soothe me. your lieutenant never whimpered or cringed with his mangled foot and he refused morphine when i operated on it. but i fooled him. i hate to see a brave man suffer. i stuck a needle just above the wound when he wasn't looking, and i've doped his medicine ever since." "thank you," said carg; "he's my cousin." in the small hours of the next morning, while patsy was on duty in the hospital section, the young belgian became wakeful and restless. she promptly administered a sedative and sat by his bedside. after a little his pain was eased and he became quiet, but he lay there with wide open eyes. "can i do anything more for you?" she asked. "if you would be so kind," replied andrew denton. "well?" "please read to me some letters you will find in my pocket. i cannot read them myself, and--they will comfort me." patsy found the packet of letters. "the top one first," he said eagerly. "read them all!" she opened the letter reluctantly. it was addressed in a dainty, female hand and the girl had the uncomfortable feeling that she was about to pry into personal relations of a delicate character. "your sweetheart?" she asked gently. "yes, indeed; my sweetheart and my wife." "oh, i see. and have you been married long?" he seemed a mere boy. "five months, but for the last two i have not seen her." the letters were dated at charleroi and each one began: "my darling husband." patsy read the packet through, from first to last, her eyes filling with tears at times as she noted the rare devotion and passionate longing of the poor young wife and realized that the boyish husband was even now dying, a martyr to his country's cause. the letters were signed "elizabeth." in one was a small photograph of a sweet, dark-eyed girl whom she instantly knew to be the bereaved wife. "and does she still live at charleroi?" patsy asked. "i hope so, mademoiselle; with her mother. the germans now occupy the town, but you will notice the last letter states that all citizens are treated courteously and with much consideration, so i do not fear for her." the reading of the letters, in conjunction with the opiate, seemed to comfort him, for presently he fell asleep. with a heavy heart the girl left him to attend to her other patients and at three o'clock ajo came in and joined her, to relieve the tedium of the next three hours. the boy knew nothing of nursing, but he could help patsy administer potions and change compresses and his presence was a distinct relief to her. the girl was supposed to sleep from six o'clock--at which time she was relieved from duty--until one in the afternoon, but the next morning at eight she walked into the forward salon, where her friends were at breakfast, and sat down beside uncle john. "i could not sleep," said she, "because i am so worried over andrew denton." "that is foolish, my dear," answered mr. merrick, affectionately patting the hand she laid in his. "the doctor says poor denton cannot recover. if you're going to take to heart all the sad incidents we encounter on this hospital ship, it will not only ruin your usefulness but destroy your happiness." "exactly so," agreed gys, coming into the salon in time to overhear this remark. "a nurse should be sympathetic, but impersonally so." "denton has been married but five months," said patsy. "i have seen his wife's picture--she's a dear little girl!--and her letters to him are full of love and longing. she doesn't know, of course, of his--his accident--or that he--he--" her voice broke with a sob she could not repress. "m-m," purred uncle john; "where does she live, this young wife?" "at charleroi." "well; the germans are there." "yes, uncle. but don't you suppose they would let her come to see her dying husband?" "a young girl, unprotected? would it be--safe?" "the germans," remarked captain carg from his end of the table, "are very decent people." "ahem!" said uncle john. "some of them, i've no doubt, are quite respectable," observed ajo; "but from all reports the rank and file, in war time, are--rather unpleasant to meet." "precisely," agreed uncle john. "i think, patsy dear, it will be best to leave this belgian girl in ignorance of her husband's fate." "i, myself, have a wife," quoth little maurie, with smug assurance, "but she is not worrying about me, wherever she may be; nor do i feel especial anxiety for clarette. a woman takes what comes--especially if she is obliged to." patsy regarded him indignantly. "there are many kinds of women," she began. "thank heaven!" exclaimed maurie, and then she realized how futile it was to argue with him. a little later she walked on deck with uncle john and pleaded her cause earnestly. it was said by those who knew him well that the kindly little gentleman was never able to refuse patsy anything for long, and he was himself so well aware of this weakness that he made a supreme effort to resist her on this occasion. "you and i," said she, "would have no trouble in passing the german lines. we are strictly neutral, you know, we americans, and our passports and the red cross will take us anywhere in safety." "it won't do, my dear," he replied. "you've already been in danger enough for one war. i shudder even now as i think of those bullets and shells at nieuport." "but we can pass through at some place where they are not fighting." "show me such a place!" "and distances are very small in this part of the continent. we could get to charleroi in a day, and return the next day with mrs. denton." "impossible." "the doctor says he may live for several days, but it may be only for hours. if you could see his face light up when he speaks of her, you would realize what a comfort her presence would be to him." "i understand that, patsy. but can't you see, my dear, that we're not able to do everything for those poor wounded soldiers? you have twenty in your charge now, and by to-night there may be possibly a dozen more. many of them have wives at home, but--" "but all are not dying, uncle--and after only five months of married life, three of which they passed together. here, at least, is one brave heart we may comfort, one poor woman who will be ever grateful for our generous kindness." mr. merrick coughed. he wiped his eyes and blew his nose on his pink bordered handkerchief. but he made no promise. patsy left him and went to ajo. "see here," she said; "i'm going to charleroi in an hour." "it's a day's journey, patsy." "i mean i'm going to start in an hour. will you go with me?" "what does uncle john say?" he inquired cautiously. "i don't care what he says. i'm going!" she persisted, her eyes blazing with determination. the boy whistled softly, studying her face. then he walked across the deck to mr. merrick. "patsy is rampant, sir," said he. "she won't be denied. go and argue with her, please." "i _have_ argued," returned uncle john weakly. "well, argue again." the little man cast a half frightened, half reproachful glance at his niece. "let's go and consult the doctor," he exclaimed, and together uncle john and ajo went below. to their surprise, gys supported patsy's plea. "he's a fine fellow, this denton," said he, "and rather above the average soldier. moreover, his case is a pitiful one. i'll agree to keep him alive until his wife comes." uncle john looked appealingly at ajo. "how on earth can we manage to cross the lines?" he asked. "take one of our launches," said the boy. "skim the coast to ostend, and you'll avoid danger altogether." "that's the idea!" exclaimed the doctor approvingly. "why, it's the easiest thing in the world, sir." uncle john began to feel slightly reassured. "who will run the launch?" he inquired. "i'll give you the captain and one of the men," said the boy. "carg's an old traveler and knows more than he appears to. besides, he speaks german. we can't spare very many, you understand, and the ambulances will keep maurie and me pretty busy. patsy will be missed, too, from the hospital ward, so you must hurry back." "two days ought to accomplish our object," said uncle john. "easily," agreed gys. "i've arranged for a couple of girls from the town to come and help us to-day, for i must save the strength of my expert nurses as much as possible, and i'll keep them with us until you return. the french girls are not experienced in nursing, but i'll take miss patsy's watch myself, so we shall get along all right." mr. merrick and jones returned to the deck. "well?" demanded patsy. "get ready," said uncle john; "we leave in an hour." "for charleroi?" "of course; unless you've changed your mind." patsy flew to her stateroom. chapter xii the other side the launch in which they embarked bore the red cross on its sides, and an american flag floated from the bow and a red cross flag from the stern. its four occupants wore the red cross uniforms. yet three miles out of dunkirk a shot came singing across their prow and they were obliged to lay to until a british man-of-war could lower a boat to investigate their errand. the coast is very shallow in this section, which permits boats of only the lightest draught to navigate in-shore, but the launch was able to skim over the surface at twelve miles an hour. "this is pleasant!" grumbled uncle john, as they awaited the approach of the warship's boat. "our very appearance ought to insure us safe conduct, but i suppose that in these times every craft is regarded with suspicion." the boat came alongside. "where are you going?" demanded an officer, gruffly. "to ostend." "on what business?" "our own," replied mr. merrick. "be respectful, sir, or i'll arrest your entire outfit," warned the officer. "you'll do nothing of the sort," declared mr. merrick. "you'll examine our papers, apologize for your interference and row back to your ship. we have the authority of the red cross to go wherever our duty calls us, and moreover we're american citizens. permit me to add that we're in a hurry." the officer turned first white and then red, but he appreciated the force of the argument. "your papers!" he commanded. uncle john produced them and waited patiently for their inspection, which was very deliberate. finally the officer returned them and gave the order to his men to row back to the ship. "one moment!" called uncle john. "you haven't made the apology." there was no answer. the boat moved swiftly away and at a gesture from captain carg the sailor started the launch again. "i wonder why it is," mused mr. merrick, "that there is always this raspy feeling when the english meet americans. on the surface we're friendly enough and our governments always express in diplomatic relations the most cordial good will; but i've always noticed in the english individual an undercurrent of antipathy for americans that cannot be disguised. as a race the english hate us, i'm positive, and i wonder why?" "i believe you're wrong, uncle," remarked patsy. "a few of the british may individually dislike us, but i'm sure the two nations are not antagonistic. why should they be?" "yorktown," muttered the captain. "i don't believe it," declared the girl. "they're too good sportsmen to bear grudges." "all the same," persisted uncle john, "the english have never favored us as the french have, or even the russians." from dunkirk to ostend, by the coast line, is only some twenty-five miles, yet although they started at a little after eleven o'clock it was three in the afternoon before they finally landed at the belgian seaport. interruptions were numerous, and although they were treated courteously, in the main, it was only after rigid questioning and a thorough examination that they were permitted to proceed. a full hour was consumed at the harbor at ostend before they could even land. as they stepped upon the wharf a group of german soldiers met them and now captain carg became the spokesman of the party. the young officer in command removed his helmet to bow deferentially to patsy and then turned to ask their business at ostend. "he says we must go before the military governor," said carg, translating. "there, if our papers are regular, permits will be issued for us to proceed to charleroi." they left the sailor in charge of the launch, which was well provisioned and contained a convertible bunk, and followed the officer into the town. ostend is a large city, fortified, and was formerly one of the most important ports on the north sea, as well as a summer resort of prominence. the city now being occupied by the germans, our friends found few citizens on the streets of ostend and these hurried nervously on their way. the streets swarmed with german soldiery. arriving at headquarters they found that the commandant was too busy to attend to the red cross americans. he ordered them taken before colonel grau for examination. "but why examine us at all?" protested mr. merrick. "doesn't our sacred mission protect us from such annoying details?" the young officer regretted that it did not. they would find colonel grau in one of the upper rooms. it would be a formal examination, of course, and brief. but busy spies had even assumed the insignia of the red cross to mask their nefarious work and an examination was therefore necessary as a protective measure. so they ascended a broad staircase and proceeded along a corridor to the colonel's office. grau was at the head of the detective service at ostend and invested with the task of ferreting out the numerous spies in the service of the allies and dealing with them in a summary manner. he was a very stout man, and not very tall. his eyes were light blue and his grizzled mustache was a poor imitation of that affected by the kaiser. when grau looked up, on their entrance, patsy decided that their appearance had startled him, but presently she realized that the odd expression was permanent. in a chair beside the colonel's desk sat, or rather lounged, another officer, encased in a uniform so brilliant that it arrested the eye before one could discover its contents. these were a wizened, weather-beaten man of advanced age, yet rugged as hickory. his eyes had a periodical squint; his brows wore a persistent frown. there was a broad scar on his left cheek and another across his forehead. a warrior who had seen service, probably, but whose surly physiognomy was somewhat disconcerting. the two officers had been in earnest conversation, but when mr. merrick's party was ushered in, the elder man leaned back in his chair, squinting and scowling, and regarded them silently. "huh!" exclaimed the colonel, in a brusque growl. "what is it, von holtz?" the young officer explained that the party had just arrived from dunkirk in a launch; the commandant had asked colonel grau kindly to examine them. uncle john proceeded to state the case, captain carg interpreting. they operated a red cross hospital ship at dunkirk, and one of their patients, a young belgian, was dying of his wounds. they had come to find his young wife and take her back with them to dunkirk in their launch, that she might comfort the last moments of her husband. the americans asked for safe conduct to charleroi, and permission to take mrs. denton with them to dunkirk. then he presented his papers, including the authority of the american red cross society, the letter from the secretary of state and the recommendation of the german ambassador at washington. the colonel looked them all over. he uttered little guttural exclamations and tapped the desk with his finger-tips as he read, and all the time his face wore that perplexing expression of surprise. finally he asked: "which is mr. merrick?" hearing his name, uncle john bowed. "huh! but the description does not fit you." captain carg translated this. "why not?" demanded uncle john. "it says you are short, stout, blue-eyed, bald, forty-five years of age." "of course." "you are not short; i think you are as tall as i am. your eyes are not blue; they are olive green. you are not bald, for there is still hair over your ears. huh! how do you explain that?" "it's nonsense," said uncle john scornfully. carg was more cautious in interpreting the remark. he assured the colonel, in german, that the description of mr. merrick was considered close enough for all practical purposes. but grau was not satisfied. he went over the papers again and then turned to face the other officer. "what do you think, general?" he asked, hesitatingly. "suspicious!" was the reply. "i think so, myself," said the colonel. "mark you: here's a man who claims to come from sangoa, a place no one has ever heard of; and the other has endorsements purporting to come from the highest officials in america. huh! what does it mean?" "papers may be forged, or stolen from their proper owners," suggested the squinting general. "this excuse of coming here to get the wife of a hurt belgian seems absurd. if they are really red cross workers, they are not attending to their proper business." when the captain interpreted this speech patsy said angrily: "the general is an old fool." "an idiot, i'll call him," added uncle john. "i wish i could tell him so." "you _have_ told him," said the general in good english, squinting now more rapidly than ever, "and your manner of speech proves you to be impostors. i have never known a respectable red cross nurse, of any country, who called a distinguished officer a fool--and to his face." "i didn't know you understood english," she said. "that is no excuse!" "but i _did_ know," she added, "that i had judged you correctly. no one with a spark of intelligence could doubt the evidence of these papers." "the papers are all right. where did you get them?" "from the proper authorities." he turned to speak rapidly in german to colonel grau, who had been uneasy during the conversation in english, because he failed to understand it. his expression of piquant surprise was intensified as he now turned to the americans. "you may as well confess your imposture," said he. "it will make your punishment lighter. however, if on further examination you prove to be spies, your fate is beyond my power to mitigate." "see here," said uncle john, when this was translated to him, "if you dare to interfere with us, or cause us annoyance, i shall insist on your being courtmartialed. you are responsible to your superiors, i suppose, and they dare not tolerate an insult to the red cross, nor to an american citizen. you may have the sense to consider that if these papers and letters are genuine, as i declare they are, i have friends powerful enough to bring this matter before the kaiser himself, in which case someone will suffer a penalty, even if he is a general or a colonel." as he spoke he glared defiantly at the older officer, who calmly proceeded to translate the speech to the colonel. carg reported that it was translated verbatim. then the general sat back and squinted at his companion, who seemed fairly bewildered by the threat. patsy caught the young officer smothering a smile, but neither of them interrupted the silence that followed. once again the colonel picked up the papers and gave them a rigid examination, especially that of the german ambassador, which was written in his own language. "i cannot understand," he muttered, "how one insignificant american citizen could secure such powerful endorsements. it has never happened before in my experience." "it is extraordinary," said the general. "mr. merrick," said patsy to him, "is a very important man in america. he is so important that any indignity to him will be promptly resented." "i will investigate your case further," decided colonel grau, after another sotto voce conference with the general. "spies are getting to be very clever, these days, and we cannot take chances. however, i assure you there is no disposition to worry you and until your standing is determined you will be treated with every consideration." "do you mean that we are prisoners?" asked uncle john, trying to control his indignation. "no, indeed. you will be detained, of course, but you are not prisoners--as yet. i will keep your papers and submit them to the general staff. it will be for that august body to decide." uncle john protested vigorously; patsy faced the old general and told him this action was an outrage that would be condemned by the entire civilized world; captain carg gravely assured both officers that they were making a serious mistake. but nothing could move the stolid germans. the general, indeed, smiled grimly and told them in english that he was in no way responsible, whatever happened. this was colonel grau's affair, but he believed, nevertheless, that the colonel was acting wisely. the young officer, who had stood like a statue during the entire interview, was ordered to accompany the americans to a hotel, where they must be kept under surveillance but might follow, to an extent, their own devices. they were not to mail letters nor send telegrams. the officer asked who should guard the suspects. "why not yourself, lieutenant? you are on detached duty, i believe?" "at the port, colonel." "there are too many officers at the port; it is a sinecure. i will appoint you to guard the americans. you speak their language, i believe?" the young man bowed. "very well; i shall hold you responsible for their safety." they were then dismissed and compelled to follow their guard from the room. patsy was now wild with rage and uncle john speechless. even carg was evidently uneasy. "do not mind," said the young lieutenant consolingly. "it is merely a temporary inconvenience, you know, for your release will come very soon. and since you are placed in my care i beg you to accept this delay with good grace and be happy as possible. ostend is full of life and i am conducting you to an excellent hotel." chapter xiii tardy justice the courtesy of lieutenant von holtz was beyond criticism. he obtained for his charges a comfortable suite of rooms in an overcrowded hotel, obliging the landlord to turn away other guests that mr. merrick's party might be accommodated. the dinner that was served in their cosy sitting room proved excellent, having been ordered by von holtz after he had requested that privilege. when the young officer appeared to see that it was properly served, patsy invited him to join them at the table and he laughingly consented. "you are one of our party, by force of circumstances," said the girl, "and since we've found you good-natured and polite, and believe you are not to blame for our troubles, we may as well be friendly while we are together." the young man was evidently well pleased. "however evil your fortune may be," said he, "i cannot fail to be impressed by my own good luck. perhaps you may guess what a relief this pleasant commission is to one who for days has been compelled to patrol those vile smelling docks, watching for spies and enduring all sorts of weather." "to think," said uncle john gloomily, "that _we_ are accused of being spies!" "it is not for me," returned von holtz, "to criticize the acts of my superiors. i may say, however, that were it my province to decide the question, you would now be free. colonel grau has an excellent record for efficiency and seldom makes a mistake, but i suspect his judgment was influenced by the general, whose son was once jilted by an american girl." "we're going to get even with them both, before this affair is ended," declared patsy, vindictively; "but although you are our actual jailer i promise that you will escape our vengeance." "my instructions are quite elastic, as you heard," said the lieutenant. "i am merely ordered to keep you in ostend, under my eye, until your case has been passed upon by the commandant or the general staff. since you have money, you may enjoy every luxury save that of travel, and i ask you to command my services in all ways consistent with my duty." "what worries me," said patsy to uncle john, "is the delay. if we are kept here for long, poor denton will die before we can find his wife and take her to him." "how long are we liable to be detained?" uncle john asked the officer. "i cannot say. perhaps the council of the general staff will meet to-morrow morning; perhaps not for several days," was the indefinite reply. patsy wiped away the tears that began to well into her eyes. she had so fondly set her heart on reuniting the dentons that her disappointment was very great. von holtz noticed the girl's mood and became thoughtful. captain carg had remained glum and solemn ever since they had left the colonel's office. uncle john sat in silent indignation, wondering what could be done to influence these stupid germans. presently the lieutenant remarked: "that sailor whom you left with the launch seemed an intelligent fellow." patsy gave a start; uncle john looked at the young man expectantly; the captain nodded his head as he slowly replied: "henderson is one of the picked men i brought from sangoa. he is both intelligent and loyal." "curiously enough," said von holtz, "i neglected to place the man under arrest. i even forgot to report him. he is free." "ah!" exclaimed patsy, her eyes lighting. "i know a civilian here--a bright young belgian--who is my friend and will do anything i ask of him," resumed von holtz, still musingly. "i had the good fortune to protect his mother when our troops entered the city, and he is grateful." patsy was thinking very fast now. "could henderson get to charleroi, do you imagine?" she asked. "he has a passport." "we do not consider passports of much value," said the officer; "but a red cross appointment--" "oh, he has that, too; all our men carry them." "in that case, with my friend rondel to guide him, i believe henderson could accomplish your errand." "let us send for him at once!" exclaimed uncle john. carg scribbled on a card. "he wouldn't leave the launch without orders, unless forced by the germans," asserted the captain, and handed the card to von holtz. the young lieutenant took his cap, bowed profoundly and left the room. in ten minutes he returned, saying: "i am not so fortunate as i had thought. all our troops are on the move, headed for the yser. there will be fighting, presently, and--i must remain here," he added despondently. "it won't be your last chance, i'm sure," said patsy. "will that dreadful colonel grau go, too?" "no; he is to remain. but all regiments quartered here are now marching out and to-morrow a fresh brigade will enter ostend." they were silent a time, until someone rapped upon the door. von holtz admitted a slim, good-looking young belgian who grasped his hand and said eagerly in french: "you sent for me?" "yes. you may speak english here, monsieur rondel." then he presented his friend to the americans, who approved him on sight. henderson came a few minutes later and listened respectfully to the plan miss doyle unfolded. he was to go with monsieur rondel to charleroi, find mrs. denton, explain that her husband was very ill, and bring her back with him to ostend. he would report promptly on his return and they would tell him what to do next. the man accepted the mission without a word of protest. charleroi was in central belgium, but that did not mean many miles away and rondel assured him they would meet with no difficulties. the trains were reserved for soldiers, but the belgian had an automobile and a german permit to drive it. the roads were excellent. "now, remember," said patsy, "the lady you are going for is mrs. albert denton. she lives with her mother, or did, the last we heard of her." "and her mother's name and address?" inquired henderson. "we are ignorant of either," she confessed; "but it's not a very big town and i'm sure you'll easily find her." "i know the place well," said rondel, "and i have friends residing there who will give me information." uncle john supplied them liberally with money, impressed upon them the necessity of haste, and sent them away. rondel declared the night time was best for the trip and promised to be on the way within the hour, and in charleroi by next morning. notwithstanding the fact that they had succeeded in promoting by proxy the mission which had brought them to belgium, the americans found the next day an exceedingly irksome one. in the company of lieutenant von holtz they were permitted to walk about the city, but they found little pleasure in that, owing to the bustle of outgoing troops and the arrival of others to replace them. nor did they care to stray far from their quarters, for fear the council would meet and they might be sent for. however, no sign from colonel grau was received that day. patsy went to bed with a nervous headache and left uncle john and the captain to smoke more than was good for them. both the men had now come to regard their situation as serious and as the american consul was at this time absent in brussels they could think of no way to secure their freedom. no one knew when the consul would return; mr. merrick had been refused the privilege of using the telegraph or mails. during one of their strolls they had met the correspondent of an american newspaper, but when the man learned they were suspects he got away from them as soon as possible. he did not know mr. merrick and his own liberty was too precarious for him to argue with colonel grau. "i'm beginning to think," said uncle john, "that we're up against a hard proposition. letters and endorsements from prominent americans seem to have no weight with these germans. i'd no idea our identity could ever be disputed." "we must admit, sir," returned the captain, reflectively, "that the spy system in this war is something remarkable. spies are everywhere; clever ones, too, who adopt every sort of subterfuge to escape detection. i do not blame grau so much for caution as for lack of judgment." "he's a blockhead!" cried mr. merrick testily. "he is. i'm astonished they should place so much power in the hands of one so slow witted." "he has insulted us," continued uncle john. "he has dared to arrest three free-born americans." "who came into a troubled country, occupied by a conquering army, without being invited." "well--that's true," sighed the little millionaire, "but what are we going to do about it?" "wait," counseled the captain. the next day dawned dark and rainy and the weather had a depressing effect upon the prisoners. it was too damp to stir out of doors and the confinement of the hotel rooms became especially irksome. not only were they anxious about their own fate but it was far past the time when they should have heard from henderson and rondel. patsy's nerves were getting beyond her control; uncle john stumped around with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and a frown wrinkling his forehead; the captain smoked innumerable pipes of tobacco and said not a word. von holtz, noting the uneasiness of his charges, discreetly forbore conversation and retired to a far corner where he hid behind a book. it was nearing evening when a commotion was heard on the stairs, followed by the heavy tramp of feet in the corridor. a sharp rap sounded on the door of their sitting room. uncle john stepped forward to open it, when in stalked a group of german officers, their swords and spurs clanking and their cloaks glistening with rain-drops. at sight of the young girl off came cap and helmet and with one accord they bowed low. the leader was a tall, thin man with a leathern face, hooked nose and piercing gray eyes. his breast glittered with orders. it was von kargenbrut, the military governor. "pardon our intrusion," he said in english, his harsh voice having a guttural accent. "which gentleman is mr. john merrick?" "i am john merrick." the eagle eyes swept over him with a swift glance. "we owe you our apology," continued the governor, speaking as fiercely as if he were ordering uncle john beheaded. "i have been too busy to take up your case before to-day, when i discover that we have treated you discourteously. you will consider our fault due to these troubled times, when mistakes occur in spite of our watchfulness. is it not so?" "your error has caused us great inconvenience," responded mr. merrick stiffly. the governor whirled around. "colonel grau!" he called, and from the rear of the group the colonel stepped forward. his face still wore the expression of comical surprise. "return to mr. merrick his papers and credentials." the colonel drew the packet of papers from his breast pocket and handed it to uncle john. then he glanced hesitatingly at his superior, who glared at him. "he cannot speak the english," said the governor to mr. merrick, "but he owes you reparation." "grau's stupidity has been very annoying, to say the least," was the ungracious reply. "we came here on important business, and presented our papers--all in proper order--on demand. we had the right to expect decent treatment, as respectable american citizens engaged in humanitarian work; yet this--this--man," pointing an accusing finger at the colonel, "ordered us detained--arrested!--and kept our papers." the governor listened coldly and at the end of the speech inclined his head. "colonel grau," said he, "has been relieved of his duties here and transferred to another station. to you i have personally apologized. you will find my endorsement on your papers and, in addition, an order that will grant you safe conduct wherever you may wish to go. if that is not enough, make your demands and i will consider them." "why, that is all i can expect, your excellency, under the circumstances," replied mr. merrick. "i suppose i ought to thank you for your present act of justice." "no; it is your due. good evening, mr. merrick." he swung around on his heel and every officer of the group turned with him, like so many automatons, all facing the door. but mr. merrick touched the governor upon the arm. "one moment, your excellency. this young officer, lieutenant von holtz, has treated us kindly and courteously. i want you to know that one of your men, at least, has performed his duty in a way to merit our thanks--and yours." the governor scowled at lieutenant von holtz, who stood like a statue, with lowered eyes. "lieutenant, you are commissioned to guide mr. merrick as long as he remains within our lines. you will guard his safety and that of his party. when he departs, come to me personally with your report." the young officer bowed; the governor tramped to the door and went out, followed by his staff. grau left the room last, with hang-dog look, and patsy slammed the door in the hope of bumping his wooden head. "so we're free?" she said, turning to von holtz. "not only that, fraulein, but you are highly favored," he replied. "all german territory is now open to you." "it's about time they came to their senses," remarked uncle john, with a return to his accustomed cheerfulness. "and, best of all," said patsy exultantly, "they've fired that awful colonel!" the captain thoughtfully filled and lighted his pipe. "i wonder," said he, "how that happened. was it the council, do you think, lieutenant?" von holtz shook his head. "i think it was the governor," he replied. "he is a just man, and had you been able to see him personally on your arrival you would have been spared any annoyance." "perhaps," said patsy doubtfully. "but your governor's a regular bear." "i believe that is merely his way," asserted uncle john. "i didn't mind the man's tone when i found his words and deeds were all right. but he--" another rap at the door. patsy opened it and admitted henderson. he saluted the captain, bowed to the others and said: "we've got her, sir." "mrs. denton?" cried patsy, delightedly. henderson nodded. "yes, miss doyle; mrs. denton and the children." "the children! why, there aren't any." "i beg your pardon, miss; there are two." "two children!" she exclaimed in dismay. "there must be some mistake. the young people have only been married five months." henderson stood stiff as a poker, refusing to argue the point. "a governess, maybe," suggested the captain. "more likely," said uncle john, "young denton married a widow, with--eh--eh--incumbrances." "that's it, sir," said henderson earnestly. "what's it?" "the incumbrances, sir. no other word could describe 'em." patsy's heart sank; she was greatly disappointed. "and she so young and pretty!" she murmured. henderson started to smile, but quickly suppressed it. "shall i show them up, miss?" he inquired. "of course," answered uncle john, as the girl hesitated. "you should have brought her to us at once. where is that belgian--rondel?" "he is guarding the woman, sir." "guarding her!" "she's a little difficult to manage, sir, at times. she left charleroi willingly enough, but she's tricky, and it is our duty to deliver her to you safely." "get her at once, henderson," exclaimed patsy, recovering her wits; "and the dear children, too." presently there was a sound of shuffling on the stairs and through the corridor. the door opened to admit the arrivals from charleroi. henderson first pushed in a big woman dressed in a faded blue-checked gown, belted around the waist in a manner that made her look like a sack tied in the middle. her head was bare, her hair awry, her face sullen and hard; she was undeniably "fleshy" and not altogether clean. she resisted henderson at every step and glared around her with shrewd and shifting eyes. following her came monsieur rondel leading a boy and a girl, the latter being a small replica of the woman. the boy was viciously struggling to bite the hand of the belgian, who held him fast. "ah, well," said rondel, first sighing and then turning with a smile to face the lieutenant, "we have performed our mission. but heaven guard us from another like it!" patsy stared hard at the woman. "this cannot be mrs. denton," she gasped, bewildered. "indeed?" answered rondel in english. "she declares that is her name. question her in french or flemish, miss doyle." patsy addressed the woman in french but could elicit no reply. she stood impassive and silent. "how did you make the mistake?" asked the girl, looking reproachfully first at henderson and then at rondel, both of whom were evidently astonished to find themselves at fault. "i have seen a photograph of mrs. andrew denton, taken recently, and she is young and pretty and--and--rather small." monsieur rondel cleared his throat to answer: "it happened in this way, mademoiselle: we searched one whole day in charleroi for mrs. denton but could not find her. my friends, on whom i had relied for assistance, had unfortunately moved away or joined the army. the townspeople were suspicious of monsieur henderson, who is a foreigner. we could get no information whatever. i appealed to the burgomaster and he said he would try to find mrs. denton for us the next day. in the morning came to us this woman, who said she was the person we sought. if we promised her safe conduct to dunkirk, she would go with us. she had wanted to go to dunkirk for some weeks, but the germans would not let her pass the lines. we suspected nothing wrong, for she admitted she was aware that her husband is in dunkirk, and she wanted to get to him. so we brought her to you." patsy faced the woman resolutely and said in french: "why did you wish to get to dunkirk?" "he has said it. to find my husband," replied the woman in a surly tone. "what is your name?" no reply. "answer me!" the woman eyed her obstinately and remained silent. "very well. release those children, monsieur rondel. madam, you have imposed upon us; you have tricked us in order to get to ostend at our expense. now go, and take your children with you." she pointed dramatically at the door, but the woman retained her position, only moving to cuff the boy, who was kicking henderson on his shins. then, setting her hands on her hips she said defiantly: "they promised me passage to dunkirk, and they must take me there." "who promised you?" "those men," pointing to them, "and the burgomaster." "yes," admitted henderson, "we agreed with the burgomaster to take her out of the country. we signed a paper to that effect." "but she is a belgian. and she is not the person she claimed to be." to this neither rondel nor henderson had an answer. "see here," said uncle john, "i'll untangle this matter in a jiffy. here is money; give it to the woman and tell her to get out--or we'll eject her by force." the woman grabbed the money eagerly, but after placing it in an ample pocket she said: "i will go no place but dunkirk. i will not leave you until you take me there." but here the lieutenant interfered. he suddenly faced the woman, who had not noticed his presence before, and she shrank back in fear at sight of his uniform. the boy and girl both began to cry. "i know you," said von holtz sternly. "you are the wife of a spy who has been condemned to death by both the belgians and the germans, since he betrayed them both. the last time you came to ostend to annoy us you were driven out of the city. there is still an edict against you. will you leave this room peaceably, or shall i order you under arrest?" "dog of a german!" she hissed, "the day is coming when i will help to drive you out of belgium, even as you now drive me. brave soldiers are you, to make war on women and children. guh! i would kill you where you stand--if i dared." with venomous hate she spat upon the floor, then seized her wailing children, shook them and waddled out of the room. there was a general sigh of relief. "you may return to the launch, henderson," said the captain. "monsieur rondel," said uncle john, grasping the young belgian's hand, "we are grateful to you for your kindness. the failure of your mission was not your fault. we thank you. the governor has given us our liberty and permission to travel where we please, so to-morrow we will go to charleroi ourselves to search for mrs. denton." "my motor car is at your disposal, sir, and my services." "to-morrow? oh, let us go to-night, uncle!" cried patsy. mr. merrick looked inquiringly at the belgian. "i am ready now," said rondel with a bow. "then," said patsy, "we will start in half an hour. you see, we have wasted two whole days--two precious days! i hope dr. gys will keep his promise, and that we shall find poor denton alive on our return." chapter xiv found at last the pretty city of charleroi had suffered little damage from the german invasion, yet many of the townspeople had gone away since the occupation and those who remained kept well within their houses or huddled in anxious groups upon the streets. the civic affairs were still administered by the belgian burgomaster, but the martial law of the germans prevailed over all. when patsy doyle, escorted by uncle john and accompanied by captain carg, lieutenant von holtz and monsieur rondel, arrived in the early morning, the streets were comparatively deserted. the hotel royal received them hospitably and the landlord and his daughters prepared them an excellent breakfast. while eating, patsy chatted with the belgian girls, who were neat, modest and intelligent. she found that henderson and rondel had not stopped at this hotel while in charleroi, but at a smaller inn at the other end of the town. the girls remembered hearing of their visit and of their inquiries for a mrs. denton, but did not know whether they had succeeded in their quest or not. "we have lived here all our lives," said the eldest of the landlord's three daughters, "but we have not known, during that time, any family of dentons in charleroi." patsy reflected. "they were married only five months ago, these dentons," said she, "and the young man may have come from some other town. do you remember that any of your young girls were married about five months ago?" yes; there was hildegarde bentel, but she had married anthony mattison, who was not a soldier. could the american mamselle remember what the girl's first name was? "oh, yes!" exclaimed patsy. "she signed her letters 'elizabeth.'" they shook their heads. "my name is also elizabeth," said one. "we have many elizabeths in charleroi, but none has lately married." "and her husband told me that she was now living here with her mother." "ah, let us see, then," responded another. "could she have been a lady of rank, think you?" "i--i do not know." "is her husband an officer?" "no; a private, i believe." "then we are on the wrong scent," laughed the girl. "i had in mind the daughter of the countess voig, whose name chances to be elizabeth. she was educated at a convent in antwerp, and the countess has lived in that city for several years, in order to be nearer her daughter. there was some gossip here that the young lady had married in antwerp, just after leaving the convent; but we know little of the life of the voigs because they are very reserved. two or three months ago they returned to their castle, which is four miles to the north of charleroi, and there they are still living in retirement. every day the old steward drives into town to visit the post office, but we have not seen the countess nor her daughter since they came back." patsy related this news to uncle john, who did not understand french. "let us drive over to castle voig the first thing," she said. "but, my dear, it's unreasonable," he objected. "do you suppose a high-born young lady would marry a common soldier? in america, where we have no caste, it would be quite probable, but here--" "he wasn't a soldier five months ago," said patsy. "he's just a volunteer, who joined the army when his country needed him, as many of the wealthy and aristocratic belgians did. he may be high-born himself, for all we know. at any rate i mean to visit that castle. tell rondel to bring around the automobile." they had no trouble in passing the guards, owing to the presence of von holtz, and in half an hour they were rolling through a charming, peaceful country that as yet had suffered no blemish through the german conquest. at castle voig they were received by an aged retainer who was visibly nervous at their arrival. he eyed the uniform of young von holtz with ill-concealed terror and hurried away to carry their cards to the countess. after a long wait they learned that the countess would receive the americans, but it was a full half hour after that when they were ushered into a reception room where a lady sat in solitary state. under other circumstances patsy could have spent a day in admiring the quaint, old-fashioned furniture and pictures and the wonderful carvings of the beamed ceiling, but now she was so excited that she looked only at the countess. the lady was not very imposing in form or dress but her features were calm and dignified and she met her guests with a grave courtesy that was impressive if rather chilly. before patsy had summoned courage to explain her errand a younger woman--almost a girl--hurriedly entered the room and took a position beside the other. "oh, it's elizabeth--it really is!" cried patsy, clapping her hands together joyfully. mother and daughter regarded the american girl wonderingly and somewhat haughtily, but patsy was not in the least dismayed. "isn't this mrs. denton?" she asked, stepping forward to lay a hand upon the other girl's arm. "yes," was the quiet reply. patsy's great eyes regarded her a moment with so sad and sympathetic a look that mrs. denton shrank away. then she noticed for the first time the red cross uniform, and her hand went swiftly to her heart as she faltered: "you--you have brought bad news of andrew--of my husband?" "yes, i am sorry to admit that it is bad news," answered patsy soberly. "he has been wounded and is now lying ill in our hospital ship at dunkirk. we came here to find you, and to take you to him." mrs. denton turned to her mother, a passionate appeal in her eyes. but it was some moments before the hard, set look on the face of the countess softened. it did soften at last, however, and she turned to patsy and said simply: "we will prepare for the journey at once. pray excuse us; niklas will serve refreshments. we will not detain you long." as they turned to leave the room elizabeth denton suddenly seized patsy's hand. "he will live?" she whispered. "tell me he will live!" patsy's heart sank, but she summoned her wits by an effort. "i am not a surgeon, my dear, and do not know how serious the wound may be," she answered, "but i assure you it will gladden his heart to see you again. he thinks and speaks only of you." the girl-wife studied her face a moment and then dropped her hand and hurried after her mother. "i fibbed, uncle," said patsy despondently. "i fibbed willfully. but--how could i help it when she looked at me that way?" chapter xv dr. gys surprises himself henderson was waiting with the launch at the ostend docks. lieutenant von holtz was earnestly thanked by patsy and uncle john for his kindness and in return he exacted a promise from them to hunt him up in germany some day, when the war was ended. the countess and mrs. denton, sad and black-robed, had been made comfortable in the stern seats of the boat and the captain was just about to order henderson to start the engine when up to them rushed the fat belgian woman and her two children. without an instant's hesitation the two youngsters leaped aboard like cats and their mother would have followed but for the restraining hand of captain carg. "what does this mean?" cried mr. merrick angrily. the woman jabbered volubly in french. "she says," interpreted patsy, "that we promised to take her to dunkirk, so she may find her husband." "let her walk!" said uncle john. "the germans won't allow her to cross the lines. what does it matter, uncle? we have plenty of room. in three hours we can be rid of them, and doubtless the poor thing is really anxious to find her lost husband, who was last seen in dunkirk." "he is a spy, and a traitor to both sides, according to report." "that isn't our affair, is it? and i suppose even people of that class have hearts and affections." "well, let her come aboard, captain," decided uncle john. "we can't waste time in arguing." they stowed her away in the bow, under henderson's care, and threatened the children with dire punishment if they moved from under her shadow. then the launch sped out into the bay and away toward dunkirk. three days had brought many changes to the hospital ship _arabella_. of the original batch of patients only lieutenant elbl, the german, and andrew denton now remained. all the others had been sent home, transferred to the government hospitals or gone back to the front, according to the character of their injuries. this was necessary because their places were needed by the newly wounded who were brought each day from the front. little maurie was driving the ambulance again and, with ajo beside him and dr. kelsey and a sailor for assistants, the belgian would make a dash to ypres or dixmude or furnes and return with a full load of wounded soldiers. these were the days of the severest fighting in flanders, fighting so severe that it could not keep up for long. there would come a lull presently, when the overworked nurses and surgeons could get a bit of sleep and draw a long breath again. gys had elected to remain aboard the ship, where with maud and beth he was kept busy night and day. two french girls--young women of good birth and intelligence--had been selected by dr. gys from a number of applicants as assistant nurses, and although they were inexperienced, their patriotic zeal rendered them valuable. they now wore the red cross uniforms and it was decided to retain them as long as the ship's hospital remained crowded. there was plenty of work for all and the worry and long hours might have broken down the health and strength of beth and maud had not the doctor instituted regular periods of duty for each member of the force and insisted on the schedule being carried out. this hospital ship was by no means so gloomy a place as the reader may imagine. the soldiers were prone to regard their hurts lightly, as "a bit of hard luck," and since many had slight injuries it was customary for them to gather in groups upon the deck, where they would laugh and chat together, play cards for amusement or smoke quantities of cigarettes. they were mainly kind-hearted and grateful fellows and openly rejoiced that the misfortunes of war had cast their lot on this floating hospital. under the probe of the surgeon to-day, a fortnight hence back on the firing line, was not very unusual with these brave men. the ambulances had gathered in a few german soldiers, who would become prisoners of war on their recovery, and while these were inclined to be despondent and unsociable they were treated courteously by all, the americans showing no preference for any nation. the large majority of the patients, however, came from the ranks of the allies--french, english and belgian--and these were men who could smile and be merry with bandaged heads, arms a-sling, legs in splints, bullet holes here and there, such afflictions being regarded by their victims with a certain degree of pride. dr. gys was in his element, for now he had ample opportunity to display his skill and his patients were unable to "jump to another doctor" in case his ugly features revolted them. his main interest, however, lay in the desperately wounded belgian private, andrew denton, whom he had agreed to keep alive until the return of miss doyle and her uncle. in making this promise gys had figured on a possible delay of several days, but on the second day following patsy's departure the sudden sinking of his patient aroused a defiant streak in the surgeon and he decided to adopt drastic measures in order to prevent denton from passing away before his wife's arrival. "i want you to assist me in a serious operation," he said to maud stanton. "by all the rules and precedents of human flesh, that fellow denton ought to succumb to his wound within the next three hours. the shell played havoc with his interior and i have never dared, until now, to attempt to patch things up; but if we're going to keep him alive until morning, or until your cousin's return, we must accomplish the impossible." "what is that?" she inquired. "remove his vital organs, tinker them up and put them back so they will work properly." "can that be done, doctor?" "i think not. but i'm going to try it. i am positive that if we leave him alone he has less than three hours of life remaining; so, if we fail, miss stanton, as it is reasonable to expect, poor denton will merely be spared a couple of hours of pain. get the anaesthetics, please." with all her training and experience as a nurse, maud was half terrified at the ordeal before her. but she realized the logic of the doctor's conclusion and steeled her nerves to do her part. an hour later she stood looking down upon the patient. he was still upon the operating table but breathing quietly and as strongly as at any time since he had received his wound. "this shows," dr. gys said to her, his voice keen with elation, "what fools we are to take any human condition for granted. man is a machine. smash his mechanism and it cannot work; make the proper repairs before it is too late and--there he goes, ticking away as before. not as good a machine as it was prior to the break, but with care and caution it will run a long time." "he will live, then, you think?" she asked softly, marveling that after what she had witnessed the man was still able to breathe. gys leaned down and put his ear to the heart of the patient. for two minutes he remained motionless. then he straightened up and a smile spread over his disfigured features. "i confidently believe, miss stanton, we have turned the trick! luck, let us call it, for no sensible surgeon would have attempted the thing. rest assured that andrew denton will live for the next ten days. more than that, with no serious set-back he may fully recover and live for many years to come." he was so pleased that tears stood in his one good eye and he wiped them away sheepishly. the girl took his hand and pressed it in both her own. "you are wonderful--wonderful!" she said. "don't, please--don't look in my face," he pleaded. "i won't," she returned, dropping her eyes; "i will think only of the clever brain, the skillful hand and the stout heart." "not even that," he said. "think of the girl wife--of elizabeth. it was she who steadied my hand to-day. indeed, miss stanton, it was elizabeth's influence that saved him. but for her we would have let him die." chapter xvi clarette so it was toward evening of the fourth day that the launch finally sighted the ship _arabella_. delays and difficulties had been encountered in spite of government credentials and _laissez-passer_ and patsy had begun to fear they would not reach the harbor of dunkirk before dark. all through the journey the belgian woman and her children had sat sullenly in the bow, the youngsters kept from mischief by the stern eye of henderson. in the stern seats, however, the original frigid silence had been thawed by patsy doyle's bright chatter. she began by telling the countess and elizabeth all about herself and beth and maud and uncle john, relating how they had come to embark upon this unusual mission of nursing the wounded of a foreign war, and how they had secured the services of the clever but disfigured surgeon, dr. gys. she gave the ladies a clear picture of the hospital ship and told how the girls had made their dash to the firing line during the battle of nieuport and brought back an ambulance full of wounded--including andrew denton. patsy did not answer very fully elizabeth denton's eager questions concerning the nature of her husband's injuries, but she tried to prepare the poor young wife for the knowledge that the wound would prove fatal. this was a most delicate and difficult thing to do and patsy blundered and floundered until her very ambiguity aroused alarm. "tell me the worst!" begged elizabeth denton, her face pale and tensely drawn. "why, i cannot do that, you see," replied patsy, "because the worst hasn't happened yet; nor can i tell you the best, because a wound is such an uncertain thing. it was a shell, you know, that exploded behind him, and dr. gys thought it made a rather serious wound. mr. denton was unconscious a long time, and when he came to himself we eased his pain, so he would not suffer." "you came to get me because you thought he would die?" "i came because he asked me to read to him your letters, and i found they comforted him so much that your presence would, i knew, comfort him more." there was a long silence. presently the countess asked in her soft, even voice: "will he be alive when we get there?" patsy thought of the days that had been wasted, because of their detention at ostend through colonel grau's stupidity. "i hope so, madam," was all she could reply. conversation lagged after this episode. elizabeth was weeping quietly on her mother's shoulder. patsy felt relief in the knowledge that she had prepared them, as well as she could, for whatever might wait upon their arrival. the launch made directly for the ship and as she came alongside to the ladder the rail was lined with faces curious to discover if the errand had been successful. doctor gys was there to receive them, smiling horribly as he greeted the two women in black. maud, seeing that they recoiled from the doctor's appearance, took his place and said cheerfully: "mr. denton is asleep, just now, but by the time you have bathed and had a cup of tea i am quite sure he will be ready to receive you." "tell me; how is he? are you his nurse?" asked the young wife with trembling lips. "i am his nurse, and i assure you he is doing very well," answered maud with her pleasant, winning smile. "when he finds you by his side i am sure his recovery will be rapid. no nurse can take the place of a wife, you know." patsy looked at her reproachfully, thinking she was misleading the poor young wife, but maud led the ladies away to a stateroom and it was dr. gys who explained the wonderful improvement in the patient. "well," remarked uncle john, "if we'd known he had a chance, we wouldn't have worried so because we were held up. in fact, if we'd known he would get well, we needn't have gone at all." "oh, uncle john!" cried patsy reprovingly. "it was your going that saved him," declared the doctor. "i promised to keep him alive, for that little wife of his, and when he took a turn for the worse i had to assume desperate chances--which won out." meantime the big belgian woman and her children had been helped up the ladder by henderson, who stood respectfully by, awaiting orders for their disposal. the mother had her eye on the shore and was scowling steadily upon it when little maurie came on deck and strolled toward mr. merrick to greet him on his return. indeed, he had approached to within a dozen feet of the group when the woman at the rail suddenly turned and saw him. "aha--mon henri!" she cried and made a dash toward him with outstretched arms. "clarette!" maurie stopped short; he grew pallid; he trembled. but he did not await her coming. with a howl that would have shamed a wild indian he leaped upon the rail and made a dive into the water below. even as her engulfing arms closed around the spot where he had stood, there was a splash and splutter that drew everyone to the side to watch the little belgian swim frantically to the docks. the woman grabbed a child with either arm and held them up. "see!" she cried. "there is your father--the coward--the traitor--the deserter of his loving family. he thinks to escape; but we shall capture him yet, and when we do--" "hurry, father," screamed the little girl, "or she'll get you." a slap on the mouth silenced her and set the boy wailing dismally. the boy was accustomed to howl without provocation. he kicked his mother until she let him down. by this time they could discern only maurie's head bobbing in the distant water. presently he clambered up the dock and ran dripping toward the city, disappearing among the buildings. "madam," said uncle john, sternly, "you have cost us the best chauffeur we ever had." she did not understand english, but she shook her fist in mr. merrick's face and danced around in an elephantine fashion and jabbered a stream of french. "what does she say?" he asked patsy, who was laughing merrily at the absurd scene. "she demands to be put ashore at once. but shall we do that, and put poor maurie in peril of being overtaken?" "self preservation is the first law of nature, my dear," replied uncle john. "i'm sorry for maurie, but he alone is responsible. henderson," he added, turning to the sailor, "put this woman ashore as soon as possible. we've had enough of her." chapter xvii perplexing problems although the famous battle of nieuport had come to an end, the fighting in west flanders was by no means over. all along the line fierce and relentless war waged without interruption and if neither side could claim victory, neither side suffered defeat. day after day hundreds of combatants fell; hundreds of disabled limped to the rear; hundreds were made prisoners. and always a stream of reinforcements came to take the places of the missing ones. towns were occupied to-day by the germans, to-morrow by the allies; from nieuport on past dixmude and beyond ypres the dykes had been opened and the low country was one vast lake. the only approaches from french territory were half a dozen roads built high above the water line, which rendered them capable of stubborn defence. dunkirk was thronged with reserves--english, belgian and french. the turcos and east indians were employed by the british in this section and were as much dreaded by the civilians as the enemy. uncle john noticed that military discipline was not so strict in dunkirk as at ostend; but the germans had but one people to control while the french town was host to many nations and races. strange as it may appear, the war was growing monotonous to those who were able to view it closely, perhaps because nothing important resulted from all the desperate, continuous fighting. the people were pursuing their accustomed vocations while shells burst and bullets whizzed around them. they must manage to live, whatever the outcome of this struggle of nations might be. aboard the american hospital ship there was as yet no sense of monotony. the three girls who had conceived and carried out this remarkable philanthropy were as busy as bees during all their waking hours and the spirit of helpful charity so strongly possessed them that all their thoughts were centered on their work. no two cases were exactly alike and it was interesting, to the verge of fascination, to watch the results of various treatments of divers wounds and afflictions. the girls often congratulated themselves on having secured so efficient a surgeon as doctor gys, who gloried in his work, and whose judgment, based on practical experience, was comprehensive and unfailing. the man's horribly contorted features had now become so familiar to the girls that they seldom noticed them--unless a cry of fear from some newly arrived and unnerved patient reminded them that the doctor was exceedingly repulsive to strangers. no one recognized this grotesque hideousness more than doctor gys himself. when one poor frenchman died under the operating knife, staring with horror into the uncanny face the surgeon bent over him, beth was almost sure the fright had hastened his end. she said to gys that evening, when they met on deck, "wouldn't it be wise for you to wear a mask in the operating room?" he considered the suggestion a moment, a deep flush spreading over his face; then he nodded gravely. "it may be an excellent idea," he agreed. "once, a couple of years ago, i proposed wearing a mask wherever i went, but my friends assured me the effect would be so marked that it would attract to me an embarrassing amount of attention. i have trained myself to bear the repulsion involuntarily exhibited by all i meet and have taught myself to take a philosophic, if somewhat cynical, view of my facial blemishes; yet in this work i can see how a mask might be merciful to my patients. i will experiment a bit along this line, if you will help me, and we'll see what we can accomplish." "you must not think," she said quietly, for she detected a little bitterness in his tone, "that you are in any way repulsive to those who know you well. we all admire you as a man and are grieved at the misfortunes that marred your features. after all, doctor, people of intelligence seldom judge one by appearances." "however they may judge me," said he, "i'm a failure. you say you admire me as a man, but you don't. it's just a bit of diplomatic flattery. i'm a good doctor and surgeon, i'll admit, but my face is no more repellent than my cowardly nature. miss beth, i hate myself for my cowardice far more than i detest my ghastly countenance. yet i am powerless to remedy either defect." "i believe that what you term your cowardice is merely a physical weakness," declared the girl. "it must have been caused by the suffering you endured at the time of your various injuries. i have noticed that suffering frequently unnerves one, and that a person who has once been badly hurt lives in nervous terror of being hurt again." "you are very kind to try to excuse my fault," said he, "but the truth is i have always been a coward--from boyhood up." "yet you embarked on all those dangerous expeditions." "yes, just to have fun with myself; to sneer at the coward flesh, so to speak. i used to long for dangers, and when they came upon me i would jeer at and revile the quaking i could not repress. i pushed my shrinking body into peril and exulted in the punishment it received." beth looked at him wonderingly. "you are a strange man, indeed," said she. "really, i cannot understand your mental attitude at all." he chuckled and rubbed his hands together gleefully. "i can," he returned, "for i know what causes it." and then he went away and left her, still seeming highly amused at her bewilderment. in the operating room the next day gys appeared with a rubber mask drawn across his features. the girls decided that it certainly improved his appearance, odd as the masked face might appear to strangers. it hid the dreadful nose and the scars and to an extent evened the size of the eyes, for the holes through which he peered were made alike. gys was himself pleased with the device, for after that he wore the mask almost constantly, only laying it aside during the evenings when he sat on deck. it was three days after the arrival of mrs. denton and her mother--whose advent had accomplished much toward promoting the young belgian's convalescence--when little maurie suddenly reappeared on the deck of the _arabella_. "oh," said patsy, finding him there when she came up from breakfast, "where is clarette?" he shook his head sadly. "we do not live together, just now," said he. "clarette is by nature temperamental, you know; she is highly sensitive, and i, alas! do not always please her." "did she find you in dunkirk?" asked the girl. "almost, mamselle, but not quite. it was this way: i knew if i permitted her to follow me she would finally succeed in her quest, for she and the dear children have six eyes among them, while i have but two; so i reposed within an ash-barrel until they had passed on, and then i followed them, keeping well out of their sight. in that way i managed to escape. but it proved a hard task, for my clarette is very persistent, as you may have noticed. so i decided i would be more safe upon the ship than upon the shore. she is not likely to seek me here, and in any event she floats better than she swims." patsy regarded the little man curiously. "did you not tell us, when first we met you, that you were heart-broken over the separation from your wife and children?" she inquired in severe tones. "yes, of course, mamselle; it was a good way to arouse your sympathy," he admitted with an air of pride. "i needed sympathy at that time, and my only fear was that you would find clarette, as you threatened to do. well," with a deep sigh, "you did find her. it was an unfriendly act, mamselle." "they told us in ostend that the husband of clarette is a condemned spy, one who served both sides and proved false to each. the husband of clarette is doomed to suffer death at the hands of the germans or the belgians, if either is able to discover him." maurie removed his cap and scratched the hair over his left ear reflectively. "ah, yes, the blacksmith!" said he. "i suspected that blacksmith fellow was not reliable." "how many husbands has clarette?" "with the blacksmith, there are two of us," answered maurie, brightly. "doubtless there would be more if anything happened to me, for clarette is very fascinating. when she divorced the blacksmith he was disconsolate, and threatened vengeance; so her life is quite occupied in avoiding her first husband and keeping track of her second, who is too kind-hearted to threaten her as the blacksmith did. i really admire clarette--at a distance. she is positively charming when her mind is free from worry--and the children are asleep." "then you think," said ajo, who was standing by and listening to maurie's labored explanations, "that it is the blacksmith who is condemned as a spy, and not yourself?" "i am quite sure of it. am i not here, driving your ambulance and going boldly among the officers? if it is jakob maurie they wish, he is at hand to be arrested." "but you are not jakob maurie." the belgian gave a start, but instantly recovering he answered with a smile: "then i must have mistaken my identity, monsieur. perhaps you will tell me who i am?" "your wife called you 'henri,'" said patsy. "ah, yes; a pet name. i believe the blacksmith is named henri, and poor clarette is so accustomed to it that she calls me henri when she wishes to be affectionate." patsy realized the folly of arguing with him. "maurie," said she, "or whatever your name may be, you have been faithful in your duty to us and we have no cause for complaint. but i believe you do not speak the truth, and that you are shifty and artful. i fear you will come to a bad end." "sometimes, mamselle," he replied, "i fear so myself. but, _peste_! why should we care? if it is the end, what matter whether it is good or bad?" watching their faces closely, he saw frank disapproval of his sentiments written thereon. it disturbed him somewhat that they did not choose to continue the conversation, so he said meekly: "with your kind permission, i will now go below for a cup of coffee," and left them with a bow and a flourish of his cap. when he had gone patsy said to ajo: "i don't believe there is any such person as the blacksmith." "nor i," was the boy's reply. "both those children are living images of maurie, who claims the blacksmith was their father. he's a crafty little fellow, that chauffeur of ours, and we must look out for him." "if he is really a spy," continued the girl, after a brief period of thought, "i am amazed that he dared join our party and go directly to the front, where he is at any time likely to be recognized." "yes, that is certainly puzzling," returned ajo. "and he's a brave little man, too, fearless of danger and reckless in exposing himself to shot and shell. indeed, our maurie is something of a mystery and the only thing i fully understand is his objection to clarette's society." at "le revue matin," as the girls called the first inspection of the morning, eight of their patients were found sufficiently recovered to be discharged. some of these returned to their regiments and others were sent to their homes to await complete recovery. the hospital ship could accommodate ten more patients, so it was decided to make a trip to dixmude, where an artillery engagement was raging, with the larger ambulance. "i think i shall go to-day," announced gys, who was wearing his mask. "dr. kelsey can look after the patients and it will do me good to get off the ship." uncle john looked at the doctor seriously. "there is hard fighting, they say, in the dixmude district. the germans carried the british trenches yesterday, and to-day the allies will try to retake them." "i don't mind," returned the doctor, but he shuddered, nevertheless. "why don't you avoid the--the danger line?" suggested mr. merrick. "a man can't run away from himself, sir; and perhaps you can understand the fascination i find in taunting the craven spirit within me." "no, i can't understand it. but suit yourself." "i shall drive," announced maurie. "you may be recognized," said patsy warningly. "clarette will not be at the front, and on the way i shall be driving. have you noticed how people scatter at the sound of our gong?" "the authorities are watching for spies," asserted ajo. maurie's face became solemn. "yes; of course. but--the blacksmith is not here, and," he added with assurance, "the badge of the red cross protects us from false accusations." when they had gone uncle john said thoughtfully to the girls: "that remark about the red cross impressed me. if that fellow maurie is really in danger of being arrested and shot, he has cleverly placed himself in the safest service in the world. he knows that none of our party is liable to be suspected of evil." chapter xviii a question of loyalty during the morning they were visited by a french official who came aboard in a government boat and asked to see mr. merrick. the ship had been inspected several times by the commander of the port and the civil authorities, and its fame as a model hospital had spread over all flanders. some attempt had been made to place with the americans the most important of the wounded--officers of high rank or those of social prominence and wealth--but mr. merrick and his aids were determined to show no partiality. they received the lowly and humble as well as the high and mighty and the only requisite for admission was an injury that demanded the care of good nurses and the skill of competent surgeons. uncle john knew the french general and greeted him warmly, for he appreciated his generous co-operation. but beth had to be called in to interpret because her uncle knew so little of the native language. first they paid a visit to the hospital section, where the patients were inspected. then the register and records were carefully gone over and notes taken by the general's secretary. finally they returned to the after-deck to review the convalescents who were lounging there in their cushioned deck-chairs. "where is the german, lieutenant elbl?" inquired the general, looking around with sudden suspicion. "in the captain's room," replied beth. "would you like to see him?" "if you please." the group moved forward to the room occupied by captain carg. the door and windows stood open and reclining upon a couch inside was the maimed german, with carg sitting beside him. both were solemnly smoking their pipes. the captain rose as the general entered, while elbl gave his visitor a military salute. "so you are better?" asked the frenchman. beth repeated this in english to carg, who repeated it in german to elbl. yes, the wounded man was doing very well. "will you keep him here much longer?" was the next question, directed to mr. merrick. "i think so," was the reply. "he is still quite weak, although the wound is healing nicely. being a military prisoner, there is no other place open to him where the man can be as comfortable as here." "you will be responsible for his person? you will guarantee that he will not escape?" mr. merrick hesitated. "must we promise that?" he inquired. "otherwise i shall be obliged to remove him to a government hospital." "i don't like that. not that your hospitals are not good enough for a prisoner, but elbl happens to be a cousin of our captain, which puts a different face on the matter. what do you say, captain carg? shall we guarantee that your cousin will not try to escape?" "why should he, sir? he can never rejoin the army, that's certain," replied carg. "true," said the general, when this was conveyed to him by beth. "nevertheless, he is a prisoner of war, and must not be allowed to escape to his own people." beth answered the frenchman herself, looking him straight in the face. "that strikes me as unfair, sir," said she. "the german must henceforth be a noncombatant. he has been unable, since he was wounded and brought here, to learn any of your military secrets and at the best he will lie a helpless invalid for weeks to come. therefore, instead of making him a prisoner, it would be more humane to permit him to return to his home and family in germany." the general smiled indulgently. "it might be more humane, mademoiselle, but unfortunately it is against the military code. did i understand that your captain will guarantee the german's safety?" "of course," said carg. "if he escapes, i will surrender myself in his place." "ah; but we moderns cannot accept pythias if damon runs away," laughed the general. "but, there; it will be simpler to send a parole for him to sign, when he may be left in your charge until he is sufficiently recovered to bear the confinement of a prison. is that satisfactory?" "certainly, sir," replied the captain. elbl had remained silent during this conversation, appearing not to understand the french and english spoken. indeed, since his arrival he had only spoken the german language, and that mostly in his intercourse with carg. but after the french officer had gone away beth began to reflect upon this reticence. "isn't it queer," she remarked to uncle john, "that an educated german--one who has been through college, as captain carg says elbl has--should be unable to understand either french or english? i have always been told the german colleges are very thorough and you know that while at ostend we found nearly all the german officers spoke good english." "it is rather strange, come to think of it," answered uncle john. "i believe the study of languages is a part of the german military education. but i regret that the french are determined to keep the poor fellow a prisoner. such a precaution is absurd, to my mind." "i think i can understand the french position," said the girl, reflectively. "these germans are very obstinate, and much as i admire lieutenant elbl i feel sure that were he able he would fight the french again to-morrow. after his recovery he might even get one of those mechanical feet and be back on the firing line." "he's a uhlan." "then he could ride a horse. i believe, uncle, the french are justified in retaining him as a prisoner until the war is over." meantime, in the captain's room the two men were quietly conversing. "he wants you to sign a parole," said carg. "not i." "you may as well. i'm responsible for your safety." "i deny anyone's right to be responsible for me. if you have made a promise to that effect, withdraw it," said the german. "if i do, they'll put you in prison." "not at present. i am still an invalid. in reality. i am weak and suffering. yet i am already planning my escape, and that is why i insist that you withdraw any promise you have made. otherwise--" "otherwise?" "instead of escaping by water, as i had intended, to ostend, i must go to the prison and escape from there. it will be more difficult. the water route is best." "of course," agreed the captain, smiling calmly. "one of your launches would carry me to ostend and return here between dark and daylight." "easily enough," said carg. it was five minutes before he resumed his speech. then he said with quiet deliberation: "cousin, i am an american, and americans are neutral in this war." "you are sangoan." "my ship is chartered by americans, which obliges the captain of the ship to be loyal to its masters. i will do nothing to conflict with the interests of the americans, not even to favor my cousin." "quite right," said elbl. "if you have any plan of escape in mind, do not tell me of it," continued the captain. "i shall order the launches guarded carefully. i shall do all in my power to prevent your getting away from this ship." "thank you," said the german. "you have my respect, cousin. pass the tobacco." chapter xix the capture there was considerable excitement when the ambulance returned. part of the roof had been torn away, the doors were gone, the interior wrecked and not a pane of glass remained in the sides; yet ajo drove it to the dock, the motor working as smoothly as ever, and half a dozen wounded were helped out and put into the launch to be taken aboard the hospital ship. when all were on deck, young jones briefly explained what had happened. a shell had struck the ambulance, which had been left in the rear, but without injuring the motor in any way. fortunately no one was near at the time. when they returned they cleared away the rubbish to make room for a few wounded men and then started back to the city. doctor gys, hatless and coatless, his hair awry and the mask making him look more hideous than ever, returned with the party and came creeping up the ship's ladder in so nervous a condition that his trembling knees fairly knocked together. the group around ajo watched him silently. "what do you think that fool did?" asked the boy, as gys slunk away to his room. "tell us," pleaded patsy, who was one of the curious group surrounding him. "we had gone near to where a machine gun was planted, to pick up a fallen soldier, when without warning the germans charged the gun. maurie and i made a run for life, but gys stood stock still, facing the enemy. a man at the gun reeled and fell, just then, and with a hail of bullets flying around him the doctor coolly walked up and bent over him. the sight so amazed the germans that they actually stopped fighting and waited for him. perhaps it was the red cross on the doctor's arm that influenced them, but imagine a body of soldiers in the heat of a charge suddenly stopping because of one man!" "well, what happened?" asked mr. merrick. "i couldn't see very well, for a battery that supported the charge was shelling the retreating allies and just then our ambulance was hit. but maurie says he watched the scene and that when gys attempted to lift the wounded man up he suddenly turned weak as water. the germans had captured the gun, by this time, and their officer himself hoisted the injured man upon the doctor's shoulders and attended him to our ambulance. when i saw the fight was over i hastened to help gys, who staggered so weakly that he would have dropped his man a dozen times on the way had not the germans held him up. they were laughing, as if the whole thing was a joke, when crack! came a volley of bullets and with a great shout back rushed the french and belgians in a counter-charge. i admit i ducked, crawling under the ambulance, and the germans were so surprised that they beat a quick retreat. "and now it was that gys made a fool of himself. he tore off his cap and coat, which bore the red cross emblem, and leaped right between the two lines. here were the germans, firing as they retreated, and the allies firing as they charged, and right in the center of the fray stood gys. the man ought to have been shot to pieces, but nothing touched him until a frenchman knocked him over because he was in the way of the rush. it was the most reckless, suicidal act i ever heard of!" uncle john looked worried. he had never told any of them of dr. gys' strange remark during their first interview, but he had not forgotten it. "i'll be happier when i can shake off this horrible envelope of disfigurement," the doctor had declared, and in view of this the report of that day's adventure gave the kind-hearted gentleman a severe shock. he walked the deck thoughtfully while the girls hurried below to look after the new patients who had been brought, not too comfortably, in the damaged ambulance. "it was a bad fight," ajo had reported, "and the wounded were thick, but we could only bring a few of them. before we left the field, however, an english ambulance and two french ones arrived, and that gave us an opportunity to get away. indeed, i was so unnerved by the dangers we had miraculously escaped that i was glad to be out of it." uncle john tried hard to understand doctor gys, but the man's strange, abnormal nature was incomprehensible. when, half an hour later, mr. merrick went below, he found the doctor in the operating room, cool and steady of nerve and dressing wounds in his best professional manner. upon examination the next morning the large ambulance was found to be so badly damaged that it had to be taken to a repair shop in the city to undergo reconstruction. it would take several weeks to put it in shape, declared the french mechanics, so the americans would be forced to get along with the smaller vehicle. jones and dr. kelsey made regular trips with this, but the fighting had suddenly lulled and for several days no new patients were brought to the ship, although many were given first aid in the trenches for slight wounds. so the colony aboard the _arabella_ grew gradually less, until on the twenty-sixth of november the girls found they had but two patients to care for--elbl and andrew denton. neither required much nursing, and denton's young wife insisted on taking full charge of him. but while the hospital ship was not in demand at this time there were casualties day by day in the trenches, where the armies faced each other doggedly and watchfully and shots were frequently interchanged when a soldier carelessly exposed his person to the enemy. so the girls took turns going with the ambulance, and uncle john made no protest because so little danger attended these journeys. each day, while one of the american girls rode to the front, the other two would visit the city hospitals and render whatever assistance they could to the regular nurses. gys sometimes accompanied them and sometimes went to the front with the ambulance; but he never caused his friends anxiety on these trips, because he could not endanger his life, owing to the cessation of fighting. the only incident that enlivened this period of stagnation was the capture of maurie. no; the authorities didn't get him, but clarette did. ajo and patsy had gone into the city one afternoon and on their return to the docks, where their launch was moored, they found a street urchin awaiting them with a soiled scrap of paper clenched fast in his fist. he surrendered it for a coin and patsy found the following words scrawled in english: "she has me fast. help! be quick. i cannot save myself so you must save me. it is your maurie who is in distress." they laughed a little at first and then began to realize that the loss of their chauffeur would prove a hardship when fighting was resumed. maurie might not be a good husband, and he might be afraid of a woman, but was valuable when bullets were flying. patsy asked the boy: "can you lead us to the man who gave you this paper?" "oui, mamselle." "then hurry, and you shall have five centimes more." the injunction was unnecessary, for the urchin made them hasten to keep up with him. he made many turns and twists through narrow alleys and back streets until finally he brought them to a row of cheap, plastered huts built against the old city wall. there was no mistaking the place, for in the doorway of one of the poorest dwellings stood clarette, her ample figure fairly filling the opening, her hands planted firmly on her broad hips. "good evening," said patsy pleasantly. "is maurie within?" "henri is within," answered clarette with a fierce scowl, "and he is going to stay within." "but we have need of his services," said ajo sternly, "and the man is in our employ and under contract to obey us." "i also need his services," retorted clarette, "and i made a contract with him before you did, as my marriage papers will prove." the little boy and girl had now crowded into the doorway on either side of their mother, clinging to her skirts while they "made faces" at the americans. clarette turned to drive the children away and in the act allowed patsy and ajo to glance past her into the hut. there stood little maurie, sleeves rolled above his elbows, bending over a battered dishpan where he was washing a mess of cracked and broken pottery. he met their gaze with a despairing countenance and a gesture of appeal that scattered a spray of suds from big wet fingers. next moment clarette had filled the doorway again. "you may as well go away," said the woman harshly. patsy stood irresolute. "have you money to pay the rent and to provide food and clothing?" she presently asked. "i have found a few francs in henri's pockets," was the surly reply. "and when they are gone?" clarette gave a shrug. "when they are gone we shall not starve," she said. "there is plenty of charity for the belgians these days. one has but to ask, and someone gives." "then you will not let us have maurie?" "no, mademoiselle." then she unbent a little and added: "if my husband goes to you, they will be sure to catch him some day, and when they catch him they will shoot him." "why?" "don't you know?" "no." clarette smiled grimly. "when henri escapes me, he always gets himself into trouble. he is not so very bad, but he is careless--and foolish. he tries to help the germans and the french at the same time, to be accommodating, and so both have conceived a desire to shoot him. well; when they shoot him he can no longer earn money to support me and his children." "are they really his children?" inquired young jones. "who else may claim them, monsieur?" "i thought they were the children of your first husband, the blacksmith." clarette glared at him, with lowering brow. "blacksmith? pah! i have no husband but henri, and heaven forsook me when i married him." "come, patsy," said ajo to his companion, "our errand here is hopeless. and--perhaps clarette is right." they made their way back to the launch in silence. patsy was quite disappointed in maurie. he had so many admirable qualities that it was a shame he could be so untruthful and unreliable. as time passed on the monotony that followed their first exciting experiences grew upon them and became oppressive. december weather in flanders brought cutting winds from off the north sea and often there were flurries of snow in the air. they had steam heat inside the ship but the deck was no longer a practical lounging place. toward the last of the month lieutenant elbl was so fully recovered that he was able to hobble about on crutches. the friendship between the two cousins continued and elbl was often found in the captain's room. no more had been said about a parole, but the french officials were evidently keeping an eye on the german, for one morning an order came to mr. merrick to deliver elbl to the warden of the military prison at dunkirk on or before ten o'clock the following day. while the german received this notification with his accustomed stolid air of indifference, his american friends were all grieved at his transfer. they knew the prison would be very uncomfortable for the invalid and feared he was not yet sufficiently recovered to be able to bear the new conditions imposed upon him. there was no thought of protesting the order, however, for they appreciated the fact that the commandant had been especially lenient in leaving the prisoner so long in their care. the americans were all sitting together in the cabin that evening after dinner, when to their astonishment little maurie came aboard in a skiff, bearing an order from the french commandant to captain carg, requesting him to appear at once at military headquarters. not only was carg puzzled by this strange summons but none of the others could understand it. the belgian, when questioned, merely shook his head. he was not the general's confidant, but his fee as messenger would enable him to buy bread for his family and he had been chosen because he knew the way to the hospital ship. as there was nothing to do but obey, the captain went ashore in one of the launches, which towed the skiff in which maurie had come. when he had gone, lieutenant elbl, who had been sitting in the cabin, bade the others good night and retired to his room. most of the others retired early, but patsy, uncle john and doctor gys decided to sit up and await the return of the captain. it was an exceptionally cool evening and the warmth of the forward cabin was very agreeable. midnight had arrived when the captain's launch finally drew up to the side and carg came hastening into the cabin. his agitated manner was so unusual that the three watchers with one accord sprang to their feet with inquiring looks. "where's elbl?" asked the captain sharply. "gone to bed," said uncle john. "when?" "hours ago. i think he missed your society and was rather broken up over the necessity of leaving us to-morrow." without hesitation carg turned on his heel and hastened aft. they followed him in a wondering group. reaching the german's stateroom the captain threw open the door and found it vacant. "humph!" he exclaimed. "i suspected the truth when i found our launch was gone." "which launch?" asked uncle john, bewildered. "the one i left with the ship. on my return, just now, i discovered it was not at its moorings. someone has stolen it." they stared at him in amazement. "wasn't the deck patrolled?" asked patsy, the first to recover. "we don't set a watch till ten-thirty. it wasn't considered necessary. but i had no suspicion of the trick elbl has played on me to-night," he added with a groan. their voices had aroused others. ajo came out of his room, enveloped in a heavy bathrobe, and soon after maud and beth joined them. "what's up?" demanded the boy. "the german has tricked us and made his escape," quietly answered dr. gys. "for my part, i'm glad of it." "it was a conspiracy," growled the captain. "that rascal, maurie--" "oh, was maurie in it?" "of course. he was the decoy; perhaps he arranged the whole thing." "didn't the general want you, then?" carg was so enraged that he fairly snorted. "want me? of course he didn't want me! that treacherous little belgian led me into the waiting room and said the general would see me in a minute. then he walked away and i sat there like a bump on a log and waited. finally i began to wonder how maurie, who was always shy of facing the authorities, had happened to be the general's messenger. it looked queer. officers and civilians were passing back and forth but no one paid any attention to me; so after an hour or so i asked an officer who entered from an inner room, when i could see the general. he said the general was not there evenings but would be in his office to-morrow morning. then i showed him my order and he glanced at it and said it was forged; wasn't the general's signature and wasn't in proper form, anyhow. when i started to go he wouldn't let me; said the affair was suspicious and needed investigation. so he took me to a room full of officers and they asked me a thousand fool questions. said they had no record of a belgian named maurie and had never heard of him before. i couldn't figure the thing out, and they couldn't; so finally they let me come back to the ship." "strange," mused uncle john; "very strange!" "i was so stupid," continued carg, "that i never thought of elbl being at the bottom of the affair until i got back and found our launch missing. then i remembered that elbl was to have been turned over to the prison authorities to-morrow and like a flash i saw through the whole thing." "i'm blamed if _i_ do," declared mr. merrick. the others likewise shook their heads. "he got me out of the way, stole the launch, and is half way to ostend by this time." "alone? and wounded--still an invalid?" "doubtless maurie is with him. the rascal can run an automobile; so i suppose he can run a launch." "what puzzles me," remarked patsy, "is how lieutenant elbl ever got hold of maurie, and induced him to assist him, without our knowing anything about it." "i used to notice them talking together a good bit," said jones. "but clarette has kept maurie a prisoner. she wouldn't let him come back to the ship." "he was certainly at liberty to-night," answered beth. "isn't this escape liable to be rather embarrassing to us, uncle john?" "i'm afraid so," was the reply. "we agreed to keep him safely until the authorities demanded we give him up; and now, at the last minute, we've allowed him to get away." anxiety was written on every countenance as they considered the serious nature of this affair. only gys seemed composed and unworried. "is it too late to go in chase of the launch?" asked ajo, breaking a long pause. "they're headed for ostend, without a doubt, and there's a chance that they may run into a sand-bank in the dark, or break down, or meet with some other accident to delay them." "i believe it's worth our while, sir," answered carg. "the launch we have is the faster, and the trip will show our good faith, if nothing more." "then make ready to start at once," said ajo, "and i'll dress and go along." carg hurried away to give orders and the boy ran to his stateroom. five minutes later they were away, with four sailors to assist in the capture of the fugitives in case they were overtaken. it was a fruitless journey, however. at daybreak, as they neared ostend, they met their stolen launch coming back, in charge of a sleepy belgian who had been hired to return it. the man frankly stated that he had undertaken the task in order to get to dunkirk, where he had friends, and he had been liberally paid by a german on crutches, who had one foot missing, and a little belgian whom he had never seen before, but who, from the description given, could be none other than maurie. they carried the man back with them to the _arabella_, where further questioning added nothing to their information. they now had proof, however, that elbl was safe with his countrymen at ostend and that maurie had been his accomplice. "i would not believe," said patsy, when she heard the story, "that a belgian could be so disloyal to his country." "every nation has its quota of black sheep," replied uncle john, "and from what we have learned of maurie's character he is not at all particular which side he serves." chapter xx the dunes the escape of a prisoner of war from the american hospital ship was made the subject of a rigid inquiry by the officials and proved extremely humiliating to all on board the _arabella_. the commandant showed his irritation by severely reprimanding mr. merrick for carelessness, while captain carg had to endure a personal examination before a board of inquiry. he was able to prove that he had been at headquarters during the evening of the escape, but that did not wholly satisfy his inquisitors. finally an order was issued forbidding the americans to take any more wounded germans or austrians aboard their ship, and that seemed to end the unpleasant affair. however, a certain friction was engendered that was later evidenced on both sides. the american ambulance was no longer favored on its trips to the front, pointed preference being given the english and french red cross emergency corps. this resulted in few wounded being taken to the _arabella_, as the americans confined their work largely to assisting the injured on the field of battle. the girls were not to be daunted in their determined efforts to aid the unfortunate and every day one of them visited the trenches to assist the two doctors in rendering first aid to the wounded. the work was no longer arduous, for often entire days would pass without a single casualty demanding their attention. the cold weather resulted in much sickness among the soldiers, however, and gys found during this period of military inactivity that his medicine chest was more in demand than his case of surgical instruments. a slight diversion was created by clarette, who came to the ship to demand her husband from the americans. it seemed almost impossible to convince her that maurie was not hidden somewhere aboard, but at last they made the woman understand he had escaped with the german to ostend. they learned from her that maurie--or henri, as she insisted he was named--had several times escaped from her house at night, while she was asleep, and returned at daybreak in the morning, and this information led them to suspect he had managed to have several secret conferences with lieutenant elbl previous to their flight. clarette announced her determination to follow her husband to ostend, and perhaps she did so, as they did not see her again. it was on sunday, the twentieth of december, that the battle of the dunes began and the flames of war burst out afresh. the dunes lay between the north sea and the yser river in west flanders and consisted of a stretch of sandy hillocks reaching from coxyde to nieuport les bains. the belgians had entrenched these dunes in an elaborate and clever manner, shoveling the sand into a series of high lateral ridges, with alternate hollows, which reached for miles along the coast. the hollows were from six to eight feet deep, affording protection to the soldiers, who could nevertheless fire upon the enemy by creeping up the sloping embankments until their heads projected sufficiently to allow them to aim, when they could drop back to safety. in order to connect the hollows one with another, that an advance or retreat might be made under cover, narrow trenches had been cut at intervals diagonally through the raised mounds of sand. military experts considered this series of novel fortifications to be practically impregnable, for should the enemy defile through one of the cross passages into a hollow where the allies were gathered, they could be picked off one by one, as they appeared, and be absolutely annihilated. realizing this, the germans had not risked an attack, but after long study of the defences had decided that by means of artillery they might shell the belgians, who held the dunes, and destroy them as they lay in the hollows. so a heavy battery had been planted along the german lines for this work, while in defence the belgians confronted them with their own famous dog artillery, consisting of the deadly machine guns. the battle of december twentieth therefore began with an artillery duel, resulting in so many casualties that the red cross workers found themselves fully occupied. beth went with the ambulance the first day, worked in the hollows of the dunes, and returned to the ship at night completely worn out by the demands upon her services. it was patsy's turn next, and she took with her the second day one of the french girls as assistant. when the ambulance reached the edge of the dunes, where it was driven by ajo, the battle was raging with even more vigor than the previous day. the germans were dropping shells promiscuously into the various hollows, hoping to locate the hidden belgian infantry, while the belgian artillery strove to destroy the german gunners. both succeeded at times, and both sides were equally persistent. as it was impossible to take the ambulance into the dunes, it was left in the rear in charge of jones, while the others threaded their way in and out the devious passages toward the front. they had covered fully a mile in this laborious fashion before they came upon a detachment of belgian infantry which was lying in wait for a call to action. beyond this trench the doctors and nurses were forbidden to go, and the officer in command warned the americans to beware of stray shells. under these circumstances they contented themselves by occupying some of the rear hollows, to which the wounded would retreat to secure their services. dr. kelsey and nanette, the french girl, established themselves in one hollow at the right, while dr. gys and patsy took their position in another hollow further to the left. there they opened their cases of lint, plaster and bandages, spreading them out upon the sand, and were soon engaged in administering aid to an occasional victim of the battle. one man who came to patsy with a slight wound on his shoulder told her that a shell had exploded in a forward hollow and killed outright fifteen of his comrades. his own escape from death was miraculous and the poor fellow was so unnerved that he cried like a baby. they directed him to the rear, where he would find the ambulance, and awaited the appearance of more patients. gys crawled up the mound of sand in front of them and cautiously raised his head above the ridge. next instant he ducked to escape a rain of bullets that scattered the sand about them like a mist. "that was foolish," said patsy reprovingly. "you might have been killed." "no such luck," he muttered in reply, but the girl could see that he trembled slightly with nervousness. neither realized at the time the fatal folly of the act, for they were unaware that the germans were seeking just such a clew to direct them where to drop their shells. "it's getting rather lonely here, and there are a couple of vacant hollows in front of us," remarked the doctor. "suppose we move over to one of those, a little nearer the soldiers?" patsy approved the proposition, so they gathered up their supplies and moved along the hollow to where a passage had been cut through. they had gone barely a hundred yards when a screech, like a buzz-saw when it strikes a nail, sounded overhead. looking up they saw a black disk hurtling through the air, to drop almost where they had been standing a moment before. there was a terrific explosion that sent debris to their very feet. "after this we'll be careful how we expose ourselves," said the doctor gravely. "they have got our range in a hurry. here comes another; we'd better get away quickly." they progressed perhaps half a mile, without coming upon any soldiers, when at the brow of a hill slightly higher than the rest, they became aware of unwonted activity. a trench had been dug along the ridge, with great pits here and there to serve as bomb-proof shelters. every time a head projected above the ridge, a storm of bullets showed that the enemy was well within rifle range. in fact, it was to dislodge the germans that the present intrenchments were being made; machine guns would be mounted as soon as positions had been prepared. the german bullets had already taken their toll. in the little valley a poor belgian pressed his hand against a bad wound in his side, while another was nursing an arm roughly bandaged by his fellows in the trenches. first aid made the two comfortable for the time being at least and the men were directed toward the ambulance. as they left, the man with the wounded arm pointed down the narrow valley to where a deep ravine cut through. "we were driven from there," he said. "the big guns dropped shells on us and killed many; there are many wounded beyond--but you cannot cross the ravine. we lost ten in doing it." nevertheless, the doctor and patsy strode off. just within the shelter of the ridge they found another belgian, desperately wounded, and the doctor stopped to ease his pain with the hypodermic needle. patsy looked across the narrow defile; it was a bare fifty feet, and seemed safe enough. her red cross uniform would protect her, she reasoned, and boldly enough she stepped out into the open. a cry from a wounded soldier ahead hastened her footsteps. without heeding the warning shout of doctor gys she calmly stooped over the man who had called to her. and then there was a sudden rending, blinding, terrifying crash that sent the world into a thousand shrieking echoes. a huge shell had fallen not fifty feet away, plowing its way through the earthworks above. its explosion sent timbers, abandoned gun-carriages, everything, flying through the air. and one great piece of wood caught patsy a glancing blow on the back of her head as she crouched over the wounded belgian. with a weak cry she toppled over, not unconscious, but unable to raise herself. another shell crashed down a hundred yards away, and then one closer that sent the sand spouting high in a blinding cloud. she raised herself slowly and glanced back toward doctor gys. he stood, his face ashen with fear, hiding behind the shelter of the other hill. he looked up as she stirred; a cry of relief came to his lips. "wait!" he called, bracing up suddenly. "wait and i will get you." bending his head low he sprang across the unprotected space. he stopped with a sudden jerk and then came on. "you were hit!" cried patsy as he bent over her. "it is nothing," he answered brusquely. "hold tight around my neck." "now--" another shell scattered sand over them--"we must get away from here." breathing thickly, he staggered across the open, dropping her with a great groan behind the protection of the ridge. "the man you were helping," he gasped. "i must bring him in." "but you are wounded--" patsy cried. he straightened up--his hand clutched his side--there came across his disfigured features a queer twisted smile--he sighed softly and slowly sank in a crumpled heap. a clean little puncture in the breast of his coat told the whole story. patsy felt herself slipping.... all grew dark. * * * * * it was ajo who found her and carried her back to the ambulance, where dr. kelsey and nanette were presently able to restore her to consciousness. then they returned to the _arabella_, grave and silent, and patsy was put to bed. before morning beth and maud were anxiously nursing her, for she had developed a high fever and was delirious. the days that succeed were anxious ones, for patsy's nerves had given away completely. it was many weeks later that the rest of them met on deck. "it's the first of february," said uncle john. "don't you suppose patsy could start for home pretty soon?" "perhaps so," answered maud. "she is sitting up to-day, and seems brighter and more like herself. have we decided, then, to return to america?" "i believe so," was the reply. "we can't keep ajo's ship forever, you know, and without doctor gys we could never make it useful as a hospital ship again." "that is true," said the girl, thoughtfully. "now that andrew denton, with his wife and the countess, have gone to charleroi, our ship seems quite lonely." "you see," said ajo, taking part in the discussion, "we've never been able to overcome the suspicious coldness of these frenchmen, caused by elbl's unfortunate escape. we are not trusted fully, and never will be again, so i'm convinced our career of usefulness here is ended." "aside from that," returned uncle john, "you three girls have endured a long period of hard work and nervous strain, and you need a rest. i'm awfully proud of you all; proud of your noble determination and courage as well as the ability you have demonstrated as nurses. you have unselfishly devoted your lives for three strenuous months to the injured soldiers of a foreign war, and i hope you're satisfied that you've done your full duty." "well," returned maud with a smile, "i wouldn't think of retreating if i felt that our services were really needed, but there are so many women coming here for red cross work--english, french, swiss, dutch and italian--that they seem able to cover the field thoroughly." "true," said beth, joining the group. "let's go home, uncle. the voyage will put our patsy in fine shape again. when can we start, ajo?" "ask uncle john." "ask captain carg." "if you really mean it," said the captain, "i'll hoist anchor to-morrow morning." [illustration: (from a photograph by washburne.) mnemosyne (the goddess of memory.)] memories. a record of personal experience and adventure during four years of war. by mrs. fannie a. beers. press of j.b. lippincott company, philadelphia. . copyright, , by fannie a. beers. to "the boys who wore the gray," whether the lofty or the lowly; equally to the surviving heroes who stand before the world in the light of a glory never surpassed, and to the martyrs whose patriot blood and sacred graves have forever sanctified the land they loved, these "memories" are respectfully and lovingly dedicated. preface. for several years my friends among confederate soldiers have been urging me to "write up" and publish what i know of the war. by personal solicitation and by letter this subject has been brought before me and placed in the light of a duty which i owe to posterity. taking this view of it, i willingly comply, glad that i am permitted to stand among the many "witnesses" who shall establish "the truth," proud to write myself as one who faithfully served the defenders of the cause which had and has my heart's devotion. i have tried to give a faithful record of my experiences, to "nothing extenuate nor aught set down in malice," and i have told the truth, but not always the whole truth. a few of these "memories" were originally written for the _southern bivouac_, and are here republished because my book would have been incomplete without them. i am very inexperienced in the business of making books, but relying with confidence upon the leniency of my friends, and feeling sure that i have no enemy who will savagely rejoice that i have written a book, i make the venture. contents. introductory part i. chapter i. alpha chapter ii. alabama chapter iii. buckner hospital, gainesville, alabama chapter iv. ringgold chapter v. newnan, georgia chapter vi. omega chapter vii. confederate women chapter viii. an incident of the battle of the wilderness chapter ix. fenner's louisiana battery chapter x. "bob wheat" part ii. for young people. chapter i. nelly chapter ii. brave boys chapter iii. the young color-bearer chapter iv. bravery honored by a foe chapter v. sally's ride chapter vi. high price for needles and thread chapter vii. bunny chapter viii. beauregard part iii. after twenty years. chapter i. "my boys" chapter ii. the confederate reunion at dallas chapter iii. camp nichols chapter iv. the march of time chapter v. a woman's record introductory. among those who early espoused the southern cause, few, perhaps, were more in earnest than my husband and myself. our patriotism was at the very outset put to a crucial test. the duties of a soldier and a civilian became incompatible. being in ill health, it was thought best that i should go to my mother at the north for awhile. my husband, after preliminary service with the "minute men" and the state troops, as a member of company a, crescent rifles, was, with this company, regularly mustered into the confederate service in april, , and left for pensacola, florida, where the crescent rifles, with the louisiana guards, orleans cadets, shreveport guards, terrebonne rifles, and grivot guards, were organized into the dreux battalion. it was then supposed that "the affair" would be "settled in ninety days." from my house of refuge i watched eagerly the course of events, until at last all mail facilities were cut off, and i was left to endure the horrors of suspense as well as the irritating consciousness that, although sojourning in the home of my childhood, i was an alien, an acknowledged "rebel," and as such an object of suspicion and dislike to all save my immediate family. even these, with the exception of my precious mother, were bitterly opposed to the south and secession. from mother i received unceasing care, thorough sympathy, surpassing love. during this troubled time a little babe was born to me,--a tiny babe,--who only just opened its dark eyes upon the troubled face of its mother to close them forever. the guns of sumter, reverberating throughout the north, "stirred a fever in the blood of age" and youth alike. fanatics raved more wildly than ever, while those who had hitherto been lukewarm hastened to swell the cry of horror and fury which everywhere arose at this "insult to our flag." this feeling found vent in acts of oppression, met by prompt and determined resistance, and thus was inaugurated the fratricidal strife which was for four years to desolate the land. rumors of an engagement in virginia intensified my suspense until it seemed unbearable. one day i received a kindly warning from an old friend concerning a small confederate flag which had been sent to me by my husband. it was a tiny silken affair, which i kept in my prayer-book. this harmless possession was magnified by the people of the town into an immense rebel banner, which would eventually float over my mother's house. i had still a few friends whose temperate counsel had hitherto protected me. the note referred to warned me that while i retained possession of the flag i might at any time expect the presence of a mob. i would not have destroyed my treasure for worlds, and how to conceal it became a subject of constant thought. the discovery one day of a jar of "perpetual paste" in mother's secretary suggested an idea which was at once carried out. applying this strongly adhesive mixture to one side of the flag, i pasted it upon the naked flesh just over my heart. one morning the mail brought certain news of a confederate victory at big bethel. this so exasperated the people that on their way from the post-office an excited crowd halted under my window, crying out, "where's that rebel woman?" "let's have that flag," "show your colors," etc. carried away by intense excitement, i threw open the blinds, and, waving the newspaper above my head, shouted, "hurrah! hurrah for big bethel! hurrah for the brave rebels!" a perfect howl of rage arose from below, and greater evil might have befallen but for the timely appearance of the venerable village doctor, who now rode hastily in among the excited men, and, standing up in his buggy, cried out, "friends, she is but a frail, defenceless woman. be thankful if your morning's work be not her death." slowly and sullenly the crowd dispersed, while the good doctor hastily ascended to my chamber. i lay with fevered cheeks and burning eyes among the pillows where my mother had placed me. the terrible excitement under which i labored forbade all blame or any allusion to my act of imprudence. i was soothed and tenderly cared for until, under the influence of a sedative, i fell asleep. early next morning the doctor appeared at my bedside. meantime a change had come over me. i seemed to have lost the nervous excitability of a girl and to have become a woman, full of courage and hope. dr. ---- regarded me steadily for a moment; then,--"ah! better this morning? that's my brave girl." meeting his gaze fully, i replied, "i shall try henceforth to be brave, as befits the wife of a soldier." a frown appeared upon the doctor's brow. tenderly placing his hand upon my head, he said, "my child, i fear your courage will soon be put to the test. your own imprudence has greatly incensed the town people. danger menaces you, and through you, your mother. fortunately, the friends of your childhood still desire to protect you; but your only safety lies in giving up the rebel flag which it is said you possess. give it to me, fannie, and i will destroy it before their eyes, and thus avert the threatened danger." i only smiled, as i replied: "dr. ----, since the rebel flag has existed, i have cherished it in my heart of hearts. you may search the house over; you will find no flag but the one i have here," placing my hand on my heart. the good man had known me from childhood, and he could not doubt me. he questioned no further, but took his leave, promising to use his influence with the incensed villagers. they, however, were not so easily convinced. they had been wrought up to a state of frenzied patriotism, and declared they would search the house where the obnoxious flag was supposed to be. dire threats of vengeance were heard on every side. at last a committee was appointed to wait upon "_the traitress_" and again demand the surrender of the flag. it was composed of gentlemen who, though thorough and uncompromising "union men," were yet well known to me, and were anxious, if possible, to shield me. they were admitted to the room, where i calmly awaited them. i reiterated the assertion made to the doctor, so calmly, and with such apparent truth, that they were staggered. but they had come to perform a duty, and they meant to succeed. they convinced me that the danger to myself and to the house of my mother was real and imminent, but i only repeated my assertions, though my heart throbbed painfully as i saw the anxiety and trouble in mother's face. suddenly i remembered that i had in my possession a paper which, just before all mail communication had ceased between the north and south, had been sent to me for the purpose of protection. it was simply a certificate of my husband's membership and good standing in a masonic lodge, and had a seal affixed. as i called for the portfolio, all eyes brightened with expectation of seeing at last the "rebel flag." drawing forth from its envelope the fateful document, i said, "i was told to use this only in dire extremity; it seems to me that such a time is at hand. if there be any virtue in masonry, let it now protect me and the roof which is at present my only shelter!" thus speaking, i handed the paper to one whom i knew to be a prominent mason. the certificate was duly examined and, after a short conference, returned. "we will do our best," said the spokesman of the party, and all withdrew. the day passed without further trouble, and as i sank to sleep that night there came to me a feeling of safety and protection, which was indeed comforting. weeks passed, during which i slowly but surely gathered the strength and health necessary to carry out the resolution lately formed, to join my husband, and, if might be, to labor for the cause so loved. the unceasing ministrations of my mother strengthened alike soul and body, but as i read in that dear face a love and devotion which could never fail, my heart felt many a bitter pang at the thought of the parting that must be. one evening, having found the courage necessary to tell mother of my plans and hopes, to my surprise the noble woman heard me calmly. "i had expected this," she said. "it is right--you must, go; but, oh! not now--not soon," and in uncontrollable agitation she left the room. two days later the subject was resumed. ways and means were discussed. the mother's face grew paler as that of her child brightened and glowed with returning health and hope. she pleaded to keep my little boy, but fearing lest his young heart might receive, among the enemies of southern liberty, impressions which could not be effaced, i decided that he must not be left. upon the eve of the battle of manassas we started on our hazardous journey. the utmost secrecy had been observed. no baggage could be allowed. my thoughtful mother converted quite a large sum into gold, which, stitched into a broad belt, was sewed around my waist. one bright morning mother and i, with my boy, seated ourselves in the carriage as if for our usual drive. there was no leave-taking, no appearance of anything unusual. once on the road, we were rapidly driven to a railroad depot in a distant town; there i took the train, while my poor mother returned homeward alone. arrived in baltimore, we found ourselves among those whose hearts were filled with ardent love of "the cause," and bitter hatred for the soldiers who had, in spite of their heroic resistance, so lately passed through the streets of the city on their way to subjugate the south. "the rebel" was enthusiastically received. all were ready to assist her, but at this juncture it seemed impossible to pass the federal lines. the great battle of manassas had been decided. the wildest excitement prevailed. flying soldiers were everywhere. almost every hour the sound of fife and drum was heard, as shattered regiments and decimated battalions marched through the streets. although all expression of feeling, among the citizens, was sternly repressed, the mask of sullen indifference was known to be _but_ a mask. hearts beneath were bounding with pride and joy and hope. almost without exception, houses were closed and devoid of all appearance of life. yet behind those closely-shut blinds women embraced each other with tempestuous joy, or paced the floor in uncontrollable agitation, or knelt in earnest prayer, mingling thanksgivings with agonized petitions for those whose fate was yet unknown. mothers, sisters, wives, strove, with trembling lips, to comfort each other, bidding the voice of patriotism be heard above the "tempest of the heart." in the midst of all this excitement my interests were never lost sight of. secret meetings were held, and various plans discussed. at last, one day a note was received inviting me to spend a social evening at the house of "one of the faithful." a casual observer would have discovered nothing more than a few lines of invitation, still the paper bore a private mark which made my heart beat with hope. arrived at the house indicated, where seemed to be only an ordinary gathering of friends, i found it difficult to appear at ease, and watched eagerly for developments. not a sign or a word was given, however, until after supper, when the ladies repaired (as usual) to the dressing-room up-stairs to rearrange their toilets. instead of entering with the rest, the hostess, by a slight pressure of the hand, indicated to me that i was desired to pass on and up a second flight of stairs. we did so unnoticed, and soon entered a small room in the third story, where were found waiting a few friends, among them a captain and clerk of a steamboat which was expected to leave in three days for newport news with united states troops to reinforce colonel phelps at that point. here appeared to be a chance, but a hazardous one, since the officers of the boat must not evince any interest in their passenger, and could afford no assistance or protection among the rough soldiers who would crowd every available foot of room. they must appear as good union men, engaged in transporting troops to assist in quelling "the rebellion." in case of any rough treatment of the "rebel woman," they could only appeal to the officers in charge of the troops, and the result of such an appeal, in the present state of feeling, would be doubtful. the boat was not a passenger steamer, and had only two or three small staterooms, occupied by its officers. these might be required by the military commanders. instantly, and unhesitatingly, i decided to make the trial. we ladies then descended to the parlor, while one by one our friends were conveyed out of the house. a new difficulty at once arose; a friend had applied to general scott for a pass--unsuccessfully. the precious hours were passing, and failure seemed imminent. this difficulty was increased by the fact that i had undertaken the charge of jemmy little, a boy of ten, who, having lingered too long at school in baltimore, had been cut off from his family in norfolk, and being desperately unhappy, had implored to be included in the plans formed for me. he was to pass as my brother, and, having once promised, i could not disappoint him, especially as his waking hours were spent by my side, his hand often nestling into my own, his large wistful eyes questioning my face, as if dreading to find there some evidence of hesitation or change of purpose. one day passed. at evening, as i was anxiously pacing my room, my hostess hurriedly entered, exclaiming, in agitation, "your brother awaits you in the drawing-room. i _could_ not welcome him. i _will not_ see him. only for your sake would i allow a federal soldier to cross my threshold; but he is your brother; go to him." trembling with excitement, i descended to the parlor, where i found my brother,--a mere boy yet,--wearing the uniform of a federal officer. "sister!" "charles!" each cried, and no further greeting passed between us. the boy stood with folded arms, looking proudly, yet tenderly, at me, his only sister, all the brave ardor of a soldier who believes in the cause he serves revealed in his handsome young face. i sank into a chair and covered my face, that i might shut out the sight which so pained me. the interview that followed was long. finding that my brother not only approved the determination to join my husband, but was able and willing to assist in obtaining the necessary pass, i told him of my wish to have it in possession by the next day, and received his promise to send it, if possible. he was going to "the front," and overcome by the thought that i might never see him again, i threw my arms around his neck, while tears fell fast upon the blue uniform, and so, with a last embrace, we parted. the pass, embracing "mrs. beers, _brother_, and child," was forthcoming next day, and the same afternoon i, with my boys, set forth unattended for the boat. no sign of recognition passed between the captain and ourselves as we were conducted to the upper deck, and seated under the awning. soon the sound of drum and fife announced the approach of the troops. a regiment of blue-coated soldiers appeared on the wharf, and directly they marched on board. witnessing their embarkation, i could not repress a feeling of extreme uneasiness, which increased as officers and men appeared on every side. they were so many: i was the only woman on the boat. sitting motionless, with veil closely drawn, holding my boy on my lap, while poor jemmy nestled close to my side (valiant in feeling, but of boyish appearance, and looking even smaller beside the tall soldiers), i hoped to pass unobserved, but soon after the boat left the wharf found myself subjected to rude stares and ruder remarks, and at last was forced to seek the clerk to beg that i might find shelter in one of the little state-rooms. all were taken by the officers, who seemed utterly indifferent to the forlorn condition of "madam reb." at last the clerk (after a short consultation with one kindly-looking officer, who, however, seemed half ashamed of the kindness of heart which contrasted so finely with the rudeness of his comrades) led the way to a room below,--small, and close, _but a shelter_. here he placed us, having locked us in to prevent intrusion. the boys soon fell asleep, but i passed the night in listening to the ceaseless noises outside. morning found the boat at fortress monroe, whence, after a short delay, she proceeded to newport news. under pretence of guarding well the "female rebel," the good clerk escorted us to the officers' quarters. here my pass was examined closely; many questions were asked and answered. still, the result seemed doubtful; means of transportation were wanting. the colonel in command was inclined to be suspicious and sternly unsympathetic. while standing tremblingly before those whose adverse decision would, i knew, crush all my hopes, one of the officers espied around my neck a slender black chain, and demanded to know what it held. instantly hope returned: i drew from my bosom a small case enclosing the masonic document before mentioned. as at my mother's house, it was examined and returned without comment. an hour later, however, a plentiful repast was set before us, after which a covered ambulance appeared, in which was placed for my comfort the only arm-chair the camp contained. soon, attended by an officer and a guard of federal soldiers, our little party entered upon the last stage of our journey to the confederate lines. the route lay amid scenes of desolation sadder than anything i had ever dreamed of. fields, which a few short weeks before had given promise of a rich harvest, were laid waste. here and there tiny columns of smoke arose from the smouldering ruins of once happy homes. the heat and dust were almost insufferable, but as the sun declined a cool breeze sprang up, and later a flood of moonlight clothed the landscape with a mystical beauty. it shone coldly on the few deserted homes which the hand of the destroyer had spared, and to me it seemed that its silvery rays were like the pale fingers of a mourner who places white wreaths upon the grave of love. in the soft wind i heard only moans and sighs. the children slept soundly in the straw at the bottom of the ambulance, and soon the steady, monotonous tramp of the guard lulled me also to rest. we approached the confederate lines just at sunrise. a flag of truce was unfurled, and at once answered by an officer on picket-duty. a short parley ensued. at a word of command the federal guard fell back and were replaced by confederates. a moment later, i, with my charges, descended, to be greeted with enthusiasm, tempered with the most chivalrous respect, by the "boys in gray," who proved to be members of the battalion to which my husband was attached, and who at once relieved my fears by assurances of his safety. it was a supreme moment, such as comes seldom in a lifetime, and yet a time for stern self-repression. the emotions of a heart at rest, after trials so sore, were too sacred to find expression. i gazed around me in silent ecstasy. it seemed to me that the sun had never shone so brightly, or on a scene so lovely. noting the manly faces and noble bearing of those who wore the gray, i felt that the purple and ermine of kings could not have clothed them half so magnificently. and, oh i how delicious and appetizing seemed "the rations," which, though simple, were served under those green trees with the earnest, genuine hospitality which is so well described by the term "southern." the camp being several miles distant, nothing remained but to wait patiently for some means of transportation. it was near sunset when the loud singing of a negro driver was heard. soon he appeared upon a novel conveyance,--a rough, unplaned board or two on wheels and drawn by a single ox. unpromising as this "_turnout_" appeared, we were informed that it was a "godsend," so we joyfully mounted the cart, a soldier being detailed to accompany us. my little son was made supremely happy by being invited to sit upon the lap of the driver, whose characteristic songs beguiled the way through the shadowy woods. within a few miles of camp the challenge of a sentry was heard; half an hour later we found ourselves among the tents of the dreux battalion. my husband was "on guard," perhaps thinking sadly of his absent wife and boy, certainly never dreaming they were so near. as the ambulance drove into camp it was at once surrounded by soldiers, both officers and privates. as soon as my name was known, some one who evidently appreciated the situation rushed off in hot haste to notify and relieve the soldier most interested. meantime a dozen hands clasped mine in kindly greeting. to whom they belonged i could not tell, for the dense shade shut out the moonlight, and seen by the light of the camp-fires, disguised as each one was in the rough garb of a soldier, my quondam city friends wore quite unrecognizable. i will leave to the imagination of the reader the happy meeting between long-parted ones and the many caresses showered upon our child. i had expected nothing better than to spend the night in the ambulance or under a tent, and would have taken great pride in "camping out," but the chivalrous officers in command would not hear of such a plan. their quarters (two rooms in a little log house) were instantly vacated, and i had scarcely descended from the vehicle when a negro man appeared, to bring a message. "de major's compliments, mistis, and _de room am ready_." i could not have been bidden to a luxurious apartment with more ceremony. the next morning the shrill sound of the fife and the drum beating the "reveille" aroused us, and we were up with the sun. the scene was entrancing; to me particularly so, for the white tents gleaming among the trees reminded me that i was among _southern soldiers_. as they strode to and fro with martial air, fully armed and equipped to answer roll-call, or bent over the camp-fires preparing breakfast, it seemed to me that no such splendid soldiers were ever before seen. several invitations to breakfast were received; that of the officers' mess, having been first, was accepted. major ---- came in person to escort his guests to a lovely spot near the cabin, where, under a large shady oak, upon a table of rough boards covered with a nice white cloth, a delicious meal was set, consisting of broiled chickens, omelet, fragrant coffee, buttermilk, corn bread, and batter-cakes. a likely young negro boy attended at table, industriously flourishing a green branch to keep away the flies, and seemingly delighted to show off his company manners. after breakfast i sat long upon the little gallery of the log cabin entertaining soldier visitors and enjoying the situation with all my heart. i soon discovered, however, an air of sadness and restraint which was unaccountable until my husband told me of the death of the gallant dreux, the first martyr of the war. ah! then i knew. struggle as they might, their brave hearts were wrung with anguish, for their gallant leader had succumbed to the only conqueror he ever knew. the impassioned oratory that had never failed to fire the hearts of men was hushed forever. the ardent patriotism ever prompting to deeds of daring was now only a memory. the brilliant intellect and administrative ability so early recognized, so highly valued, were lost to the confederacy. i no longer wondered that manly brows were clouded, or that the eyes of soldiers moistened, as, even amidst pleasant conversation, a sudden remembrance of their loss overcame them. for them the memory of that death-scene was fresh. the echo of his last brave words had not yet died away: "_steady, boys_, steady," as if he would have said, "let not my fate appall; _still_ do your duty." before the sun was high the ambulance reappeared to convey our party as far as williamsburg, where young little was to remain until he could hear from his father; i and my boy were to go on to richmond. my husband was granted a furlough of two days that he might escort his family as far as williamsburg. as may be imagined, the ride was most delightful. although often oppressed by thoughts of the parting hour so rapidly approaching, we were at times charmed into forgetfulness, and keen enjoyment of the beautiful scenery and the incidents of the journey. i now, for the first time, began to use from my little store of gold and silver, and it proved the "open sesame" to much enjoyment. watermelons and other fruit, roasting ears, buttermilk, etc., were purchased without stint, also a chicken. at noon the little party camped in a grove by the roadside, where my soldier-husband proudly showed off his new attainments in the way of cooking. the dinner was pronounced "just splendid" by the appreciative guests. our boy having gorged himself, fell asleep upon the grass; the negro driver was sent off to buy a few dainties to send back to friends in camp, and the two so lately reunited--so soon to part--enjoyed for the first time an uninterrupted talk relating to the adventures that each had met with since our parting in new orleans. i unfolded my plans for the future, receiving the full permission and sympathy of my husband. soon after the journey was resumed two horsemen appeared on the road coming from the direction of williamsburg. i was quite unprepared to recognize a confederate officer of high rank in either of the riders who now approached, as neither were very handsomely uniformed. the one who most attracted my attention appeared of middle age, was rather stout, of florid complexion, and (as i thought) looked very cross. he wore a sort of fancy jacket or roundabout, profusely trimmed with gold lace. "there is general magruder!" exclaimed my husband, and, as the officers came near, saluted. bringing the ambulance to a halt with an imperious gesture, the general sharply questioned him as to his absence from camp, his name, command, destination, length of time he expected to be absent, etc. i was then introduced, and began to express my pleasure at the meeting, etc. the grim visage of the general did not relax. my pleasant talk was cut short by another question, this time, of importance. i then found myself subjected to a series of questions so searching that all i had seen or heard while passing through the enemy's lines was imparted to general magruder before i quite realized the situation. what woman, denied the pleasure of talking, would not have felt and expressed, as did my discomfited self, great indignation in view of a deprivation so severe. but upon being reminded of the heavy responsibility resting upon the mind and heart of the patriot who could not withdraw his attention from the great and all-absorbing interests committed to his guidance long enough to think of, much less to practise, the amenities of life, i felt ashamed of my hasty anger, and remembered only that i had been permitted to see and converse with the hero of the battle of bethel, the first confederate victory of the war. at williamsburg, under the roof of the queer, old-fashioned, but comfortable inn, excellent accommodations were found, and here the soldier partook heartily of the "square meals" which he knew were his last for many a day. a few hours of happiness was all that could be accorded to us. a battle seemed imminent. my husband must return to his post. i, with my little boy, proceeded to richmond, where unbounded kindness and hospitality awaited me. here began the realization of the dream which had haunted me while yet compelled to linger among the foes of the south. joining at once the noble army of women who untiringly ministered to the sick and wounded, i entered upon the performance of a vow to devote myself to this work if only the opportunity were accorded me. memories. part i. chapter i. alpha. _richmond in - ._ who that witnessed and shared the wild excitement which, upon the days immediately following the victory at manassas, throbbed and pulsated throughout the crowded capital of the southern confederacy can ever forget? men were beside themselves with joy and pride,--drunk with glory. by night the city blazed with illuminations, even the most humble home setting up its beacon-light,--a sure guide to where loyal, devoted hearts were throbbing with patriotism. in the general rejoicing the heavy price of victory was for a time unheeded. but richmond had sent forth to battle her best beloved, and, alas! many were the "unreturning braves." the dazzling light fell upon many dwellings only to reveal the utter darkness that reigned without and within. no need to ask why. all knew that in each darkened home stricken hearts filled with an agony of desolation struggled in vain to remember that they were mothers and wives of heroes, but could not yet lift their eyes from the ghastly wounds--the bloody graves of their dead. ah! the lovely, joyous, hopeful, patriotic days of that summer of . the confederate gray was then a thing of beauty,--the outer garb of true and loyal souls. every man who wore it became ennobled in the eyes of every woman. these boys in gray were strangers to none. their uniform was a passport to every heart and every home. broad street was thronged with them all day long. officers of all grades rode hither and thither, or congregated on the steps of the hotels. squads of soldiers promenaded, gayly chatting with acquaintances whom they chanced to meet. occasionally the sound of drum and fife or the fuller music of a brass band would herald the appearance of a company or regiment, perhaps just arrived from some distant state, eager to reach the front. on more retired streets, at their homes, humble or luxurious, sweet young girls welcomed with kindly words and sunny smiles officers and private soldiers, extending equal courtesy to both. the elegant mansions on clay street and elsewhere were never without soldier guests. impromptu meals were served whenever needed. in elegant dining-rooms stately servants supplied the wants of soldiers. no one asked who they were, whence they came. they were confederate soldiers--that was quite enough. in the cool drawing-rooms pleasant chat beguiled the summer hours, sweet songs floated out upon the air, or the more stirring notes of "dixie" or "the bonnie blue flag," played with a spirit and vim which electrified every listener. if these warriors who lingered here could have chosen for themselves, they would never have thus quietly rested upon the laurels won at manassas. contrary to their wishes, they had been recalled from the pursuit of the flying foe and consigned to temporary inactivity. as the new companies or regiments came in they were marched into camp in the suburds or temporarily provided for in the immense tobacco warehouses which were numerous all over the city. passing one of these, at every window appeared laughing or discontented faces of soldiers newly arrived, full of ardor, ready and expecting to perform prodigies of valor, yet ignominiously shut up within four brick walls, with a sentinel guarding every door. the evening drills at the camp-grounds were attended by hundreds of ladies. so enthusiastic were these, so full of pride and admiration for the braves who had come to defend their homes and themselves, so entirely in accord with the patriotic spirit which burned in every manly heart, that not a soldier, no matter how humble, came near or passed before a group of these animated beauties who was not literally bathed in the radiance of kindly smiles,--transformed into a demigod by the light of gloriously flashing eyes. no pen can do justice to the scenes i would fain describe. language is quite inadequate to express the feeling which then lived and had its being in the hearts of all southern women towards the heroes who had risen up to defend the liberties of the south. exalted far above mere sentiment, holding no element of vanity or selfishness,--idolatrous, if you will, yet an idolatry which inspired the heart, nerved the hand, and made any sacrifice possible. no purer patriotism ever found lodgment in human breast. no more sacred fire was ever kindled by human hands on any altar than the impulse which imperatively called men from the peaceful avocations of life to repel the threatened invasion of their homes and firesides. they were actuated by no spirit of hatred or revenge (_then_). they sought not to despoil, to lay waste. but, when justice was dethroned, her place usurped by the demon of hate and prejudice, when the policy of coercion and invasion was fully developed, with one heart and voice the south cried aloud, "_stand!_ the ground's your own, my braves." swift as a meteor, yet clear and unwavering, flashed and burned the beacon-light first kindled in south carolina. a million torches lighted at this flame were borne aloft throughout the southland. and now the invader had been met and foiled in his first attempt to conquer and desolate the homes of virginia. who can wonder that their brave defenders were the idols of a grateful people? their valor, having been fully tested, had far surpassed the expectations of the most sanguine. "hope told a flattering tale." alas! _too_ flattering, for the confidence begotten by this first success inspired a contempt for the foe quite undeserved. meanwhile, the summer sun still brightened the unharmed capitol. the summer wind still bore aloft on the dome in capitol square the flag of the new confederacy, the "stars and bars." here, after sunset and in the moonlight, came young men and maidens, matrons and children. old men, too, who, baring their silvery heads to the cool breeze, gazed upward at the bonnie flag, with a look half triumphant, half sad; for the love of the "star-spangled banner" had grown with their growth and strengthened with their strength, and it had been hard to tear it from their hearts. to young eyes the new flag seemed an emblem of glory. young hearts glowed with pride as often as they looked upon it. the story of the eventful hour when it first replaced the "stars and stripes" and floated over the capitol building in full view of the whole city, hailed by acclamations from many thousand voices, is still told with pride by the citizens of richmond. the moment it was known that virginia had passed the ordinance of secession, the cheering, enthusiastic crowd which had for hours surrounded mechanics' institute, made a rush for the state-house to "haul down" the old flag, and run up the "stars and bars." upon making the attempt, it was found impossible to move the united states flag, some one having either nailed or driven it with staples to the staff. two boys, burning with zeal, started for the cupola to cut loose the flag. one of these, although a lad of eighteen, was a member of the richmond howitzers. hoping to outstrip the other, he climbed hand over hand up the lightning-rod. just as he reached the goal of his ambition, however, the staples securing the rod pulled out and the boy was left swaying back and forth in mid-air, while the crowd upon the top of the capitol and on the ground below looked on in horror. the lightning-rod was one of the old-fashioned sort, and more than an inch in diameter. one after another the staples gave way under the weight. the rod swayed gently back and forth as if uncertain which way to fall, but finally lurching towards the up-town side. every one expected that the lad would be so disconcerted and appalled when he struck the edge of the roof, that he would be unable to look out for his own safety. one of the party resolved to attempt a rescue, although by so doing his own life would be endangered. throwing himself flat on the roof like a bat, he slid down headforemost to the gutter, which, fortunately, was very wide. placing himself on his back in this gutter so as to be able to arrest the other poor boy in his fall, he waited until the lightning-rod struck the roof, then called out loudly, "let go; i'll catch you." the boy obeyed, and as he slipped down the roof in an almost unconscious condition, his rescuer in the gutter grasped and held him until he recovered his self-possession, when both pulled off their shoes and climbed the steep roof to the skylight. both boys were gallant soldiers, but perhaps neither was ever again in greater danger than when excess of patriotism cost the one that hazardous ride on the lightning-rod, the other to assume the equally dangerous but noble position of rescuer. both are still living,--veterans now. one, occupying a position of honor and of public trust, is a personal friend of the writer. to me the confederate flag was an object of profound love and passionate devotion. it represented hopes that i thought could never fail, possibilities so glorious that imagination was dazzled. i used to go to the square before sunrise, leading my little boy, trying vainly to make him understand and share in some degree my own enthusiasm, but instead he only busied himself in trying to steal near enough to pounce upon one of the many little birds flitting from spray to spray with happy songs. approaching the beautiful monument where the statues are so lifelike as to appear real companions, sentient and cognizant of one's presence, i chose always a seat where i could gaze upon the face of patrick henry, recalling his stirring words, trying to imagine what he would have thought and said now, and almost daring to wish that soul of fire might come, if only for a moment, to animate the cold form; that the silent lips might speak, the eyes look upward to where the breeze of morning stirred the sacred flag which my own heart saluted. lingering thus until the first rays of the sun came to glorify its waving folds, i drank in deep draughts of patriotism and love for the holy cause, sweet, inspiring, elevating; a tonic powerful and lasting in its effects, bracing mind and soul to persevere in the course i had marked out for myself, to tread unfalteringly a path beset by difficulties then undreamed of. not long afterward the capitol square became forever sacred to southern hearts; for here, standing upon the steps of the beautiful monument, beneath the bronze statue of george washington, the first president of the southern confederacy took upon himself the solemn vows of office, and at the same time the stirring airs of "dixie" and "the bonnie blue flag" received the stamp of nationality. ah! then how overwhelming the applause. but no one dreamed of a time in the far future when the southern confederacy should have become a thing of the past; of a time when the first faint notes of "dixie" would have power to sway the hearts of thousands, to turn quiet crowds into excited, surging masses of men who would rend the air with cheers and the dear old "rebel yell," of women who, unable to control their feelings, would testify by applauding hands, waving handkerchiefs, and streaming eyes how precious were the memories awakened. one moonlight evening i stood again before the statue of that grand patriot and statesman, patrick henry. my companions were mrs. frances gawthmey, of richmond, and commodore matthew f. maury, a man whom the scientific world delighted to honor, and of whom it may be well said, "we ne'er shall look upon his like again." when virginia cast her fortunes with the southern confederacy, he held a distinguished position under the united states government. had he sought self-aggrandizement, renown, the fullest recognition of valuable services to the government, the way was open, the prospect dazzling. but he was not even tempted. beloved voices called him,--the voices of love and duty. he listened, obeyed, laying at the feet of the new confederacy as loyal a heart as ever beat,--a resplendent genius, the knowledge which is power. in the days of my childhood i had known _captain_ maury, and had been taught to revere him. when we met in richmond, _commodore_ maury was still my friend and mentor. his kindly offices were mine whenever needed, and his care followed me through all vicissitudes, until, after many months, the varying fortunes of war separated us, never, alas! to meet again in this world. on the evening referred to above, mrs. gawthmey and myself, escorted by commodore maury, passed through the square on our way to the hotel, where we expected to meet a brilliant circle of distinguished southerners. arrived in front of the monument, we paused involuntarily. the same thoughts which had before come to me seemed to possess all our minds. mrs. gawthmey remarked, "if patrick henry had been living, i reckon virginia would have stepped out of the union side by side with south carolina." "well," replied commodore maury, "he would have acted as he thought. there would have been no 'pros and cons,' and his irresistible eloquence would have carried all before it." then baring his head, while the moonlight seemed to glorify his grand intellectual countenance, he repeated a portion of that grand oration of mr. henry ending, "give me liberty or give me death." as those immortal words fell from his lips all remained silent, though wrought up to the highest pitch of patriotic excitement. after a moment we walked on very quietly, until, passing out of the mellow moonlight, we entered the brilliantly-lighted parlors of the spottswood hotel. the hum of conversation, the sound of careless, happy laughter, the music of a band playing outside, soon brought us down from the heights of enthusiasm to the delightful realities of the present. for, spite of battle and death and perplexities, even certain trouble ahead, richmond was gay, hopeful, and "all went merry as a marriage bell." the gaunt spectres of privation, want, disease, death, of ruined homes, starving families, and universal desolation, were shadows which fled before the legions of hope pressing so gladly and gayly to the front. here in one corner laughing girls bewitched and held in thrall young soldier boys,--willing captives,--yet meeting the glances of bright eyes with far less courage than they had shown while facing the guns upon the battlefield. thrilling tales of the late battle wore poured into credulous ears: "_we_ were _here_. _we_ were _there_. _we_ were everywhere. our company accomplished wonderful deeds of valor;" and if beauty's smile be indeed a fit reward, truly these young heroes received it. our party exchanged greetings with several groups, seating ourselves at last within the brilliant circle surrounding judge and mrs. hopkins, of alabama. here were several ladies, wives of distinguished officers in the confederate service, members of the cabinet, and others, and splendid-looking officers in handsome uniforms were constantly coming and going, exchanging courteous greetings, lingering for a few moments in conversation, grave or gay. here, perhaps, a stately form strode up and down the large rooms so engrossed in thought as to be regardless of all that was passing. there, in deep converse, stood a group equally regardless of their surroundings, whose grave faces and earnest questions showed the importance of the subject under discussion. among those who upon that evening and afterward, "many a time and oft," were met together in those brilliant rooms there was not one heart untouched by the fire of patriotism,--a flame fed by every thought, word, and action, burning ever with steadily-increasing brightness. i fail to recall many of the illustrious names which on that night sounded like stirring music in my ears; but as often as memory reverts to that scene, the forerunner of repeated pleasures, i seem to feel anew the pressure of friendly hands, unforgotten faces appear through the mists of the past, still aglow with "the light of other days." judge hopkins was rather an invalid, but his high position, fine appearance, his pleasant conversational powers, marked him as one worthy of attention from all. to mrs. hopkins had been entrusted the duty of caring for the sick and wounded soldiers from alabama. two state hospitals had already been established by her, and she had full power to control all matters connected with these hospitals, except such as came within the province of the surgeon in charge. i have never seen a woman better fitted for such a work. energetic, tireless, systematic, loving profoundly the cause and its defenders, she neglected no detail of business or other thing that could afford aid or comfort to the sick or wounded. she kept up a voluminous correspondence, made in person every purchase for her charges, received and accounted for hundreds of boxes sent from alabama containing clothing and delicacies for the sick, and visited the wards of the hospitals every day. if she found any duty neglected by nurse or surgeon or hospital steward, her reprimand was certain and very severe. she could not nurse the sick or wounded personally, for her whole time was necessarily devoted to executive duties, but her smile was the sweetest, i believe, that ever lit up a human face, and standing by the bedside of some poor alabamian, away from home, and wretched as well as sick, she must have seemed to him like an angel visitant. a more decided woman in dealing with all who came within her influence or control i never knew, yet she was kindly withal, though never expecting or brooking opposition. to her husband alone she deferred in all things, and was gentleness itself. on meeting her for the first time she called me to her side, saying, in her abrupt way, "i like you, you are so in earnest; do you really mean to nurse our sick soldiers during the war, as mr. maury tells me?" i replied, as i distinctly recollect, with great fervor, "i do, god helping me." "but you are not strong enough, and you are too young." again i replied, "i feel that i am called to the work, and strength will be given me." she laid her hand kindly upon my shoulder, smiling as she said, "i may put you to the test some day; be ready." this conversation occurred on the evening of my visit to the hotel with my friends. on the way home an earnest protest against my "quixotic idea" was made by both, which ended in a truce of a few days, during which it was hoped i would repent and rescind my determination. on the corner of clay and twelfth streets stood the pleasant and commodious residence of mr. and mrs. booker. my friend mrs. gawthmey resided here, and here the greater part of my time was spent when "off duty" (of which more anon). this model virginia household was so true a type of the homes of richmond as they were at that time, that its description will present to the reader _all_, for the same spirit pervaded every one. as in almost every case, the young men of the family were in the confederate service (the sons of this household were of the richmond howitzers). the father, in feeble health, yet lavished his means and his little strength upon every patriotic duty which arose. the mother, far more youthful, active, and energetic, full of enthusiasm for the cause, exceeding proud of the brave boys whom she had freely sent out to battle, loving and serving all soldiers with heart and hand, was seconded with equal ardor and wonderful ability by her sweet young daughters. the spare sleeping-rooms were always daintily prepared, and at the service of any _soldier_ who needed care and rest. _soldiers_ feeble from recent illness were encouraged to recline awhile in restful arm-chairs in the cool flower-scented parlors, while the girls often entertained them with music or pleasant conversation. not a meal was set in that house unshared by one or more _soldiers_. the table was always as attractive as finest linen damask, elegant china and glass, and handsome silver could make it. the meals were abundant and nourishing, but plain. delicacies of all kinds were prepared constantly in that "virginia kitchen," and daintily arranged in the pantry by the ladies' own hands, but only to be sent to the sick and wounded strangers lying in the numerous hospitals. opposite to the home just described arose the spacious but unpretentious residence of president davis, the confederate "white house" (in this case only in a figurative sense, for the executive mansion was of dark brown stone or stucco). as nearly as i can remember, the main entrance was on clay street. on one side the windows opened on twelfth street, on the other lay a beautiful garden extending quite to the edge of "shokoe hill," which overlooked the classic valley of "butchertown," through the midst of which ran "shokoe creek." the boys of this region, from generation to generation, had been renowned for exceeding pugnacity. between them and the city boys constantly-recurring quarrels were so bitter that sometimes men were drawn in through sympathy with their boys. the law seemed powerless to put an end to this state of things. regular arrangements were made, definite challenges were given and accepted, and fights took place between successive sets of boys as they grew old enough to throw down or take up the gauntlet. richmond was at that time considered a law-abiding city, and had only a few policemen, whom the boys found it easy to elude. the appearance of officers chalkly and tyler, however, generally served to close the fight _until next time_. within the presidential mansion was no magnificence of furniture or appointments,--nothing in the style of living calculated to create dissatisfaction or a sense of injustice in the minds of those who, equally with their chosen leader, had already sacrificed much, and were willing to give their _all_ to the cause. no pomp and circumstance chilled loyal hearts. jefferson davis, the _statesman_ to whose wisdom had been entrusted the destinies of the south; the _patriot_ who merged his ambition, his hopes, _himself_, in his devotion to the right; the _christian_, who humbly committed his ways unto the lord, whose dignity enhanced prosperity, whose fortitude conquered adversity,--jefferson davis, the chosen exponent of undying principles, was yet in his own house simply a southern gentleman,--a kindly, genial host, extending genuine hospitality to all. of mrs. davis my recollections are very pleasant. always meeting from her a cordial reception, admiring the unaffected courtesy which put her visitors at their ease, i yet became distinctly conscious that in her the feelings of wife and mother were stronger than any other; that no matter into what station of life it should please god to call her, devotion to these womanly duties would be paramount. from the very first there was among the people of the south an earnest dependence upon god, a habit of appeal to his mercy and loving-kindness, and a marked attention to religious duties. on sundays the churches were crowded with devout worshippers. every service was attended by more or less confederate soldiers, generally in squads, but sometimes even in companies, marshalled by some of their officers. the first sunday after my arrival in richmond, kneeling in st. james's church, i heard for the first time the _changed_ prayer for the "president of the _confederate_ states and all others in authority." a death-like silence prevailed during the most solemn and impressive reading of the prayer. then from every mouth welled forth a fervent, heartfelt "amen!" the earnest, manly voices of the soldiers added depth and volume to the sound which thrilled every pulse of one's being. it did not seem to us that we were merely going through a form of prayer for one of "those in high places," but that our president was one of ourselves, and all hearts went out toward him, earnestly desiring for him heaven's choicest blessings,--the all-wise guidance he was so sure to need. scattered all over the city in many a shady nook were cosey, pleasant retreats, where wounded or sick soldiers were gladly welcomed,--private hospitals presided over by ladies, sustained by their constant attention and unbounded liberality. one lady generally had direction of the affairs of one particular hospital, assisted by others whose duties lay just there, and who devoted each in turn on successive days their entire care and attention to this labor of love. for instance, on monday certain ladies sent in all the cooked food needed by the patients. others personally nursed the sick. still others attended to the distribution of the food or superintended the servants, and so with all duties required. on tuesday another set of ladies were on duty, and so on. my whole heart and soul went out toward the sick soldiers. my days were mostly spent in visiting the hospitals. at first the larger ones attracted me, because there seemed to be so many sufferers and more need of nurses. my timid advances (never amounting to a direct application, but only a suggestion as to my qualifications as a nurse) were condescendingly smiled down by the surgeons in charge. my youthful appearance was against me. besides, there really was no need for other nursing in many of the state hospitals, notably that of louisiana, than the angelic ministrations of the sisters of charity, whose tireless vigils knew no end, whose skill and efficiency, as well as their constant devotion, environed the patients committed to their care. occasionally i was allowed the blessed privilege of fanning a sick hero or of moistening parched lips or bathing fevered brows. but somebody always came whose _business_ it was to do these things, and i was set aside. one day, however, by a happy chance, i found in a ward of one of the hospitals a poor fellow who seemed to have been left to die. so forlorn, so feeble, so near death did he seem, that my heart yearned over him, for he was only a boy, and i knew he was _some_ mother's darling. he had, like many other soldiers, been unwilling to go to a hospital, and remaining in camp while broken out with measles, took cold and provoked an attack of pneumonia. in addition to this, terrible abscesses had formed under each ear, and his eyes were swollen and suppurating. his surgeon said there was little hope of his recovery; none at all unless he could be removed to some more quiet place, and receive unremitting care and watchfulness as well as excellent nursing. "can he be removed if i promise to fulfil all these conditions?" said i. "it is a risk, but his only chance," replied dr. ----. "then i will go at once and prepare a place." as i spoke, the suffering boy grasped my hand with all his feeble strength, as if afraid to let me leave him. reassuring him as well as i could, i rushed off to the "soldiers' rest," where i knew i should find friends ready and willing to help me. my tale was soon told to the ladies in charge, who at once and with all their hearts entered into my plans. one vacant cot temptingly clean and white was moved into a secluded corner and assigned to me for the use of my "sick boy." the loan of an ambulance, readily obtained, facilitated his removal. that same evening i had the satisfaction of seeing him laid carefully upon the comfortable bed so kindly prepared by the ladies of the soldiers' rest, exhausted, but evidently not worse for the change. right here began my career as a nurse of confederate soldiers. this was my first patient,--_my very own_,--to have and to hold until the issues of life and death should be decided. all facilities were accorded me by the ladies. dr. little gave his most careful attention and his greatest skill, but the nursing, the responsibility, was mine. i may as well state that i came off with flying colors, earning the precious privilege, so ardently desired, of being enrolled among those ready for duty and _to be trusted_. my patient recovered, and returned to his command, the ---- mississippi regiment. his name was d. babers, and twenty years after the war i met him once more,--a stalwart, bearded man, as unlike as possible the pale young soldier who had lived in my memory. his delight and gratitude and that of his family seemed unbounded, and so i found the bread once cast upon the waters very sweet when returned to me "after many days." finding that my desultory wanderings among the larger hospitals were likely to result in little real usefulness, and that the ladies attached to the soldiers' rest would be glad of my help, i became a regular attendant there. this delightful place of refuge for the sick and wounded was situated high up on clay street, not very far from one of the camps and parade-grounds. a rough little school-house, it had been transformed into a bower of beauty and comfort by loving hands. the walls, freshly whitewashed, were adorned with attractive pictures. the windows were draped with snowy curtains tastefully looped back to admit the summer breeze or carefully drawn to shade the patient, as circumstances required. the beds were miracles of whiteness, and clean linen sheets, in almost every case, draped and covered them. softest pillows in slips of odorous linen supported the restless heads of the sick. by the side of each cot stood a small table (one or two old-fashioned stands of solid mahogany among them). upon these were spread fine napkins. fruit, drinks, etc., were set upon them, not in coarse, common crockery, but in delicate china and glass. _nothing was too good for the soldiers_. the school-house contained three rooms. the school-room proper was quite large, and here were ranged about thirty beds. one of the recitation-rooms was set apart for patients who might need special attention or seclusion. the other was occupied by the ladies whose duty it was to receive and distribute the delicate and nutritious supplies of food which unfailingly arrived at stated hours, borne by aristocratic-looking colored servants, on silver waiters or in baskets covered with snowy damask. during every hour of the day, gentle women ministered untiringly to the sick. they woke from fevered dreams to behold kindly faces bending above them, to feel the touch of soft hands, to receive the cooling draught or welcome food. every evening brought carriage-loads of matrons and young girls laden with flowers or fruit, bringing books, and, better than all, smiles and pleasant words. the sick soldiers were objects of interest to all. all hearts yearned over them, all hands were ready to serve them. as night came on, the ladies who had served during the day were replaced by others. no one ever failed to meet her self-imposed duties. no patient was for a moment neglected. i cannot recall the names of all the ladies who attended at the soldiers' rest. those whom i knew best were mrs. gawthmey, mrs. booker, mrs. grant, miss catherine poitreaux, mrs. edmond ruffin, and miss susan watkins. a few steps below, between ninth and tenth streets, was another private hospital, similar in almost every respect to the one just described, organized and presided over by mrs. caroline mayo. she also was assisted by several ladies, but had entire direction, and threw herself into the work with all her soul. her patriotism was boundless, her courage and endurance unfailing. not only at that time, but for three years, every hour of her time, every thought of her heart, was given to the sick and wounded confederates. sometimes, alas! the care and nursing lavished upon the sick was unavailing. death often invaded the "rest." in every case the rites of burial were accorded. women remembered tenderly the far-distant mother or wife, and therefore honored their dead. for a few days after my patient had ceased to need special nursing i continued to serve with, the ladies attached to the little hospital on clay street, still longing, however, for a larger sphere of usefulness. one morning, just as i had arrived there and was preparing to begin my daily duties, a carriage stopped at the door, from which mrs. judge hopkins descended, and, hastily entering the hospital, announced to the ladies that she had "_come for mrs. beers_." they strongly demurred, and i felt at first great hesitation in obeying so hasty a summons. but mrs. hopkins was very much in earnest. "indeed, you _must_ come," said she, "for i have great need of you. a large number of sick and wounded alabamians will arrive this morning. i have found a place to put them, but some one must be there to prepare for their accommodation, to receive hospital supplies, and direct their arrangement, while i make purchases and attend to other matters. come," holding out both hands towards me; "no _hireling_ can fill the place. come, _now_; with me: we have no time to lose." i hesitated no longer, but entered the carriage. we were at once driven down-town, stopping to order cots, mattresses, etc., then to the corner of ---- and ---- streets, where stood an immense tobacco factory, owned by messrs. turpin & yarborough. arrived here, a pitiful sight met our eyes. perhaps fifty sick men had arrived unexpectedly, and were sitting or lying about in every conceivable position expressive of feebleness, extreme illness, utter exhaustion. mr. yarborough, having given up the keys to mrs. hopkins, was impatiently pacing in and out among the prostrate men. coming upon this scene, both mrs. hopkins and myself at once realized all that lay before us, and braced our nerves to meet the emergency. the men were soon under shelter, but no beds had yet arrived. mrs. hopkins led me into the factory, introduced me to dr. clark, who had come to take charge as surgeon, and placed me under him at the head of affairs as her deputy. a corps of nurses, hastily summoned, were ordered to report to me. meantime immense boxes arrived from the depot, sent by the people of alabama. these contained pillows, comforts, sheets, as well as wines, cordials, and every delicacy for the sick, also quantities of shirts, drawers, and socks, old and new. the boxes were wrenched open, pillows placed quickly under the heads of the sickest, and cordials administered. as the beds came in they were placed, made up, and the worst cases first, others afterward, were transferred to them, until all were lying comfortably between clean sheets and clad in clean shirts and drawers. there was no lack of food, both substantial and of a kind proper for the very sick. i do not believe that a squad of sick soldiers arrived in richmond, at least during the first year of the war, who were not discovered and bountifully fed shortly after their arrival. in this case waiter after waiter of food was sent in, first from the house of mr. yarborough and afterward by all the neighborhood. hospital supplies having been ordered as soon as it was known the sick men were expected, all necessaries were soon at hand, while the boxes referred to supplied many luxuries. the large room into which all these were huddled presented for days a scene of "confusion worse confounded." the contents of two of the largest boxes were dumped upon the floor, the boxes themselves serving, one as a table for the drugs, the other as a sort of counter where the druggist quickly compounded prescriptions, which the surgeons as hastily seized and personally administered. carpenters were set at work; but of course shelves, etc., could not be magically produced, so we placed boards across barrels, arranging in piles the contents of the boxes for ready use. mrs. hopkins, sitting upon a box, directed these matters, while i had my hands full attending to the poor fellows in the wards where they had been placed. four of our sick died that night. i had never in my life witnessed a death-scene before, and had to fight hard to keep down the emotion which would have greatly impaired my usefulness. at the end of a long, large wing of the factory were two excellent rooms, formerly the offices of the owners. these were comfortably fitted up, the one as a bedroom for myself, and the other as a sitting-room and private office. a female servant was specially assigned to me, who slept on a mattress on the floor of the sitting-room, and whose duty it was to accompany me through the wards and render any special or personal service required. a long hall ran along this wing, connecting the offices with the main building. the long, broad room opening out of this hall was fitted up as a ward specially mine, for the reception of my own friends and very ill patients who needed my special attention day and night. this favor was granted me because i had shown some unwillingness to place myself in any position where i could not nurse any louisiana soldier friends or others who might desire or be permitted to come to me. as soon as matters were somewhat settled, my little son joined me in my new quarters, and thus the third alabama hospital became our home for many a month. the little fellow spent very little time there, however. my richmond friends never lost sight of me for one day during my service in that city. nearly every day my little boy was sent for to play among happy children, far away from the impure atmosphere of the hospital, which was soon filled with patients suffering from almost every form of disease. as the demand for more room became pressing, the three stories of the main building were successively utilized, as well as a large storage-room in the yard. the ground-floor contained the surgeons' and steward's offices, store-rooms, etc., while the second and third formed two immense sick-wards. the first floor of the long wing before mentioned was occupied by the kitchen and sleeping apartments for servants. mrs. hopkins and i thought exactly alike regarding the disposition of the delicacies continuously sent from all points in alabama for the sick and wounded. none but the sick should have them. nothing but the simple though plentiful rations were ever served at the meals, which the resident surgeons and druggists shared with me. yet, by the never-ceasing kindness of friends outside, i was well supplied with luxuries enough for myself, and to share with my messmates each day. having the care and responsibility of so many sick, my time was fully occupied, i seldom went out. i could not stop to talk to visitors, but often led kind ladies to the bedsides of those whom i knew would enjoy and be benefited by their bright presence and kindly words, as well as by their offerings of flowers, fruit, or dainties. amid disease and suffering, battling always with death (too often, alas! the conqueror), i was yet happy and content. the surgeons were skilful and devoted; the means at hand to supply the wants, even the caprices of my patients, as soon as expressed. i loved very dearly these heroes whom i served, and felt that i was as well beloved. welcoming smiles, eager greetings, grateful words, blessed me as unfailingly as the sunlight and dew the earth. every hour of toil brought its own rich reward. these were confederate soldiers. god had permitted me to work for the holy cause. this was enough to flood my whole being with content and deepest gratitude. next to commodore maury one of my most faithful friends was dr. little, of richmond. he was surgeon of the soldiers' rest, and also attended the sick soldiers at many private houses in the city and at some of the larger hospitals. small in stature, in extremely delicate health, he was yet a giant as far as skill and work were concerned. an earnest christian, a polished gentleman, of quiet and unassuming yet elegant manners, interesting in conversation, a true, firm friend, an unflinching patriot, what more could be added to indicate an almost perfect character? his care and watchfulness, combined with rare skill,--directed by the all-merciful father,--saved the life of my little boy, who was brought to death's door by an attack of typhoid fever during the fall of . meantime, as the months rolled on, it became evident that the victory at manassas could not be considered as a criterion of future success. everywhere there was fighting. varying fortune attended the confederate arms. _un_varying glory, unsurpassed, magnificent bravery so dazzled the eyes of the nation that none saw or admitted defeat anywhere. yet valuable territory had been surrendered. homeless refugees flocked into richmond, but even these were hopeful and defiant, almost proud of their early martyrdom, ready to serve the cause by "doing all their hands found to do with their might." if anything had been needed to inspire hope, to arouse patriotic pride, the appearance of johnston's army as it passed through richmond on its way to the peninsula to foil once more the "on-to-richmond" plans of the enemy would have more than sufficed. oh, what days were those, which came _unheralded_, to write their history in letters of fire upon the records of the city of richmond! general johnston had kept his own counsel. says pollard: "with such consummate address was this move managed, that our own troops had no idea of what was intended until the march was taken up." soldiers had been continually passing through the city, but by companies or regiments, each in its turn admired and enthusiastically cheered. now, when seemingly countless legions swept by with martial tread, their resounding footsteps and splendid appearance equally with the roll of many drums and the clash of regimental bands stirred the hearts of the multitude thronging the sidewalks, crowding every door-way and gallery, "mounting wall and battlement, yea, even to chimney-top;" not, indeed, to see a "great cæsar," but to hail with wildest delight a magnificent army, of which the humblest soldier was a "greater than cæsar," inasmuch as he was ready to sacrifice upon the altar of patriotism all that the roman conqueror held most dear first of all,--_personal ambition_. among the crowd, side by side with the ladies resident in richmond, stood mothers, wives, sisters, from other southern states, looking eagerly for the well-known uniform worn by _their own_, proudly pointing them out as they passed, even to utter strangers, sure of warmest sympathy, following them with longing eyes until they were lost to sight, hundreds, alas! _forever_. among the gayly-fluttering banners borne proudly aloft some were ragged and torn by shot or shell. as each of these appeared men shouted themselves hoarse, women drew shuddering sighs and grew deathly pale, as if realizing for the first time the horrors of war and the dangers their loved ones had passed. for several days this excitement was kept up. all night heavy artillery rumbled along broad street. at any hour of the night i could see from my window shadowy figures of mounted men, could hear the ceaseless tramp of cavalry horses. every day the sun shone upon the glittering bayonets and gay flags of swiftly-passing soldiery. the air was flooded with music until the last strain died away, and the calm which preceded a terrible storm of battle fell upon the city. the glorious scenes of the past few days had engendered a sense of protection and security. all felt that this splendid army _must_ prove invincible. in the valley of virginia brave troops under stonewall jackson were actively engaged in keeping the enemy at bay. forced marches, insufficient food, the want of tents to shelter them from the weather while they slept, continually decimated this army. the number of wounded in our wards increased daily. sick men poured into the hospital. often they came too late, having remained at the post of duty until fever had sapped the springs of life or the rattling breath sounded the knell of hope, marking too surely that fatal disease, double pneumonia. awestruck i watched the fierce battle for life, the awful agony, trying vainly every means of relief, lingering to witness struggles which wrung my heart, because i could not resist the appealing glance of dying eyes, the hoarse, whistling whisper that bade me stay,--because i must try to comfort the parting soul, must hope to catch some last word or message to comfort the loved ones at home. since then i have witnessed every form of suffering and death, but none more appalling than the fierce struggle for breath, when the lungs are filling up by sure degrees, in the last stages of the disease. never has the death angel seemed to me more merciful than when he took in his icy grasp the fevered hands wildly beating the air, closed the starting eyes, silenced the gasping breath. fortunately, i then had ample means at my command to relieve suffering, in many cases even to indulge the caprices of the sick. in this i only acted as the almoner of devoted, generous women in far-away homes, who deprived themselves of every luxury to benefit the sick soldiers. there seemed to be no end to the arrival and unpacking of boxes. to nearly every one of numberless pairs of socks and gloves was pinned a paper upon which was written some kindly message, a few words of cheer, generally signed with the name of the donor. strange as it may seem, it is perfectly true that i found among these (not once, but several times) the name of one of my patients, and at a venture bearing the article to his bedside, watched his delight, the eager grasp, the brightened eyes, the heaving breast of some poor fellow who had thus accidentally received a gift and message from his own home. although relieved of all unnecessary fatigue, having at my command nurses and servants to carry out my plans for the sick, the burden of their suffering lay heavy upon my own heart. the already full wards of the hospital now became crowded. for many of the gallant men who a few weeks before had marched so gayly to their doom were brought back bearing horrible, ghastly wounds. anxious responsibility murdered sleep. a shuddering horror, a consuming pity, possessed me as often as dreadful groans from the operating-room reached my ears. no one could have convinced me then that i should ever _get used to it_, as i _did_ later. mrs. hopkins watched over me with the tenderness of a mother. but she also had hands and heart full. her cautions, with those of other friends, bore not a feather's weight in comparison with the increasing demands of my sick. but one day i fell fainting while on duty. thus began a severe attack of nervous fever, which brought me very low. can i ever forget the tender, devoted nursing of some of the ladies of richmond! truly it seemed as if "god had sent angelic legions," whose sweet faces bent above me day after day, whose kindly voices pervaded my feverish dreams. the same care usually given to sick soldiers was now lavished upon me. after several days i was able to leave my bed, but, finding myself totally unfit for duty, and being unwilling to remain a burden upon my kind friends, i decided to go to my husband's relatives in alabama, though fully intending to return to my labors in richmond as soon as my strength should be restored. my husband having been transferred to the army of tennessee, where he continued to serve until the close of the war, this plan was changed. i have never since revisited the scene of my earliest service to the confederacy. perhaps it is as well that i did not, for memory preserves at least this one picture, more full of light than shadow, because always softly illumined by the beautiful star which had not then begun to wane,--"the star of hope." chapter ii. alabama. _"here we rest."_ the hoarse panting of the steam-pipes, the clangor of bells, the splashing of the paddle-wheels, died away in the distance as i stood upon the landing watching the receding boat steaming down the alabama river on its way to mobile. ah, how lovely appeared the woodland scenery around me! the sombre green of pines, and the equally dark though glossy foliage of oaks, were beautifully enlivened by lighter greens, and by the brilliant hues of the sassafras-tree. here climbed in tantalizing beauty--tempting as insidious vice, which attracts but to destroy--the poison-oak vine. cherokee roses starred the hedges, or, adventurously climbing the highest trees, flung downward graceful pendants. upon the edge of the bank stood a lofty pine, branchless and dead, but, by the law of compensation which nature delights to execute, clothed to the very top with closely-clinging vines of mingled green and brightest red. standing upon the bluff above the river, drinking in the beauty of the scene, listening to the murmur of waters, the song of birds, the weird music of the pines, i repeated to myself the sweet name _alabama_ with a new sense of its fitness: sweet quiet and restfulness seemed to belong to the spot. surely, the noise of battle, the suffering and sorrow i had so lately witnessed, could never invade this abode of peace. walking towards the house where i was to await conveyance to the plantation of my uncle, i heard the moaning of one apparently in deep distress. at the door the lady of the house appeared, with red eyes and a sorrowful countenance. said she, "just listen at mrs. ----. her son went off on the boat to join the army, and 'pears like she can't get over it. _she kept up splendid until after he got off_." i sat listening, not daring to intrude upon such sorrow. over the lovely landscape before me fell the shadow of the future, a shadow soon to darken every fair domain, every home in all the south. after a time the grieving mother passed out, and, entering her carriage, was driven away to her desolate home. later, i, too, accomplished the last ten miles of my journey, arriving at my destination in time for supper, and meeting with a cordial welcome from my friends. let none give undue praise to the women to whom during the war almighty god vouchsafed the inestimable privilege of remaining near the front, even though they may have endured untold hardship, hours of agony while listening to the noise of battle, fully realizing the extreme danger of beloved fathers, husbands, or sons. never until my visit to alabama had i fully realized the horrors of suspense,--the lives of utter self-abnegation heroically lived by women in country homes all over the south during the dreary years of the war. every day--every hour--was fraught with anxiety and dread. rumor was always busy, but they could not hear _definitely_: they could not _know_ how their loved ones were faring. can imagination conceive a situation more pitiable? ghastly visions made night hideous. during the day, the quick galloping of a horse, the unexpected appearance of a visitor, would agitate a whole household, sending women in haste to some secret place where they might pray for strength to bear patiently whatever tidings the messenger should bring. self-denial in all things began from the first. butter, eggs, chickens, etc., were classed as luxuries, to be collected and sent by any opportunity offering to the nearest point of shipment to hospital or camp. fruits were gathered and made into preserves or wine "for the sick soldiers." looms were set up on every plantation. the whirr of the spinning-wheel was heard from morning until night. dusky forms hovered over large iron cauldrons, continually thrusting down into the boiling dye the product of the looms, to be transformed into confederate gray or _butternut_ jeans. in the wide halls within the plantation-houses stood tables piled with newly-dyed cloth and hanks of woollen or cotton yarns. the knitting of socks went on incessantly. ladies walked about in performance of household or plantation duties, sock in hand, "casting on," "heeling," "turning off." by the light of pine knots the elders still knitted far into the night, while to young eyes and more supple fingers was committed the task of finishing off comforts that had been "tacked" during the day, or completing heavy army overcoats; and painfully these toiled over the unaccustomed task. when a sufficient number of these articles had been completed by the united efforts of ladies for miles around, a meeting was held at one of the churches, where all helped to pack boxes to be sent to "the front." i attended one of these meetings, the memory of which is ever fresh. we started from the plantation in the early morning. our way lay along the red clay roads which in many parts of alabama contrast so beautifully with the variously-shaded green of the woods and the brown carpet beneath the pines. the old negro driver, "uncle george," sitting upon the box, looked solemnly out from the enormous and stiff shirt-collar which helped to support his dignity. i believe the old man always drove his beautiful horses under protest. it was either too early or too late, too hot or too cold, the roads either too muddy or too dusty. this particular morning was so lovely that even the horses seemed to enjoy it, and for some reason "uncle george" was less pompous and more gentle than usual. perhaps the anxious faces of the ladies touched his heart, or he may have been softened by the knowledge of the perils his young masters were being subjected to. as often as we passed horseman or carriage on the road a stop was ordered, while the ladies made eager inquiries for news from richmond. the battle of shiloh, and afterwards that of seven pines, had desolated many homes in the vicinity. the fate of some was yet uncertain. strong fellow-feeling knit all hearts. _any_ passer-by, even if a stranger, asked or answered questions. a drive of eight miles brought us to the church, a simple, lowly building, the "grove church" i believe it was called. here beneath the shade were drawn several carriages, and at the door a few plantation-wagons waited, some laden with straw, others with articles to be sent off. in the vestibule, boxes were being rapidly filled. it was a busy scene, but by no means a gay one. a few unconscious children "played at party" in the pews, setting out on leaves or bits of bark their luncheon, broken into fragments, and serving in acorn cups cold water for tea. unmolested and unreproved, they ran up and down the steps of the high, old-fashioned pulpit, half-fearfully sitting down upon the minister's chair, or standing on tip-toe to peep over the sacred desk at the busy group below. young girls moved silently about "helping." over their pale lips not a ripple of laughter broke. the fire of youth seemed to have died out of their sad eyes, quenched for a time by floods of bitter tears. to kindly question one of these replied, "mamma is well, but of course utterly prostrated, and does not leave her room. papa is still in virginia nursing buddie eddie. we have no tidings of brother yet; he is reported 'missing,' but we hope he may have been taken prisoner." some familiar faces were absent. and of these it was told that one had lost a husband, another a son, and so the sadness deepened. presently the trot of a horse was heard. in another moment the good minister stood among his people. alas! he could only confirm the fearful tales of battle and carnage. but from the storehouse of mind and heart he brought forth precious balm, won direct from heaven by earnest prayer and simple faith. with this he strove to soothe the unhappy, anxious ones who looked to him for comfort. his heart yearned over his little flock, wandering in a pathway beset with sharpest thorns. but upon his troubled face was plainly written, "of myself i can do nothing." a few faltering words he essayed, but, as if conscious of the utter uselessness of any language save that of prayer, he raised imploring hands to heaven, saying, simply, "let us pray." calmer, if not comforted, all arose from their knees, and, having finished their labor of love, separated, to return to the homes which had known beloved forms and faces, but would know them no more for years, perhaps forever. upon reaching once more our own home, we crept, one by one, to a darkened chamber, where lay a martyred mother whose son had been slain at the battle of seven pines. pale as death she lay, her bible clasped to her breast, the sad eyes closed, the white lips murmuring always words of prayer for patient submission to god's will, the nerveless hands never losing their grasp upon the "rod and staff" which comforted her. of this family, every man, and every boy old enough to handle a gun, had long ago joined the confederate army. the dear boy whom our hearts now mourned had just graduated with the highest honors when the war broke out. never a blind enthusiast, but an intelligent patriot, he had been among the first to lay ambitious hopes and literary aspirations upon the altar of his country. his brothers were cadets at the virginia military institute, and afterwards did good service under stonewall jackson. our slain hero joined the third alabama regiment, and, notwithstanding his tender age and delicate health, had already made his mark as a soldier, brave as the bravest, never succumbing for a moment to unaccustomed hardship. his record as a son was all that a mother's heart could desire. he had been seen by a comrade during the terrible battle, sitting up against a tree, shot through the breast and mortally wounded. the enemy swept over the ground and he was seen no more. not even the poor comfort of knowing that his last hours were rendered comfortable or where his grave was made, was vouchsafed to this distracted mother. two more brave boys of the household were still unheard from, but believed to be unhurt, as they were not reported "dead," "wounded," or "missing." and yet the noble women of this as well as of numberless families so situated in every state of the new confederacy never intermitted, even for a day, their work for "the soldiers,"--left no domestic duty unattended to,--in many instances taking the place and doing the work of the men whom patriotism had called to the field. much as i admired and revered this "noble army of martyrs," i lacked moral courage to emulate their example. such a life of anxiety and suspense would have driven me mad. the pitiful faces of the sick and wounded haunted me every hour. i yearned to be with them. i felt sure that i was called to this work. my health being restored, i could no longer remain idle. but where to go, how to begin, i knew not. one day there appeared in the selma paper a letter from surgeon w.t. mcallister, army of tennessee, describing the dreadful condition of hundreds of sick and wounded men, who, after the terrible battle of shiloh and the subsequent evacuation of corinth, had been huddled into hospital-quarters at gainesville, alabama, and inquiring for a "lady" to assist him in organizing, and in caring for the sick. here was a chance for me. i applied for the position, and, receiving a favorable answer, proceeded without delay to gainesville, leaving my little boy at the plantation in charge of his father's relations. chapter iii. buckner hospital, gainesville, alabama. had i yielded to the almost irresistible impulse which tempted me to fly from the painful scenes and fearful discouragements which met me at gainesville, alabama, these "memories" would have remained unwritten. i had stipulated that while i would not receive compensation for nursing sick confederates, and was quite willing to live on the government rations, i must always be provided with a sleeping-room in some respectable private family, apart from the hospital. this was promised; and this arrangement continued as long as i remained at the "buckner." dr. mcallister, surgeon in charge, being unavoidably absent, i was met at the depot by dr. minor, assistant surgeon. his look of surprise, almost consternation, when i appeared gave me an uneasy sensation; but, assuming an extra amount of dignity, i calmly accompanied him to a most comfortable-looking house, where my room had been engaged. the hostess was unmistakably a lady. i met with a pleasant reception, and was soon seated at supper with several officers and their wives, during the meal i had an uneasy consciousness that curious glances were bent upon me from all sides. the evening, however, was spent agreeably. after i had gone to my room, a kind old lady came to me to beg that i would reconsider my determination to accept the position of matron, but, finding me firm and somewhat dignified, left me to my fate. the next morning, escorted by dr. minor, i went through the hospital. for the first time my heart utterly misgave me, and i felt that my courage was inadequate to the task before me. i must premise that this was not a state hospital, but under the direction of the confederate government, which, at that time, was full of perplexity and trouble, yet, like all new governments, exceedingly tenacious of forms. dr. minor told me that the time and attention of dr. mcallister had been fully occupied in untying, one after another, knots of red tape, and that, so far, perfect organization had been impossible. i entered the wards expecting to find something of the neatness and order which in the richmond hospitals had charmed every visitor. alas! alas! were _these_ the brave men who had made forever glorious the name of shiloh? hospital supplies were scarce; beds and bedding could not be often changed. here were rooms crowded with uncomfortable-looking beds, on which lay men whose gangrened wounds gave forth foul odors, which, mingled with the terrible effluvia from the mouths of patients ill of scurvy, sent a shuddering sickness through my frame. in one room were three or four patients with faces discolored and swollen out of all semblance of humanity by erysipelas,--raging with fever, shouting in delirious agony. the hospital had formerly been a large hotel, and was divided into many rooms, all crowded with sick. the wounded men who were not gangrened were carefully kept apart from those who were. some of these were frightfully disfigured in the face or head, and presented a ghastly appearance. in rooms filled with fever-patients old men and mere boys lay helpless, struggling with various forms and stages of disease, hoarsely raving, babbling sweetly of home, vainly calling remembered names, or lying in the fatal stupor which precedes death. although many convalescents paced gloomily up and down the halls, or lounged upon the spacious galleries, i noticed few male nurses. perhaps half a dozen women met us at the doors of different wards, jauntily dressed, airily "showing off" their patients, and discoursing of their condition and probable chances of life, in a manner utterly revolting to me. i caught many a glance of disgust bent upon them by the poor fellows who were thus treated as if they were stocks or stones. these women were, while under the eye of the surgeon, obsequious and eager to please, but i thought i saw the "lurking devil in their eyes," and felt sure they meant mischief. dr. mcallister arrived that night. the next morning i was regularly installed. but i could not help feeling that there was a reservation of power and authority, a doubt of my capacity, due to my youthful appearance. very helpless and friendless i felt, as, escorted by the "surgeon in charge," i once more made the rounds. he left me at the door of one of the fever-wards. this i entered, and stood for a moment looking upon the scene of suffering humanity, wondering how and where to begin the work of alleviation. suddenly a faint voice called "milly! _oh_, milly!" i turned to meet a pair of blue eyes regarding me with a look of pleased recognition, although it was at once evident that i had been mistaken for some "loved one at home" through the delirium of fever. humoring the fancy, i stepped to his bedside and gave my hand to the hot clasp of the poor fellow, a man of middle age, whose eyes, fever-bright, still devoured my face with a happy look. "howdy, milly! i've been looking for you every day. i'm mighty glad you've come. the roar of the guns has hurt my head _powerful_. get some water from the far spring and bathe my head, milly." it so happened that one of his own company, of some georgia regiment, a convalescent, had by his own request been detailed to nurse the sick man. he soon brought me water, and i bathed the hot head, face, and hands, until the patient fell asleep. this little incident encouraged me greatly. passing on among the sick, i found no lack of work, but sadly missed the facilities, comforts, and luxuries which in richmond had been always at my command. lest it seem strange that such a state of things should have existed, i will here ask the reader to remember that military movements of tremendous importance were then taking place. an immense army was executing, "with admirable skill and precision," a change of base. upon this army depended the destinies of a large portion of the confederacy. means of transportation for the troops and their military supplies, including, as an important precautionary measure, medical stores, became an imperative necessity. the wounded and sick had also been moved, and at least placed under shelter. surgeons, however, were unable to obtain either suitable diet or needed medicines. requisitions failed to be promptly filled, and hence the state of things i have tried to describe. dr. mcallister was absent most of the time in the interests of the unfortunates under his charge. meantime, i struggled to perform my duties among the sick, and to exert authority, of which, as i soon discovered, i possessed but the semblance. nothing was left undone by the women before referred to to thwart and annoy me. they had evidently determined i should not remain there. i had ample evidence that they were neglectful and unscrupulous in their dealings with the patients. in one of the rooms, separated from the other patients, i found a man who had been brought in several days before, suffering from excessive drinking. not being able to obtain whiskey, he had managed to get hold of a bottle of turpentine emulsion from a table in the hall, and had drank the whole. dr. minor and i worked for hours with this unfortunate and hoped he would recover, but other patients required looking after, and during my absence whiskey was smuggled in to him, of which he partook freely. after that, nothing could save his life. a patient suffering agonies from gastritis was also placed under my special charge. i was to feed him myself, and avoid giving water, except in the smallest quantities. i did my best, but he grew worse, and just in time i found under his pillow a canteen full of water, which had been procured for him by the woman who attended in his ward. if i called for a basin of water to wash the face and hands of neglected men, one of these women would laugh insultingly and say, "perhaps ye'll wait till i get a nagur to bring it to you, or a silver waiter." they would insist that the surgeon had ordered them to do this or that, and stop to argue against my directions, until i was fain to save the sick further noise and clamor by leaving the ward. not wishing to begin my work by complaining, or reporting to the surgeons these daily-recurring annoyances, i struggled to hold my own and to break down opposition by patient endurance. but one morning the "last straw" was added to my burden. i found my georgia soldier apparently dying,--breathing heavily, and as cold as death already. his comrade was in great distress, but ready to do all in his power, and together we went to work in earnest. i sent for brandy and a box of mustard. pouring through the white lips spoonful after spoonful of the stimulant, rubbing hands, arms, and legs with mustard, applying plasters of the same, as well as bottles of water, to restore warmth to the body, i soon had the satisfaction of seeing a faint color tinge the cheeks and lips,--the clammy sweat superseded by returning warmth. working earnestly, thinking of nothing but the human life that hung in the balance, i failed to observe the presence of the most disagreeable of the female nurses, who was standing, with "arms akimbo," looking on, until, with an insulting leer, she remarked, "it seems to me ye're taking great liberties _for an honest woman_." paralyzed with surprise and indignation, i knew not how to act. just then the surgeon in charge of the ward, who had been summoned, appeared. after a hasty examination, "madam," said he, "you have saved your patient." leaving the case in his hands, i fled to my room, resolving never to enter the hospital again. forthwith i wrote my resignation, and demanded transportation back to alabama. meantime, the comrade of the sick man had reported to the surgeon the whole matter. the next morning i received a visit from surgeons mcallister, minor, and ---- (whose name i am sorry to have forgotten), of the ward i had fled from. a letter had been received from dr. little, of richmond, whose name i had given as reference. the ill behavior of the nurses having come to the knowledge of the surgeon in charge, he at once acted with his usual promptness and decision. the obnoxious women had already been discharged and furnished with transportation to mobile; the men who had aided and abetted them were ordered to their regiments. i was urged to remain, on my own terms, and offered a position of trust, responsibility, and honor,--my authority to be second only to that of surgeon in charge in general matters; in the wards, to that of the ward surgeons. under these circumstances i could not refuse to withdraw my resignation. the next day the work of reorganization commenced. then and there i was invested with full power and authority, and received from dr. mcallister assurances of entire confidence and thorough co-operation, which were accorded in the highest degree during the whole term of my service in the buckner hospital, and the prestige of which gave me great advantages in other fields of labor. aside from profoundest love of "the cause," and (as i firmly believed) the inspiration which directed my efforts to serve it, i had nothing to offer. "with all my soul, with all my heart, with all my strength," i was ready to serve; but this would have availed little had not my right to do so been officially acknowledged, had i not acquired power to follow out the dictates of reason and heart for the benefit of my patients. as the organization begun at gainesville, and the rules and regulations then adopted, were fully perfected soon after we reached the next "post," and remained in full force as long as the buckner hospital existed, it may be as well to briefly describe them here. convalescents were turned over to the steward, and their meals were attended to by him and his assistants. i had only to see that their mess-room was kept in order and that their rations were cooked to the best advantage. for the sick i had my own kitchen, my own cooks and other servants, my own store-room, also liberty to send out foragers. every morning i sent to each surgeon a list of such diet as i could command for the sick. with this in hand he was able to decide upon the proper food for each patient. each bed was numbered. the head-nurse kept a small book, into which he copied each day's diet-list. he was also expected to have ready every morning a fresh piece of paper, upon which the surgeon wrote the numbers of the beds, and opposite, f.d., h.d., l.d., v.l.d., or s.d. (full diet, half diet, light diet, very light diet, and special diet). if special directions were needed, the surgeon brought the list to my business-room. if not, it was left with the head-nurse, and when i made my own rounds it would be my guide in consulting the tastes of the patients themselves as to the kind of food they preferred and its preparation. of all this i made notes. i made it a point to feed the very ill patients myself. others wore served from a distributing-room, where at regular meal-times i always presided, sitting at the end of a long table, having a pile of tin numbers before me corresponding to the numbers on the beds in the wards. there was an under-steward whose business it was to supply the plates; also two helpers. the head-nurse from ward no. having come down with his subordinates would call out, "no. , full diet," or as the case might be. as the plate was filled, i handed out the corresponding number, which was put upon the plate. the plates having been placed upon large wooden trays, were carried off to the ward. then came no. , and so on, all the special patients having been attended to previously. everything relating to the bedding, clothing, and the personal belongings of the sick and wounded i found in a fearful state. in one room down-stairs perhaps two or three hundred knapsacks, haversacks, canteens, etc., were thrown upon the floor in large piles. no one knew to whom they belonged, no one seemed to care, and it appeared to me _impossible_ to bring any degree of order out of the chaotic mass of wet, half-dry, rough-dry, in some cases mildewed clothing lying everywhere about. prompt measures were taken with the washerwoman, which resulted, in a day or two, in a procession of darkies, each bearing a pile of clothing embracing almost every article of men's apparel. a "linen master" having been detailed, a "linen-room" set apart and shelved, the articles were placed upon large tables to be sorted and piled upon the shelves, ready for reclamation by the convalescents and others who were not too ill to identify their own. some of these clothes were torn and buttonless. my detailed men could not sew. the demands of the sick and the duties of general supervision left me no time. taught by my experience of the devoted women of virginia and alabama, i resolved to visit some of the ladies of gainesville, and to solicit their aid. the response was hearty and immediate. next day the linen-room was peopled by bright, energetic ladies, at whose hands the convalescents received their renovated garments with words of warm sympathy and encouragement that cheered their hearts. the lack of clean bedding being made known, these generous, patriotic women sent in soft, clean old sheets, pillow-slips, etc., also a few old shirts,--some of them even bearing with me the horrors of the scurvy and gangrene wards to assist in making the sufferers more comfortable. details for all purposes were made as soon as i asked for them, and as "many hands make light work," order and system began to pervade all departments. a baggage-master, with several temporary assistants, found work for several days in disposing of the knapsacks, haversacks, blankets, etc. as fast as they were claimed, they were ticketed with the number of the ward and bed of the claimant, and piled away to await his return to his regiment. those unreclaimed and known to have belonged to the dead were labelled as far as possible with the name and date of death, company, and regiment, and stored until friends should come or write for them. the work of organization was not nearly complete, when dr. mcallister received orders to report with his hospital staff at ringgold, georgia. the sick were to be removed elsewhere,--at any rate were not to accompany us. hospital stores would be supplied at ringgold. the doctor and his attendants awaited transportation, which seemed difficult to obtain. many bodies of soldiers crowded every train,--passenger, freight, and even cattle cars. dr. mcallister decided to send his wife and myself by private conveyance to marion, alabama, to remain there until we should receive final directions. two servants belonging to mrs. mcallister accompanied us. our kind hostess had put up a basket of provisions. i took a sad leave of the patients who had become so dear to me, and one bright morning we drove rapidly out of gainesville on our way to marion. the ride was a perfect delight, over excellent roads, or through aisles of the forest, where the healthful odor of the pines perfumed the air, and myriads of birds made sweetest music. stopping beside some sparkling spring to lunch and dine, chatting gayly all day, growing thoughtful and silent, as, borne upon the breeze of evening, there came to us the whispering voices of memory, renewing the sorrow of parting, awakening afresh anxious fears for the absent. we slept at any house along the road where night overtook us, always expecting and finding a welcome. in these homes, as everywhere else over the south, sorrow and care had taken up their abode. haggard, weary-looking women, from whose hearts and homes joy had departed with the dear ones who had gone forth to battle, plied us with eager questions. we related to them all we knew of military movements. but it was very little, and we could give them no tidings of their own. the third day brought us to marion, where, at the pleasant home of mrs. mcallister, we awaited further orders. i have very pleasant recollections of marion, and of the elegant homes where i was so delightfully entertained. but already love for my chosen work had reached (so people told me) the height of infatuation. between me and every offered pleasure appeared the pale, reproachful faces of the suffering soldiers. my place was beside them, and i longed for the summons. a letter from dr. mcallister to his wife announced the establishment of a hospital post in ringgold, georgia, but counselled our waiting until "things could be straightened out." i _could not_ wait, so left the same evening, arriving in time to organize my own department, which, as the assistants had not been changed, and fell easily into their places, was not so difficult as at gainesville. besides, we received a fair supply of hospital stores, and were enabled to make patients very comfortable. chapter iv. ringgold. the hospitals established at ringgold, georgia, early in the fall of , received the wounded and the not less serious cases of typhoid fever, typhoid pneumonia, dysentery, and scurvy resulting from almost unparalleled fatigue, exposure, and every kind of hardship incident to bragg's retreat from kentucky. these sick men were no shirkers, but soldiers brave and true, who, knowing their duty, had performed it faithfully, until little remained to them but the patriot hearts beating almost too feebly to keep soul and body together. the court-house, one church, warehouses, stores, and hotels were converted into hospitals. row after row of beds filled every ward. upon them lay wrecks of humanity, pale as the dead, with sunken eyes, hollow cheeks and temples, long, claw-like hands. oh, those poor, weak, nerveless hands used to seem to me more pitiful than all; and when i remembered all they had achieved and how they had lost their firm, sinewy proportions, their strong grasp, my heart swelled with pity and with passionate devotion. often i felt as if i could have held these cold hands to my heart for warmth, and given of my own warm blood to fill those flaccid veins. every train brought in squads of just such poor fellows as i have tried to describe. how well i remember them toiling painfully from the depot to report at the surgeon's office, then, after being relieved of their accoutrements, tottering with trembling limbs to the beds from which, perhaps, they would never more arise. this hospital-post, as nearly as i remember, comprised only two hospitals, the bragg and the buckner. of the bragg, dr. s.m. bemiss was surgeon in charge; assistant surgeons, gore, of kentucky; hewes, of louisville, kentucky; welford, of virginia; redwood, of mobile, alabama, and some others whose names i cannot now recall. dr. w.t. mcallister was surgeon in charge of the buckner. of the assistant surgeons i can only remember dr. w.s. lee, then of florida, now a successful practitioner and an honored citizen of dallas, texas; dr. r.d. jackson, of selma, alabama, who since the war has lived a well-beloved physician and druggist in summerfield, alabama; dr. reese, also of alabama, and dr. yates, of texas, now dead. for a few months dr. francis thornton, of kentucky, was surgeon of the post. he was a fiery, impetuous, _manly man_, a rigid disciplinarian, but always compelled to fight against the dictates of his large, warm heart when duty compelled him to execute severe justice. mrs. thornton was one of the most lovable women i ever knew; impulsive and earnest in her friendship, of a sunny, cheerful temperament seldom clouded. her pride in her husband and her happiness in being with him was pleasant to see. while she remained in ringgold we were warm friends. to her thoughtful kindness i owed many an indulgence in dainties not supplied by the confederate government. my room was in the same house where the surgeons and their wives were boarding. often returning late from the hospital, weary and dispirited, her sweet voice would "_halt_" me at the foot of the stairs, a kindly arm impelling me to her cheerful room, where a cup of tea and a nice little supper was in readiness, made far more enjoyable by her loving service and pleasant talk so full of cheer. the other ladies were just as kind-hearted, but none had the sweet, winning grace that characterized mrs. thornton, except, perhaps, mrs. lee, wife of the surgeon above mentioned. she was also one of the dearest and kindest of friends. my enthusiasm in regard to mrs. lee was almost like that of a lover. she was a beautiful woman, tall, majestic, graceful, towards the world at large dignified and, perhaps, a little reticent; to those whom she honored with her love or friendship, irresistibly fascinating. her eyes were--not magnificent, but just "the sweetest ever seen," and combined with a perfect mouth to make her smile a caress. in addition, rare intelligence and fine conversational powers rendered her a delightful companion. dr. lee was by birth a south carolinian, a polished gentleman, and, though in general self-contained and of quiet manners, proved a warm friend and a most pleasant host. mrs. lee used to search for me through the wards, and, having found me, would flourish a "prescription," made out in due form, for "an hour of leisure, to be repeated twice every week before retiring." these hours spent at the pleasant quarters of dr. and mrs. lee were, indeed, "a feast of reason and a flow of soul," often diversified by funny experiments in disguising the remains of the day's rations by cooking recipes familiar in ante-bellum days, but which generally failed because substitutes would never produce the same results as the real ingredients. dr. lee was some months afterwards transferred to cherokee springs as surgeon in charge of one of the convalescent hospitals, of which mrs. lee volunteered to act as matron. we parted with real regret, but truly her patients gained by our loss. for she was most competent, faithful, and well-beloved by those to whom she ministered. the autumn passed quickly, some pretty severe days giving us a foretaste of the rigor of a winter in north georgia. by november it was not only bitterly cold, but snow covered the ground to the depth of six inches, and the roads were furrowed and frozen. terrible accounts reached us from bragg's army, who were without shoes, blankets, or clothes, and suffering fearfully. officers and men were alike destitute. general patton anderson determined to make an effort to supply his division, and for this purpose selected lieutenant j.a. chalaron, fifth company, washington artillery, as one in every way qualified to carry out such an undertaking, who was therefore ordered to savannah and other places to secure the needed supplies. he cheerfully accepted the charge, although it involved deprivation of the rest so greatly needed, and the continuance of hardship already extended almost beyond human endurance. but the young officer was every inch a soldier, and one of a company which had already won a name for itself not less for invincible courage than for soldierly bearing and devotion to duty. that so young a soldier was selected to conduct such an undertaking proved how surely he had deserved and won the confidence of his superior officers. in those days railroad travelling was far from pleasant. the train upon which lieutenant chalaron embarked at knoxville was a motley affair,--perhaps a single passenger-car, rough and dilapidated (crowded with those who, though ill, made shift to sit up or recline upon the seats), box-cars and _cattle-cars_ filled with suffering men helplessly sick. in order that these might not be crowded, lieutenant chalaron, with one or two others, rode on the top of a box-car for twelve hours, from knoxville to chattanooga, exposed to the inclement weather which he was ill prepared to meet, having shared the inexpressible hardships of the kentucky campaign, including destitution of suitable clothing. i take pleasure in recording this noble act, because lieutenant chalaron was from new orleans (also my own beloved home). the impulse of self-sacrifice, and of chivalrous devotion towards the helpless and suffering, sprung from a heart pulsating with the knightly blood of the creole of louisiana. ah, that impetuous blood which stirred at the first call to arms, which was poured out in continual libations to southern liberty, from the time it gushed from the breast of the first martyr of the war (our charlie dreux), until almost in the "last ditch," piled high with masses of confederate dead, lay the gory body of _edgar dreux_, the very topmost man, proving how invincible was the courage that quailed not at the sight of that ghastly altar of sacrifice! the large brick court-house in the centre of the town of ringgold was especially devoted to my use. the court-room occupying the entire upper floor was fitted up for fifty patients. this was facetiously called "the nursery," and its occupants "mrs. beers's babies." in this ward were placed, as far as its capacity permitted, patients who needed to be visited very often, and for whose proper nourishment and the prompt administration of medicine i was responsible. for instance, if one of the fever-patients was taking veratrum, i must see it dropped and given, and note the pulse. if one was just struggling through dysentery, i must attend to his nourishment, and generally fed him myself. down-stairs was one large room, and three of good size, but smaller. the large one was also a ward. my business-room opposite was also the linen-room of the hospital. shelves ran from floor to ceiling, a counter in front of them. in one corner stood my desk, and beside it a large country rocking-chair; in another a rough lounge for the convenience of visiting patients. in front of the immense fireplace (where there was always a cheerful fire) stood a table and chairs for the surgeons, who came in after each round through the wards, to leave special directions and diet-lists. through the day this room was a cheerful place. i seldom entered it without finding one or more visitors, especially in the morning, when the surgeons always met there, and their wives generally joined them. on the other side of the hall was the distributing-room in one corner, in the other a store-room, where, also, under my own lock and key, i kept the effects of dead soldiers, labelled and ready for identification by their friends. i was assisted in this work, in keeping the linen-room in order, and in various other ways, by a young german who had been detailed for that purpose. he was a well-educated young man and a fine musician,--in fact, had been a professor of music before the war, had entered the service intelligently, desiring to remain in active service, but some disability caused his detail. his position was no sinecure: he was expected to keep a full account of all stores in my department, all bedding, hospital clothing, all clothing of the patients, and a great many other things, having full charge of the laundry and the laundresses, with whom he was always in "hot water." for this reason he was dubbed by the surgeons _general blandner_, and his employees were called _blandner's brigade_. he was methodical in all things. his books were exquisitely kept. i had been a good musician, and now used often to sing to blandner's lute, which he played in a masterly manner. his improvisations were a great delight to me, and, finding me so appreciative, he composed a lovely set of waltzes, "_the hospital waltzes_," which were dedicated to me, but never published, only exquisitely written out on pieces of wall-paper by the composer. after the war, mr. blandner obtained through dr. mcallister the position of professor of music at the female college at marion, alabama, but removed later to philadelphia, whore he now resides, still as a professor and teacher of music. the cold increased, and the number of patients grew larger. snow and ice rendered it difficult for me to get to the wards, as they lay quite far apart. the boarding-house at first occupied by the surgeons' families was now vacated and fitted up for officers' wards, a room being found for me in a log house, owned by an old lady, mrs. evans, whose sons, except the youngest, a mere lad, were in the confederate army. it was nearly a quarter of a mile from the courthouse. the road thither, lying through a piece of piney woods, was almost always blocked by drifted snow or what the georgians called "slush" (a mixture of mud and snow). i must confess that the freezing mornings chilled my patriotism a little, but just because it _was_ so cold the sick needed closer attention. one comfort never failed me: it was the watchful devotion of a soldier whom i had nursed in gainesville, alabama, and who, by his own request, was now permanently attached to my special corps of "helpers." no matter how cold the morning or how stormy, i never opened my door but there was "old peter" waiting to attend me. when the blinding storms of winter made the roads almost impassable by night, peter would await my departure from the hospital with his lantern, and generally on very stormy nights with an old horse which he borrowed for the occasion, savagely cutting short my remonstrances with a cross "faith, is it now or in the mornin' ye'll be lavin'?" he would limp beside me quite to the door of my room, and with a rough "be aisy, now," in reply to my thanks, would scramble upon the horse and ride back. "i know not is he far or near, or that he lives, or is he dead," _only this_, that my dreams of the past are often haunted by the presence of this brave soldier and humble, loyal friend. i seem to see again the lined and rugged face ("harsh," others thought, wearing always for me a smile which reminded me of the sunlight brightening an old gray ruin,) and the toil-hardened hands which yet served _me_ so tenderly. i seem to hear once more the rich irish brogue which gave character and emphasis to all he said, a _naughty_ character and a most _unpleasant_ emphasis sometimes, i must admit, fully appreciated by any who chanced to displease him, but to me always as sweet and pleasant as the zephyrs blowing from "the groves of blarney." peter was an alabama soldier. on the first day of my installation as matron of buckner hospital, located then at gainesville, alabama, after the battle of shiloh, i found him lying in one of the wards badly wounded, and suffering, as were many others, from scurvy. he had been morose and fierce to all who approached him. at first i fared no better. "sure, what wad a lady be wantin' in a place like this?" said he, crossly. "why, comrade," i replied, "i thought you would like to have a lady to nurse you ?" "divil a wan," growled he, and, drawing the coverlid over his face, refused to speak again. i felt disheartened for the moment, but after a consultation with dr. mcallister, surgeon in charge,--than whom a better disciplinarian or a kinder-hearted man never lived,--it was decided that peter should be induced or compelled to receive my ministrations. for several days, however, he remained sullen and most unwilling to be nursed, but this mood softened, and long before he was well enough to leave the ward the warm irish heart had melted, and i had secured a friend whose unalterable devotion attended me through all the vicissitudes of the war. being permanently disabled, by reason of his wound, from service in the field, peter was detailed for hospital service, and by his own request attached to my special corps of assistants. he could and did in a hundred ways help me and contribute to my comfort. no matter how many times i met him during the day, he never passed without giving me a military salute. if i was detained by the bedside of one very ill or dying, hoping to save life, or at least to receive and treasure "for the loved ones at home" some word or message, i was sure to hear peter's limping step and his loud whisper, "sure it's dying he is; can't ye lave him in the hands av god, an' go to your bed?" he constituted himself, in many cases, my mentor, and deeply resented any seeming disrespect towards me. i recall a case in point which highly amused the whole "post." while located at ringgold, georgia, it was considered desirable to remove some of the convalescents to a camp hospital at cherokee springs, some three miles out of town. it became my duty to see these patients every evening, and i rode out on horseback attended by peter. riding into camp one evening, i dismounted near a tent in front of which a group of officers were standing, in conversation with dr. ----, of kentucky. we exchanged a few words of greeting as i passed on to attend to my patients. returning, to mount my horse, i noticed that peter rather rudely pushed before lieutenant ----, who came forward to assist me. i also noticed that his face wore the old sullen look, and that his manner was decidedly unpleasant. before we had gone far, he broke out with, "'dade, ma'am, ye'll go there no more, if ye plaze." amazed, i questioned why? "sure, thim fellers was makin' game av ye an' callin' ye out av yer name." "why, peter," cried i, "you are crazy: _who_ called me names, and what did they call me?" "thim offshurs, ma'am. sure, i couldn't make out their furrin worruds, but i belave 'tis a _sinner_ they called ye. faith, an' if _ye're_ a sinner, where wad the saints be?" of course, woman-like, i became furious, and, on our arrival at headquarters, indignantly reported the "offshurs" to the surgeon in charge, who promised to investigate. the sequel is most amusing. it turned out that peter had overheard a conversation between the officers above mentioned and dr. ----. they having made some kindly remark as to my hospital service, dr. ---- as kindly replied, "yes, she is a _sine qua non_." my amusement was mingled with chagrin at my hasty anger, but peter remained unconvinced and never forgave the offenders. upon another occasion i was compelled to interfere to protect an innocent victim of peter's wrath. one of my "boys" about returning to his command came to take leave of me and to offer a little keepsake. this was, or appeared to be, a crochet-needle prettily carved and having _one end fringed out_. i took it with thanks, saying, "i hope i may use this needle to crochet a pair of mittens for you." cried the donor, "that ain't no crochet-needle." "no? well, what is it?" "it is a dipping-stick; don't you chaw snuff?" upon my indignant denial, the crestfallen man exclaimed, "well, lor', lady, i made sure you did, you're so yaller complected" (i had shortly before recovered from an attack of jaundice). now, it chanced that peter, knowing my fondness for a pine-knot fire, had collected a quantity of knots, which he just then brought in, and, hearing the uncomplimentary remark of my soldier-friend, turned upon him with the utmost fury, and such a tirade of abuse as followed baffles alike my power to recall the words or to describe the rage which prompted them. i was compelled to interfere and order peter out of the room. "when, in the course of human events," those who for four years had shared the fortunes of war separated to seek their several homes, i lost sight of my devoted friend. he was "_old_ peter" then, and, in all probability, no longer lives, save in my memory. if he be dead, "peace to his ashes." if living, may god bless and sustain him in the days that are "full of trouble." in the midst of this terrible winter, on one of the most bitter days, there came about noon an order from "the front" to prepare for two hundred sick, who would be down late the same night. there was not a bed to spare in either of the hospitals. negotiations were at once opened for the only church in ringgold not already occupied by the sick. the people declined to give it up. but, "necessity knows no law;" it was seized by dr. thornton, the pews being taken out and piled up in the yard. fires were then kindled in both stoves to thoroughly warm the church. there was, however, not a single bunk,--no time to make any; all the empty ticks when filled with straw and placed upon the floor fell far short of the number required. for the rest straw was littered down as if for horses, and when the pillows gave out, head-rests were made by tearing off the backs of the pews and nailing them slantwise from the base-board to the floor, so that knapsacks, coats, etc., could be used for pillows. the order had reached ringgold about noon; it was ten at night before the rough preparations were completed. meantime, such nourishment as hot soup, coffee, and tea, milk, egg-nog, and milk-punch (prepared with home-made peach or apple brandy), were kept in readiness. near midnight i stood in the church awaiting the arrival of the train. candles were scarce, but light-wood-fires outside gave sufficient light. the candles were not to be used until needed by the surgeons, who were now at the depot waiting to receive the sick. at last the train arrived,--departed; shortly thereafter there poured through the doors of that little church a train of human misery such as i never saw before or afterward during the war, and pray god i may never see again. until that night the tale of the retreat from moscow had seemed to me overdrawn; ever since i can well believe "the half has not been told." they came, each revealing some form of acute disease, some tottering, but still on their feet, others borne on stretchers. exhausted by forced marches over interminable miles of frozen ground or jagged rocks, destitute of rations, discouraged by failure, these poor fellows had cast away one burden after another until they had not clothes sufficient to shield them from the chilling blasts of winter. not one in twenty had saved even a haversack, many having discarded coats and jackets. one man had gained possession of an india-rubber overcoat, which, excepting his underclothing, was his only garment. barefooted,--their feet were swollen frightfully, and seamed with fissures so large that one might lay a finger in them. these were dreadfully inflamed, and bled at the slightest touch; others were suppurating. the feet of some presented a shining, inflamed surface which seemed ready to burst at any moment. their hands were just as bad, covered with chilblains and sores. many were tortured with wounds which had at first seemed slight, but by neglect and exposure had become sources of exquisite torture. the gleaming eyes, matted hair and beard hanging about their cadaverous faces, gave to these men a wild, ghastly look utterly indescribable. as they came in, many sunk exhausted upon the pallets, some falling at once into a deep sleep, from which it was impossible to arouse them, others able only to assume a sitting posture on account of the racking, rattling cough which, when reclining, threatened to suffocate them. few would stop to be undressed: food and rest were all they craved. those who crowded to the stoves soon began to suffer from their frozen feet and hands, and even ran out into the snow to ease their pain. the surgeons worked faithfully, and the whole force was in requisition. but, alas! alas! death also was busy among these unfortunates. the very first man i essayed to feed died in my arms, two others during the night. the poor wounded feet i tried to handle so tenderly bled at every touch. the warmth of the room, while it sent some into a sound sleep which seemed death's counterpart, caused terrible agony to others, who groaned and screamed. it seemed to me just as if those men, having previously kept up with heroic fortitude under trials almost too great for human endurance, had, as soon as the terrible tension was loosened, utterly succumbed, forgetting all but the horrible pain that racked them. fever running riot in the veins of some found expression in delirious shouts and cries, which added to the horror. my courage almost failed me. about half-past two, dr. thornton, yielding to my earnest entreaties, went home and brought mrs. thornton to share my vigil, although, as a general thing, he was opposed to her going into the hospital wards. together we labored through that long night. soon after daylight next morning, passing into the church porch, we stood for a few moments silently, hand in hand, for, although both hearts were too full for speech, our labor of love had drawn us very near together. everywhere the snow lay white and glittering. in the church-yard, upon some of the pews arranged for the purpose, had been placed the lifeless bodies of the three men who had died during the night. there they lay, stark and stiff. upon these cold, dead faces no mourners' tears would fall; no friends would bear with reverend tread these honored forms to their last resting-place. rough pine boxes would soon cover the faces once the light of some far-away home, careless hands would place them in their shallow graves, without a prayer, without a tear. only the loving hand of nature to plant flowers above them. for months after entering the service i insisted upon attending every dead soldier to the grave and reading over him a part of the burial-service. but it had now become impossible. the dead were past help; the living _always_ needed succor. but no soldier ever died in my presence without a whispered prayer to comfort his parting soul. ah me! the "prayers for the sick, and those near unto death," are to this day more familiar to me than any other portion of the prayer-book, and at no time can i hear unmoved the sacred old hymns so often sung beside dying beds. passing to my office along the path traversed last night by the incoming soldiers, i found the snow along the whole distance stained by their bare, bleeding feet, and the sight made my heart ache sorely. i think i never in all my life felt so keen a sense of utter dependence upon a higher power, or understood so thoroughly how "vain is the help of man," than when, in the seclusion of my own room, the events of the night passed in review before me. with a heart aching with supreme pity, ready to make any sacrifice for the noble martyrs who, for my sake as well as for that of all southern women, had passed unshrinking through inexpressible suffering, never faltering until laid low by the hand of disease,--i could yet do nothing. i could not save them one moment of agony, i could not stay the fleeting breath, nor might i intermit the unceasing care imperatively demanded by those whom timely ministrations might save, to give due honor to the dead. only an hour or two of rest (broken like the sleep of those of a household who retire from the side of beloved sufferers, leaving them to the care of others while they snatch a few moments of the repose which is needed to prepare them for fresh exertions) and i was once more on my way to the wards. at the gate of the boarding-house stood one of the nurses. again, as often before, i was summoned to a bed of death. a soldier who had come in only two days before almost in the last stages of pneumonia was now dying. i had left him at eight o'clock the night before very ill, but sleeping under the influence of an opiate. his agony was _now_ too terrible for any alleviation; but he had sent for me; so i stood beside him, answering by every possible expression of sympathy his imploring glances and the frantic clasp of his burning hand. finding that my presence was a comfort, i sent for dr. mcallister, and, requesting him to assign my duties to some one else for a while, remained at my post, yielding to the restraining grasp which to the very last arrested every movement away from the side of the sufferer. a companion of the sick man lay near. from him i learned the excellent record of this young soldier, who, during the frightful "retreat," had contracted the cold which culminated in pneumonia, but would not consent to leave his regiment until too late. i had feared an awful struggle at the last, but the death angel was pitiful, bringing surcease of suffering; and so, peacefully sped the soul of john grant, of the ---- mississippi regiment, happily unconscious of the end, and murmuring with his last breath, of home and mother. i remember with great distinctness his face,--suffering while he yet struggled with death,--happy and tranquil, when he stood upon the threshold of life eternal. almost the very saddest and most trying portion of my confederate service was just here. only that my record must be faithful, i would fain bid memory pass with flying feet and veiled eyes over the scenes of that terrible winter at ringgold, when my very soul was steeped in pity so painful that every night i was fain to cry out, "it is too hard! i cannot bear it!" and every morning my heart, yearning over "my boys," gave itself with renewed ardor to "the cause" and its defenders. returning to my patients in the church about noon, i found a change for the better in many cases; in others it was but too evident that days, even hours, were numbered. two soldiers in particular attracted my attention. one was an irishman, of an alabama regiment, the other from arkansas. the irishman was fast passing away, and earnestly desired to see a priest. there was none nearer than twelve miles. one of our foragers, himself a roman catholic, volunteered to go for him and by permission of dr. mcallister rode off through the snow, returning after nightfall to report that father ---- had been called in another direction, and would not return home until the next day. finding the poor fellow, though almost too far gone to articulate, constantly murmuring words of prayer, i took his prayer-book and read aloud the "recommendation of a soul departing," also some of the preceding prayers of the "litany for the dying." he faintly responded, and seemed to die comforted and satisfied. afterwards i never hesitated to use the same service in like cases. the arkansian was a devoted soldier and a pronounced "rebel." he had preserved through all vicissitudes a small confederate flag, made for him by his little daughter "annie," now alas torn and shattered. when he came into the church on that terrible night, although almost destitute of clothing, he bore the flag safely pinned inside of his ragged flannel shirt. a few days afterwards i found the poor, emaciated frame propped up in bed, with a crumpled sheet of paper spread upon a piece of pine board before him, while, with unaccustomed hand and unaccustomed brain, he toiled over some verses of poetry addressed to "annie." after a week or two, when he lay dying, i received from his hand the flag and the verses pinned together, and addressed to "miss annie ----," in some part of arkansas; but as i hoped to retain, and finally to deliver safely, the articles so addressed, i did not tax my memory with it, and when afterwards, in macon, all my belongings were taken by the raiders, i had nothing left to recall the name, and only remember one of the verses, which ran thus: "your father fought under this flag, this bonny flag so true, and many a time, amidst the fray, the bullets whistled through-- _so, annie, keep the flag_." the verses were headed, "annie, keep the flag," and each one ended with the same words. the sad days of winter passed slowly away; with the spring came changes. dr. thornton was ordered to another post (i had forgotten just where), and of course mrs. thornton accompanied him. everybody connected with the post regretted their departure, especially the loss of mrs. thornton, who was a general favorite. we had not ceased to miss her when tidings came of dr. thornton's death, and of the wild grief of the stricken wife, which resisted all control. a messenger had been despatched to call me to her side. i found her clinging to the body of her murdered husband, stained with his blood, yet resisting all attempts to remove her. dr. thornton having severely punished a case of insubordination, the culprit swore vengeance, and had fulfilled his oath in a most complete though cowardly manner. just after dark, as the doctor was sitting at supper with his wife, a voice at the gate called his name. he answered the summons at once, followed closely by mrs. thornton, who, standing upon the doorsteps, saw and heard the murderous blow which laid him dead at her feet, stabbed to the heart. for many hours horror and grief dethroned the reason of the wife. after i had persuaded her to go to her room, she continually insisted upon washing her hands, which she shudderingly declared were red with _his blood_. subsequently she struggled successfully for composure, pitifully saying, "he liked me to be brave; i _will try_," and with remarkable fortitude she bore up through the trying ordeal which followed. in my ministration to mrs. thornton i was assisted by a lady whose name is well known and well beloved by the soldiers of the army of tennessee,--mrs. frank newsome. of remarkable beauty, sweet and gentle manners, deeply religious, and carrying the true spirit of religion into her work, hers was indeed an angelic ministry. we had never met before, but in the days of my early girlhood i had known her husband, frank newsome, of arkansas, who, with randal gibson, of louisiana, tom brahan, of alabama, and my own husband (then my lover), studied together under a tutor in preparation for the junior class of yale college; they were room-mates at a house in the same village where my mother resided, and i had known them very well. dr. newsome had died some time before, but his having once been my friend proved a bond of sympathy between his widow and myself. although our pleasant intercourse was never again renewed, i continued through the years of the war to hear accounts of mrs. newsome's devotion to the confederate soldiers. duty requiring my presence at the hospital, i was compelled to leave mrs. thornton, who soon after returned to kentucky. i never met her again, but remember her with unchanged affection. dr. gamble, of tallahassee, florida, succeeded dr. thornton as surgeon of the post at ringgold. he was one of the most thorough gentlemen i ever knew, as courteous to the humblest soldier as to general bragg, who was then and during the summer a frequent visitor. his wife lay for some months very ill at some point near ringgold. mrs. gamble, who, with her lovely children, was domiciled at cherokee springs, three miles distant, was also a delightful addition to our little circle. she was thoroughly accomplished, of charming manners, although perfectly frank and outspoken. her musical talent was exceptional, and her lovely voice, coined into confederate money, was freely given in aid of all charitable objects. she was a frequent visitor at my office, walking into town in the evening to ride out with her husband. during the summer, mrs. bragg passed many days of convalescence at the lovely cottage-home of dr. and mrs. gamble, at cherokee springs, but she was quite too feeble to come into town very often. religious services were frequently held in the beautiful grove at the springs; these i attended as often as i could be spared, mrs. gamble always sending for me and sending me back in the ambulance. later a convalescent camp was established there, and then i rode out on horseback every evening to look after my "boys," until the transfer of dr. lee as surgeon in charge and mrs. lee as matron rendered my services no longer necessary. very pleasant memories cluster about the room in the court-house at ringgold assigned to my special use. i often seem to hear once more the sweet music of "general blandner's lute," sometimes accompanied by the clear soprano of mrs. gamble, sometimes by our blended voices. i remember as distinctly as if it were only yesterday the kindly faces and cheerful voices that smiled upon and greeted me as i ran in from the wards to take a few moments' rest. i had collected and kept on the shelves in my office a great many books for the use of convalescents, who were my most constant visitors. the mantelpiece was decorated with articles of curious workmanship and miracles of beautiful carving (the gifts of my patients), variously inscribed. there were cups and saucers, with vines running over and around them, boxes which simulated books, paper-cutters, also rings made of gutta-percha buttons, with silver hearts let in like mosaic. i was as proud of them as a queen of her crown-jewels, and always kept them on exhibition with the precious notes of presentation attached. had i retained possession of these treasures, i would have proudly bequeathed them to my children; but, alas! these, like everything else, fell into the hands of raiders. many officers of distinction visited my little sanctum,--not only surgeons from other posts, but men of military distinction, clergymen, and others. general bragg came frequently for a time, also bishop beckwith, and many others whose faces come to me while their names elude the grasp of memory. i welcomed them all alike, for i have never felt a prouder heart-throb in the presence of an officer, no matter how exalted his rank, than while viewing the shadowy forms of my convalescents or answering their earnest greetings as they passed in and out of my office, or rested awhile in my one easy-chair, or, still better, came with buoyant step and bright eyes to bid me farewell when ready to report for duty, never failing to leave with me the "god bless you!" so precious to my soul. some of the poor fellows who were wounded at the battle of murfreesboro' now began to suffer from gangrene. tents were pitched outside the hospital for such cases, and it was often my fate to stand beside these sufferers while the surgeon removed unhealthy granulation with instruments or eating acids, or in other ways tortured the poor fellows to save life. the establishment of an officers' ward added to my cares. as in most cases they were waited upon by their own servants, i could do a great deal by proxy. if any were very ill, however, as often was the case, i attended them myself. among those whom i nursed in ringgold was captain e. john ellis, of louisiana. if i am not mistaken, he had been slightly wounded at the battle of murfreesboro'. at any rate, he was for a time very ill of pneumonia, and received all his nourishment from my hand. often since the war, as i have seen him standing with majestic mien and face aglow with grand and lofty thoughts, or have listened spellbound to the thrilling utterances of "the silver-tongued orator," memory, bidding me follow, has led me back to a lowly room where, bending over a couch of pain, i saw the same lips, fevered and wan, open feebly to receive a few spoonfuls of nourishment. "aye! and that tongue of his which now bids nation mark him and write his speeches in their books" cried faintly, "give me some drink." captain ellis recovered rapidly, but insisted on rejoining his command while yet pale and weak. the incident i shall here relate is intended to illustrate and emphasize the thoroughly gentlemanly qualities of our southern soldiers, their unvarying respect and courtesy toward women, and their entire appreciation and perfect understanding of my own position among them. i presume all will comprehend my meaning when i assure them that the occasion referred to was the only one during four years of service when even an unpleasantness occurred. in the same ward with captain ellis were three officers,--one, colonel ----, of alabama (very ill), another just able to sit up, and one, lieutenant cox, of mississippi, only suffering from a bad cold which had threatened pneumonia. my constant habit was to carry into the wards a little basket containing pieces of fresh linen, sponges, and a bottle of confederate bay-water (vinegar). invariably i bathed the faces and hands of the fever-patients with vinegar and water, but as soon as they were well enough to dispense with it gave it up. one day, upon entering the ward above mentioned, i found captain ellis up and standing before the fire, his back towards it. it struck me at once that he looked worried, and at the same time appeared to be struggling between vexation and a desire to laugh. lieutenant cox was covered up in bed, rolling and holding his head, seemingly in dreadful agony. approaching, i asked a question or two regarding his sudden seizure, but he only cried, "oh, my head! my head!" at the same time shaking as if with a violent chill. turning down the sheet, i placed my hand upon his head, which was quite cool. as soon as i caught a glimpse of his face, i saw that he was laughing, and, glancing at the others, realized that all were full of some joke. drawing myself up haughtily, i said, "i see i have made a mistake; i came here to nurse _gentlemen_; i shall not again lend myself to your amusement," and out i swept, nor ever while in ringgold entered the officers' quarters again, except to nurse very sick or dying men. it seems that lieutenant cox had received a box from home containing, among other dainties, a bottle of home-made wine. one day he said to the other occupants of the ward, "mrs. beers never bathes _my head_. i believe i'll get up a spell of fever, and see if i can't get nursed like you other fellows." the others declared that he could not deceive me, and he offered to bet the bottle of wine that he would have me bathe his head at my next visit. the result has been described. i had hardly reached my office, when a special patient and friend of mine, charlie gazzan, of mobile, alabama, arrived with an apology from lieutenant cox, a few words of explanation from captain ellis, signed by all the officers in the ward, and the bottle of wine, sent for my acceptance. i would not accept the wine or read the note, and in this course i was upheld by dr. mcallister, who severely reprimanded lieutenant cox, and excused me from future attendance upon that ward. i have said that charlie gazzan was a special patient and friend; perhaps the expression needs explanation. a few weeks before, he had been brought to me one night from the ambulance-train, a living skeleton, and seemingly at the point of death from dysentery. his family and that of my husband were residents of mobile, alabama, and intimate friends. he seemed almost in the agony of death, but had asked to be brought to me. there was not, after the battle of murfreesboro', a single vacant bed. he begged hard not to be put in a crowded ward, so, until i could do better, he was placed upon the lounge in my office. one small room in the officers' ward being vacant, i asked and obtained next day the privilege of placing him there. he recovered very slowly, but surely, and during his convalescence made himself useful in a hundred ways. my sick boys owed many a comfort to his wonderful powers of invention; even the surgeons availed themselves of his skill. he often relieved me of a task i had sometimes found very wearisome, because so constantly recurring,--that of writing letters for the sick. he made his own pens and his own ink, of a deep green color, and seemingly indelible. a more gentle, kindly, generous nature never existed, and yet his soldierly instincts were strong, and almost before he could walk about well he "reported for duty," but was soon relegated to his room and to special diet. spring proved hardly less disagreeable in upper georgia than winter had been. the mud was horrible, and i could not avoid it, as the wards were detached, occupying all together a very wide space. the pony was no longer available, because he splashed mud all over me. old peter brought me one day an immense pair of boots large enough for me to jump into when going from one place to another, and to jump out of and leave at the entrance of the sick wards. with these, an army blanket thrown over my shoulders and pinned with a thorn, and my dress kilted up like a washerwoman's, i defied alike the liquid streets and the piercing wind. my "nursery" was at this time filled to overflowing. my mind's eye takes in every nook and corner of that large room. it is very strange, but true, that i remember the position of each bed and the faces of those who lay there at different times. as i said before, they were principally the youngest patients, or those requiring constant supervision. i seem to see them now, lying pale and worn, their hollow eyes looking up at me as i fed them or following with wistful gaze my movements about the ward. some bear ghastly wounds, others sit upon the side of the bed, trembling with weakness, yet smiling proudly because they can do so much, and promising soon to pay me a visit downstairs, "if i can _make_ it; but i'm _powerful weak_ right _now_." i remember two brave texas boys, brothers, both wounded at murfreesboro', who lay side by side in this ward. one of them was only fifteen years old. when he was brought in, it was found that a minie-ball had penetrated near the eye, and remained in the wound, forcing the eye entirely from the socket, causing the greatest agony. at first it was found difficult to extract it, and it proved a most painful operation. i stood by, and his brother had his cot brought close so that he could hold his other hand. not a groan did the brave boy utter, but when it was over, and the eye replaced and bandaged, he said, "doctor, _how soon can i go back to my regiment_?" poor boy! he _did_ go back in time to participate in the battle of chickamauga, where he met his death. twenty years after, i met his brother at a reunion of confederate soldiers, in dallas, texas, and he could hardly tell me for weeping that eddie had been shot down at his side while gallantly charging with the ---- texas cavalry. another youth, ---- roundtree, of alabama, lingered in that ward for many weeks, suffering from dysentery, and, i believe, was finally discharged. dr. gore, of kentucky, took the deepest interest in my nursery, and sometimes asked permission to place young friends of his own there, a compliment which i highly appreciated. dr. gore was one of nature's noblemen. in his large, warm heart there seemed to be room for everybody. his interest in his patients was very keen, and his skill greatly enhanced by extreme tenderness and unfailing attention. he was an earnest christian (a methodist, i believe), but upon one occasion i saw him so excited and distressed that he "fell from grace," and gave vent to a fearful imprecation. he had brought to me a boy of seventeen very ill of dysentery. for days it seemed that he must die. dr. gore and i watched him and nursed him as if he had been very near and dear. a slight improvement showed itself at last, and of course his craving for food was insatiate. as this was a special ward, the nurses had been forbidden to admit visitors without a permit, and no stranger was ever allowed to feed the patients except when some particularly nourishing and suitable food was brought, when i used to take a great delight in the mutual pleasure of patient and visitor, hardly knowing which was more happy, the giver or receiver. our sick boy continually craved and talked about some "apple _turnovers_," such as his mother used to make, but of course was denied. one day, during my absence, an old lady gained access to the ward, and when she heard the boy's desire for "turn-overs" promised him some. the next day she found an opportunity to keep her promise. at midnight, dr. gore and i having been hastily summoned, met at the bedside of the poor fellow, who was in a state of collapse, and died before morning. dr. gore was so overcome that he actually wept. the boy had been a patient of his from his infancy, and in a piteous letter, which i afterwards read, his mother had implored the doctor to watch over him in case of sickness. when, under the dead boy's pillow, was found a portion of the apple-pie, revealing the cause of his death, the doctor's anger knew no bounds, and he gave vent to the imprecation above mentioned. as the summer waned, our commissary stores began to fail. rations, always plain, became scant. our foragers met with little success. but for the patriotic devotion of the families whose farms and plantations lay for miles around ringgold (soon, alas! to fall into the ruthless hands of the enemy), even our sickest men would have been deprived of suitable food. as it was, the supply was by no means sufficient. one day i asked permission to try _my_ fortune at foraging, and, having received it, left ringgold at daylight next morning, returning by moonlight. stopping at every house and home, i told everywhere my tale of woe. there was scarcely one where hearths were not lonely, hearts aching for dear ones long since gone forth to battle. they had heard mischievous and false tales of the surgeons and attendants of hospitals, and really believed that the sick were starved and neglected, while the hospital staff feasted upon dainty food. occasionally, perhaps, they had listened to the complaint of some "hospital rat," who, at the first rumor of an approaching battle, had experienced "a powerful misery" in the place where a brave heart should have been, and, flying to the rear, doubled up with rheumatism and out-groaning all the victims of _real_ sickness or horrible wounds, had remained huddled up in bed until danger was over. after having been deceived a few times by these cowards, i became expert at recognizing them, and paid them no attention whatever. i really believe that in some cases it was a physical impossibility for men to face the guns on a battle-field, and i have known instances of soldiers who deliberately shot off their own fingers to escape a fight. these men were conscious of their own defects, and often, smarting under a knowledge that the blistering, purging, and nauseating process pursued in such cases by the surgeons was intended as a punishment, grew ugly and mischievous, seeking revenge by maligning those in authority. i do not know what abuses may have existed in other hospitals of the confederacy; i can, however, say with entire truth that i never saw or heard of a more self-sacrificing set of men than the surgeons i met and served under during the war. with only two exceptions, they were devoted to their patients, and as attentive as in private practice or as the immense number of sick allowed them to be. these exceptions were both men who were unwilling to get up at night, and if called were fearfully cross. at one time i had a fierce contest with a surgeon of this kind, and fought it out, coming off victorious. i was called up one night to see a patient who had required and received the closest attention, but who was, we hoped, improving. finding him apparently dying, i sent at once for doctor ----, meanwhile trying, with the help of the nurse, every means to bring back warmth to his body, administering stimulants, rubbing the extremities with mustard, and applying mustard-plasters. the poor fellow was conscious, and evidently very much frightened; he had insisted upon sending for me and seemed to be satisfied that i would do everything in my power. doctor ---- came in, looking black as a thunder-cloud. "what the devil is all this fuss about? what are you going to do with that mustard-plaster? better apply it to that pine table; it would do as much good;" then to the nurse, "don't bother that fellow any more; let him die in peace." my temper was up, and i rushed at once into battle. "sir," said i, "if you have given the patient up, _i have not_ and _will not_. no true physician would show such brutality." he was nearly bursting with rage. "i shall report you, madam." "and i, sir, will take care that the whole post shall know of this." he went out and i remained with the soldier until he was better (he eventually recovered). the next morning, bright and early, i made _my_ report to dr. mcallister, who had already received an account of the affair from the nurses and other patients of the ward. he reprimanded the surgeon instead of gratifying his desire to humble me. but to return to my expedition: fortunately, i was able to disprove the false tales which had prejudiced the country people. their sympathy being thoroughly aroused, they resolved to make up for lost time; and after this ladies rode in town every day, arranging among themselves for different days, and bringing for the convalescents the fresh vegetables which were so valuable as a palliative, and preventive of scurvy; for the sick, chickens, eggs, fresh butter, buttermilk, and sweet milk. country wagons also brought in small supplies for sale, but never in proportion to the demand. many of the ladies, after one visit to a ward or two, were utterly overcome by the ghastly sight, and wept even at the _thought_ of looking upon the misery they could not relieve. others seemed to feel only deepest pity and a desire to "do _something_ for the poor soldiers." as there were so many, it was difficult to distribute impartially: some must be left out. the ladies, finding so many craving buttermilk, sweet milk, home-made bread, etc., did not well know how to manage; but the soldiers themselves soon settled that. "i ain't so _very_ bad off," one would say, "but that little fellow over yonder needs it _bad_; he's _powerful weak_, and he's been studying about buttermilk ever since he came in." all the time his own emaciated frame was trembling from exhaustion, and, spite of his courage, his eyes greedily devoured the dainties which he denied himself. this was but one of a thousand instances of self-abnegation which go to make up a record as honorable, as brave, as true as that of the glorious deeds which such men never failed to perform whenever opportunity offered. during this foraging trip, and once afterwards during a spell of fever which lasted a week, i was cordially received and elegantly entertained at the house of mr. and mrs. russell, who lived about ten miles from ringgold. this aged couple were eminently and most intelligently patriotic. their sons were in the confederate service. their time and their substance were literally at the disposal of all who served the cause. the silver-haired mother knitted and spun incessantly for the soldiers. the father superintended the raising of vegetables, and sent wagon-loads to the hospitals. miss phemie, a lovely young girl, was a frequent visitor to the hospitals, and often herself dispensed the golden butter and rich buttermilk prepared under her own direction; she would even dispense with the carriage and ride in town on the wagon, that she might bring _plenty_ of vegetables, fruit, etc. convalescents were entertained royally at the old homestead; those who could not go so far were often treated to pleasant and invigorating rides. to me miss phemie's friendship and kindness brought many comforts, and i remember gratefully the whole family. through the summer frequent skirmishes and fights were heard of, and sick and wounded men came in every day, and every few days squads of men who had "reported for duty" took their places at the front. at last, about the first of september, , appeared the never-failing forerunner of a real battle near at hand,--a small brigade of "hospital rats," distorted, drawn up, with useless crippled fingers, bent legs, crooked arms, necks drawn awry, let us say by--_rheumatism_. a day or two later was fought the sanguinary and fiercely-contested battle of chickamauga. i could not if i would describe this or any other battle, nor is it necessary, for historians have well accomplished this duty. the terrible results to the brave men engaged only appeared to me, and these guided me to an opinion that among the horrible, bloody, hard-fought battles of the war none could exceed that of chickamauga, and afterwards franklin. from the lips of my boys, however, i often gained knowledge of deeds of magnificent bravery which cannot be surpassed by any which adorn the pages of history. these jewels have lain undiscovered among the debris of the war. would i could reclaim them all. seen in the aggregate, they would even outshine the glory already known and visible. finding memory a treacherous guide while searching for these hidden treasures, i have called upon my comrades to aid me in clearing away the dust and cobwebs,--the accumulation of years,--but only in a few instances have they responded. i shall here relate one incident of the battle of chickamauga never before published, but which is true in every particular. austin's battalion of sharpshooters, composed of two companies, the continental guards and cannon guards, both from new orleans, was as well known to the army of tennessee as any organization in it, and commanded the respect and admiration of all the army. the following lines from the pen of a gallant soldier in fenner's louisiana battery truly portray the sentiments of their army comrades towards the famous battalion: "in the army of tennessee, austin's battalion always occupied the post of honor in the brigade (adams's and gibson's louisiana) to which it belonged. in the advance, that battalion was in the front; in the retreat, it hung upon the rear, a safeguard to the confederates, and a cloud threatening at every step to burst in destructive fury upon the advancing enemy. "who is on the front?" "austin's battalion." "then, boys, we can lie down and sleep." such were the words heard a hundred times among the troops of the army of tennessee, to which was attached austin's battalion of sharpshooters. whose tongue could so graphically picture to the mind's eye a soldier and a hero as do these brief questions and answers interchanged between battle-scarred veterans in the gathering gloom of the night, when they knew not, until they were assured austin's battalion was in the front, if they could snatch a few hours of repose from the toil and danger of battle? austin's battalion, famous throughout the armies of the confederacy for its discipline and fighting qualities, was formed out of the remnants of the eleventh louisiana regiment, which distinguished itself at belmont, and which was literally shot to pieces at shiloh. the battalion is well known to all the survivors of the army of tennessee as a fighting organization. during the active campaign of the army, it was almost continually under fire, and ned austin, on his little black pony, was always in the advance, "fooling the enemy, or in the retreat fighting and holding him in check." as the title of the battalion indicates, it was always in the front, on the advanced skirmish-line, pending a battle. it will be remembered by all the heroes of the army of tennessee that nearly every regiment in that army at the time of the battle of chickamauga had on its battle-flag "cross-cannon," which signified the regiment's participation in the capture of a battery, or part thereof, at some time and place. austin's battalion had not won that honor when it commenced its destructive fire upon the enemy early saturday morning, september , . sunday, the th, the battalion, on the extreme right of the army, moved forward upon the skirmish-lines of the federals about eight o'clock in the morning, driving them rapidly back towards their main lines, leaving many dead and wounded on the ground, and many prisoners in the hands of the enthusiastic advancing confederates. it was published in general orders after the battle that austin's sharpshooters captured three times as many prisoners as they had men in their whole battalion. the continentals, on the right of the battalion, commanded by captain w.q. loud, suddenly found themselves in range of and close quarters to artillery, as shells were singing through the woods directly over their heads. still advancing as skirmishers, they saw on the road two pieces of artillery, supported by perhaps a small company of infantry, about one hundred yards from their advanced position in the woods. the command, "rally," was given by lieutenant william pierce, commanding first platoon, and as the word was passed along by the sergeants all within hearing jumped to the command, and as "forward, charge!" was given, in a minute the gallant confederates had forced back the federals and had possession of the guns, lieutenant pierce striking one of them with his sword, proclaiming the right of the battalion to have cross-cannon at last on its beloved flag. although the battalion, as was just and correct, participated in and enjoyed the proud honors of the capture, it will cause no feeling of envy among the members of company b living to-day to give the exclusive credit of the capture of those guns to the first platoon of the continental guards. the federals, seeing how few were the numbers of the foe who had driven them from their guns, rallied, advanced, and fired a volley into the victorious confederates, who were still surrounding the pieces. three men were wounded by the volley, among them lieutenant william pierce, whose leg was so badly shattered that amputation was necessary. the boys in gray retired to the first line of trees, leaving their lieutenant under the guns, surrounded by the boys in blue. it was for a short moment only: a volley which killed three and wounded more of the federals, a yell and a charge, and the lieutenant's comrades again had possession of the guns, and soon were carrying him and dragging the guns to the rear, making the captured federals assist in both duties. the advancing brigade was more than a quarter of a mile from where the guns were captured. it is very doubtful whether the history of the war will record a similar capture of artillery supported by infantry, disclosed suddenly by an advance-line of skirmishers who unhesitatingly charged, took possession of, and carried to the rear the guns. one would have supposed that lieutenant pierce, having suffered amputation of a leg, might have rested upon laurels won so gloriously. ah, no! his gallant soul was yet undismayed. at the earliest possible moment he returned to his command, there receiving a rich recompense for past suffering. imagine his great pride and satisfaction when, following his comrades to the quarters of the gallant major ned austin, he was shown the battalion flag with its "honored and honorable" cross-cannon liberally displayed. the survivors of the continental guards, returning to new orleans after the war, have clung together like true brothers, retaining their military organization and the name they bore so gallantly. of the veterans, not many remain; these are known and revered by all. captain pierce is fondly beloved and highly respected by his former command, as well as by the younger members of the company, who, having "fallen in" to fill up the ranks which time and death have decimated, are striving nobly to uphold the name and fame of the continentals. under the command of a gallant gentleman and excellent executive officer, the new continentals have guarded and kept ever fresh the laurels won by their predecessors, adding an exceptional record of their own, both military and civic. upon all patriotic occasions the _veterans_ appear and march with the company. our veteran companies are the pride and glory of new orleans. citizens never tire of viewing the beautiful uniform and the martial step of the continental guards. and who can look upon captain pierce, bearing his trusty sword, keeping step equally well, whether he wears a finely-formed cork leg or stumps along on his favorite wooden one,--his bearing as proud as the proudest, his heroic soul looking gloriously forth from its undimmed windows,--and fail to remember proudly the young lieutenant who fell under the enemy's gun at chickamauga? or who can listen unmoved to the music of the cannon which so often woke the morning echoes upon the bloodiest battle-field of the war? a parade of the washington artillery is, indeed, a glorious and inspiriting sight. here they come, gayly caparisoned, perfect in every detail of military equipment, led by elegant officers who may well ride proudly, for each is a true soldier and a hero. scarcely less distinguished, save for the plainer uniform, are the rank and file that follow. can these be the same men whom history delights to honor,--the heroes of a hundred battlefields,--both in the army of virginia and tennessee, who, stripped to the waist, blackened with powder and smoke, bloody with streaming wounds, still stood to their guns, and, in answer to the enemy, thundered forth their defiant motto, "_come and take us!_" and now--who more peaceful, who more public-spirited, who more kind in word and deed? of the virginia detachment i knew little except their splendid record. from the fifth company i frequently received patients during my service with the army of tennessee, for, like their comrades of virginia, they seemed to be in every battle, and in the thick of it. in fact, new orleans and the whole state of louisiana, like every city and state in the south, are peopled with veterans and heroes. in comparatively few cases have military organizations been kept up. other duties engross the late confederates, of whom it may be truly said their record of citizenship is as excellent as their war record. if to any reader it occurs that i seem to be doing particular justice to new orleans troops, i will say, let the feeling which arises in your own breast regarding your "very own" plead for me. remember that my husband was one of the famous dreux battalion, and afterwards of gibson's brigade, also that louisianians were exiles, and that love of our home, with sorrow and indignation on account of her humiliation and chains, drew us very close together. but aside from this natural feeling there was no shadow of difference in my ministration or in the affection i bore towards all "my boys." there was not a single southern state unrepresented among the bleeding victims of chickamauga. from that hardly-contested field, as from many others, a rich harvest of glory has been reaped and garnered until the treasure-houses of history are full to overflowing. glowing accounts of the splendid deeds of this or that division, brigade, regiment, company, have immortalized the names of--_their officers_. and what of the unfaltering _followers_, whose valor supported their brave leaders and helped to _create_ many a splendid record? here lay the shattered remnants, each ghastly wound telling its own story of personal bravery. the fiery sons of south carolina, unsubdued by the perils they had passed, unmindful of their gaping wounds, as ready then to do and dare as when they threw down the gauntlet of defiance and stood ready to defend the sovereignty of their state. the men who followed where the gallant forrest led, "looking the warrior in love with his work." the devoted patriots who charged with breckenridge. the tall, soldierly tennesseeans, of whom their commander said, when asked if he could take and hold a position of transcendent danger, "give me my tennesseeans, and _i'll take and hold anything_;" the determined, ever-ready texans, who, under the immortal terry, so distinguished themselves, and under other leaders in every battle of the war won undying laurels; north carolinians, of whose courage in battle i needed no better proof than the pluck they invariably showed under the torture of fevered wounds or of the surgeon's knife; exiled kentuckians, arkansians, georgians, louisianians, missourians, marylanders, sternly resentful, and impatient of the wounds that kept them from the battle-field, because ever hoping to strike some blow that should sever a link in the chains which bound the homes they so loved; alabamians, the number of whose regiments, as well as _their frequent consolidation_, spoke volumes for their splendid service; georgians, who, having fought with desperate valor, now lay suffering and dying within the confines of their own state, yet unable to reach the loved ones who, unknowing what their fate might be, awaited with trembling hearts accounts of the battle, so slow in reaching them; mississippians, of whom i have often heard it said, "their fighting and _staying qualities_ were _magnificent_," i then knew hundreds of instances of individual valor, of which my remembrance is now so dim that i dare not give names or dates. i am proud, however, to record the names of four soldiers belonging to the seventeenth mississippi regiment: j. wm. flynn,[ ] then a mere lad, but whose record will compare with the brightest; samuel frank, quartermaster; maurice bernhiem, quartermaster-sergeant, and auerbach, the drummer of the regiment. i was proudly told by a member of company g, seventeenth mississippi, that sam prank, although excelling in every duty of his position, was exceeding brave, often earnestly asking permission to lead the skirmishers, and would shoulder a musket sooner than stay out of the fight. maurice bernhiem, quartermaster-sergeant, was also brave as the bravest. whenever it was possible he also would join the ranks and fight as desperately as any soldier. both men were exempt from field-service. auerbach, the drummer of the seventeenth, was also a model soldier, always at his post. on the longest marches, in the fiercest battles, whatever signal the commanding officer wished to have transmitted by means of the drum, night or day, amid the smoke of battle or the dust of the march, auerbach was always on hand. the members of the seventeenth declared that they could never forget the figure of the small jewish drummer, his little cap shining out here and there amid the thick smoke and under a rattling fire. before taking leave of this splendid regiment, i will give an incident of the battle of knoxville, also related to me by one of its members. [ ] mr. flynn is now pastor in charge of a presbyterian church in new orleans, and is as faithful a soldier of the cross as once of the lost cause. by some mismanagement, longstreet's corps had no scaling-ladders, and had to cut their way up the wall of the entrenchment by bayonets, digging out step after step under a shower of hot water, stones, shot, axes, etc. some of the men actually got to the top, and, reaching over, dragged the enemy over the walls. general humphrey's brigade had practically taken the fort. their flag was flying from the walls, about a hundred men having reached the top, where the color-bearer bad planted his flag, when the staff was shot off about an inch above his hand. the men were so mad at losing the flag, that they seized the shells with fuses burning and hurled them back upon the enemy. some of the members of this gallant regiment were among the hundreds equally brave who, after the battle of chickamauga, became my patients. scattered all through the wards were dozens of irishmen, whose awful wounds scarcely sufficed to keep them in bed, so impatient were they of restraint, and especially of inactivity,--so eager to be at the front. ever since the war i have kept in my heart a place sacred to these generous exiles, who, in the very earliest days of the confederacy, flocked by thousands to her standard, _wearing the gray as if it had been the green_, giving in defence of the land of their adoption the might of stalwart arms, unfaltering courage, and the earnest devotion of hearts glad thus to give expression to the love of liberty and hatred of oppression which filled them. as confederate soldiers they made records unsurpassed by any, but they never forgot that they were irishmen, and bound to keep up the name and fame of old ireland. so, company after company, composing many regiments, appeared on fields of glory bearing names dear to every irish heart,--names which they meant to immortalize, _and did_. that i should be permitted to serve all these heroes, to live among them, to minister to them, seemed to me a blessing beyond estimation. strange to say, although my toil increased and the horror deepened, my health did not suffer. after days and nights of immeasurable fatigue, a few hours of sleep would quite restore me, and i dared to believe that the supporting rod and staff was given of god. it now became very difficult to obtain food either suitable or sufficient. the beef was horrible. upon two occasions rations of mule meat were issued, and eaten with the only sauce which could have rendered it possible to swallow the rank, coarse-grained meat,--i.e., the ravenous hunger of wounded and convalescent men. meal was musty, flour impossible to be procured. all the more delicate food began to fail utterly. a few weeks after the battle, dr. s.m. bemiss was ordered to newnan, georgia, to arrange for the removal of the hospital "post." we were, therefore, expecting a change of location, but quite unprepared for the suddenness of the order, or the haste and confusion that ensued. the _upsetness_ was so complete that it almost seemed to me an actual fulfilment of a mysterious prophecy or warning often uttered by old negroes to terrorize children into good behavior: "better mind out dar: fust thing _you_ knows you ain't gwine ter know nuffin'." everything seemed to be going on at once. the ambulance-train, with a few baggage-cars attached, was even then at the depot. a hoarse, stifled whistle apprised us of the fact, and seemed to hurry our preparation. dr. mcallister was _everywhere_, superintending the removal with the energy natural to him. in the court-house all was confusion. boxes were hastily filled with bedding, clothing, etc., thrown in helter-skelter, hastily nailed up, and as hastily carted down to the train. sick and awfully wounded men were hurriedly placed upon stretchers, and their bearers formed an endless procession to the rough cars (some of them lately used to transport cattle, and dreadfully filthy). here they were placed upon straw mattresses, or plain straw, as it happened. no provisions were to be had except sides of rusty bacon and cold corn-bread. these were shovelled into carts and transferred to the floor of the cars in the same manner. there was no time to cook anything, and the chances were whether we would get off at all or not. procuring a large caldron, i dumped into it remnants of the day's dinner,--a little soup, a few vegetables, and some mule meat. the stoves had all been taken down, but there was a little cold cornmeal coffee, some tea, and a small quantity of milk. this i put into buckets; then, importuning the surgeon in charge until he was glad to get rid of me by assigning me a cart, i mounted into it with my provisions and jolted off to the cars, where hundreds of tortured, groaning men wore lying. there i met dr. gore (for both hospitals were to be moved on the same train), who helped me to hide my treasures and to administer some weak milk punch to the sufferers. meanwhile, the pine-wood fires kindled in the streets all around the hospitals made the town look as though it was on fire, and threw its weird light upon masses of soldiery,--cavalry, infantry, artillery,--moving in endless numbers through the town, shaking the very earth with the tramp of men and horses and the heavy rumble of wheels. the men were silent, and looked jaded and ghastly in the lurid light. some had bloody rags tied about head and hands, their breasts were bare, the panting breath could be heard plainly, their eyes shone fiercely through the grime of powder and smoke. they had been fighting, and were now retreating; still they marched in solid column, nor broke ranks, nor lost step. the faces of the officers were grave and troubled; none seemed to observe our frantic haste, but all to look forward with unseeing eyes. i did so long to have them rest and refresh themselves. during the whole of that eventful night my cheeks were wet, my heart aching sadly. before daylight we were off. railroads at that time were very defective and very rough. ah, how terrible was the suffering of those wounded men as they were jolted and shaken from side to side! for haste was necessary to escape the enemy. about noon the train came to a full stop, nor moved again for many, many hours,--hours fraught with intense suffering to the sick and wounded, as well as to all who shared the hardships of that journey. it was reported that the enemy were passing either to the right or left, i do not remember which. not a wheel must move, not a column of smoke arise; so, with the engine fires extinguished, the train stood motionless in the midst of a barren pine forest. the small supply of cooked food was soon exhausted, the ladies on the train assisting to feed the wounded soldiers. all were parched with thirst. the only water to be procured lay in ruts and ditches by the roadside, and was filthy and fetid. so the day passed. all through the night every one was on the alert, listening intently for sounds that might mean danger. no lights, no roadside fires could be allowed; but the moon shone brightly, and by its light the surgeons moved about among the suffering men, whose groans, united with the plaintive sigh of the chill wind through the pine forest, served to make night dismal indeed. in the intervals of attending upon the sick we slept as we could, leaning up against boxes, tilted back in chairs against the side of the car, or lying down, with anything we could get for pillows. some of the surgeons and attendants bivouacked under the trees in spite of the cold. in the morning we were hungry enough to eat the stale corn-bread, and tried to like it, but even of that there was very little, for the wounded men were ravenous. drs. gore and yates set themselves to whittle some "army-forks," or forked sticks, and, cutting the bacon in thin slices, made little fires which they carefully covered with large pans to keep the smoke from arising. by these they toasted slices of bacon. ah, how delicious was the odor, how excellent the taste! several hands were set at this work, but it was necessarily very slow. i remained among my own patients, while my servant climbed in and out of the car, bringing as much meat as she could get, which i distributed while she returned for more. the wounded men were clamorous for it, crying out, "give it to us raw; we can't wait." this we were soon compelled to do, as it was feared the smoke might escape and betray us. i cannot now recollect by what means we received the welcome order to move on, but it came at last, and on the morning of the third day we reached newnan, georgia, where, after a few days' bustle and confusion, we were pleasantly settled and had fallen into the old routine, dr. bemiss having arranged not only for excellent quarters but for fresh supplies of rations and hospital stores. chapter v. newnan, georgia. just here memory lays a restraining hand upon my own. turning to meet her gaze, it pleads with me to linger a while in this sweet and pleasant spot, peopled with familiar forms, and kindly faces, well-beloved in the past, fondly greeted once again. ah, how closely our little band clung together, how enduring were the ties that bound us! ignoring the shadow, seeking always to stand in the sunshine, we welcomed with yet unshaken faith the heavenly guest who stood in our midst, turning upon us almost for the last time an unclouded face, and eyes undimmed by doubt or pain,--the angel of hope. the ladies of newnan were truly loyal, and in spite of the fact that the whole town was converted into hospitals, and every eligible place filled with sick, murmured not, but strove in every way to add to their comfort. i wish i could place every one before my readers to receive the meed of praise she so richly deserves; only a few, _very few_, names now occur to me. the hospitable mansion of judge ray was a complete rendezvous for convalescent soldiers; also the homes of mrs. mckinstry and mrs. morgan. the latter was one of the most beautiful women i ever saw. dr. gore used to say, "she is just _plum pretty_." she was a perfect blonde, with a small head "running over" with short, golden curls. the misses ray were brunettes, very handsome and stately. their brothers were in the army. judge ray never allowed his daughters to visit the hospitals, but atoned for that by unbounded hospitality. mrs. mckinstry was a constant visitor to the hospitals, and had her house full of sick soldiers. only one church in the town was left vacant in which to hold services. rev. r.a. holland, then a young, enthusiastic methodist minister, and a chaplain in the army, remained for some time in newnan, holding meetings which were largely attended. dr. holland was long after the war converted to the episcopal faith, and called to trinity church, new orleans. the bishops and ministers of the protestant episcopal church also held frequent services, and often catholic priests came among the sick, who greatly valued their holy ministration. through the kindness of a friend, an ownerless piano found in one of the stores was moved to my room, and, although not a good one, contributed largely to the pleasure of the soldiers, also serving for sacred music when needed. mr. blandner's lute, my piano, and mrs. gamble's soprano voice, joined to that of a confederate tenor or bass, or my own contralto, made delicious music. concerts, tableaux, plays, etc., were also given for the benefit of refugees or to raise money to send boxes to the front: at all these i assisted, but had no time for rehearsals, etc. i could only run over and sing my song or songs and then run back to my patients. some money was realized, but the entertainments were never a great financial success, because all soldiers were invited guests. still, some good was always accomplished. these amusements were greatly encouraged by physicians and others, as safety-valves to relieve the high-pressure of excitement, uncertainty, and dread which were characteristic of the time. i was always counted in, but seldom, very seldom, accepted an invitation, for it seemed to me like unfaithfulness to the memory of the gallant dead, and a mockery of the suffering in our midst. i could not rid myself of this feeling, and can truly say that during those fateful years, from the time when in richmond the "starvation parties" were organized, until the end, i never found a suitable time to dance or a time to laugh or a time to make merry. my own special kitchen (an immense wareroom at the back of the store, which was used for a distributing-room) was in newnan well fitted up. a cavernous fireplace, well supplied with big pots, little pots, bake-ovens, and stew-pans, was supplemented by a cooking-stove of good size. a large brick oven was built in the yard close by, and two professional bakers, with their assistants, were kept busy baking for the whole post. there happened to be a back entrance to this kitchen, and although the convalescents were not allowed inside, many were the interviews held at said door upon subjects of vital importance to the poor fellows who had walked far into the country to obtain coveted dainties which they wanted to have cooked "like my folks at home fix it up." they were never refused, and sometimes a dozen different "messes" were set off to await claimants,--potato-pones, cracklin bread, apple-pies, blackberry-pies, squirrels, birds, and often _chickens_. for a long time the amount of chickens brought in by "the boys" puzzled me. they had little or no money, and chickens were always high-priced. i had often noticed that the men in the wards were busy preparing _fish-hooks_, and yet, though they often "went fishing," they brought no fish to be cooked. one day the mystery was fully solved. an irate old lady called upon dr. mcallister, holding at the end of a string a fine, large chicken, and vociferously proclaiming her wrongs. "i _knowed_ i'd ketch 'em: i _knowed_ it. jes' look a-here," and she drew up the chicken, opened its mouth, and showed the butt of a fish-hook it had swallowed. upon further examination, it was found that the hook had been baited with a kernel of corn. "i've been noticin' a powerful disturbance among my fowls, an' every onct in while one of 'em would go over the fence like litenin' and i couldn't see what went with it. this mornin' i jes' sot down under the fence an' watched, and the fust thing i seed was a line flyin' over the fence right peert, an' as soon as it struck the ground the chickens all went for it, an' this yer fool chicken up and swallered it. now, i'm a lone woman, an' my chickens an' my truck-patch is my livin', and _i ain't gwine to stan' no sich!_" the convalescents, attracted by the shrill, angry voice, gathered around. their innocent surprise, and the wonder with which they examined the baited fish-hook and _sympathized with the old lady_, almost upset the gravity of the "sturgeons," as the old body called the doctors. there was one dry-goods store still kept open in newnan, but few ladies had the inclination or the means to go shopping. the cotton lying idle all over the south was then to a certain extent utilized. everything the men wore was dyed and woven at home: pants were either butternut, blue, or light purple, occasionally light yellow; shirts, coarse, but snowy white, or what would now be called _cream_. everybody knitted socks. ladies, negro women, girls, and even little boys, learned to knit. each tried to get ahead as to number and quality. ladies' stockings were also knitted of all grades from stout and thick to gossamer or open-work, etc. homespun dresses were proudly worn, and it became a matter of constant experiment and great pride to improve the quality and vary colors. warp and woof were finely spun, and beautiful combinations of colors ventured upon, although older heads eschewed them, and in consequence complacently wore their clean, smoothly-ironed gray, "pepper-and-salt," or brown homespuns long after the gayer ones had been faded by sun or water and had to be "dipped." hats and bonnets of all sorts and sizes were made of straw or palmetto, and trimmed with the same. most of them bore cockades of bright red and white (the "red, white, and red"), fashioned of strips knitted to resemble ribbons. some used emblems denoting the state or city of the wearer, others a small confederate battle-flag. young faces framed in these pretty hats, or looking out from under a broad-brim, appeared doubly bewitching. ladies worked early and late, first upon the fabric, and then upon beautifully-stitched homespun shirts, intended as gifts to favorite heroes returning to the front. during the winter nights the light of pine-knot fires had sufficed, but now confederate candles were used. it did seem as if the bees were southern sympathizers, and more faithfully than usual "improved each shining hour." the wax thus obtained was melted in large kettles, and yards of rags torn into strips and sewn together, then twisted to the size of lamp-wicks, were dipped into the liquid wax, cooled, and dipped again and again until of the right size. these yards of waxed rags were wound around a corncob or a bottle, then clipped, leaving about two yards "closely wound" to each candle. one end was left loose to light, and--here you have the recipe for confederate candles. when i came through the lines i was refused permission to bring any baggage; therefore my supply of clothing was exceedingly small. i had, however, some gold concealed about my person, and fortunately procured with it a plain wardrobe. this i had carefully treasured, but now it was rapidly diminishing. at least i must have one new dress. it was bought,--a simple calico, and not of extra quality. the cost was _three hundred dollars!_ with the exception of a plain muslin bought the following summer for three hundred and fifty dollars, it was my only indulgence in the extravagance of dress during the whole war. two pretty gray homespuns made in alabama were my standbys. a good-sized store had been assigned to me as a linen room and office. the linen room, standing upon the street, was very large, and shelved all around, a counter on one side, and otherwise furnished with splint chairs and boxes to sit upon. my sanctum lay behind it, and here my sick and convalescent boys came frequently, and dearly loved to come, to rest upon the lounge or upon my rocking-chair, to read, to eat nice little lunches, and often to write letters. the front room was the rendezvous of the surgeons. in the morning they came to consult me about diet-lists or to talk to each other. in the evening the promenade of the ladies generally ended here, the surgeons always came, and i am proud to say that a circle composed of more cultivated, refined gentlemen and ladies could not be found than those who met in the rough linen-room of the buckner hospital. dr. mcallister often looked in, but only for a few moments. he was devoted to his business as surgeon in charge of a large hospital. the multifarious duties of the position occupied him exclusively. he was a superb executive officer: nothing escaped his keen observation. no wrong remained unredressed, no recreant found an instant's toleration. he was ever restless, and not at all given to the amenities of life or to social intercourse, but fond of spending his leisure moments at his own temporary home, which a devoted wife made to him a paradise. his manners to strangers were very stiff; his friendship, once gained, was earnest and unchangeable. dr. gamble, surgeon of the post, was an urbane, kindly gentleman. business claimed his entire time also, and he was seldom seen outside of his office. the ladies of our little circle have been already mentioned, as well as most of the surgeons. dr. bemiss, of all others, was a general favorite. we did not see much of him, as he was a very busy man; but at least once a day he would find his way to the rendezvous, often looking in at the window as he "halted" outside for a little chat. invariably the whole party brightened up at his coming. he was so genial, so witty, so sympathetic, so entirely _en rapport_ with everybody. a casual occurrence, a little discussion involving, perhaps, a cunning attempt to enlist him on one side or the other, would prove the key to unlock a fund of anecdotes, repartee, _bon-mots_, and, best of all, word-pictures, for here dr. bemiss excelled every one i ever knew. my own relations with him were very pleasant, for he was my adviser and helper in using properly the louisiana and alabama funds. the friendship between drs. bemiss and gore seemed almost like that of damon and pythias. i think that dr. bemiss was first surgeon in charge of the "bragg," but when a larger field was assigned to him dr. gore succeeded, dr. bemiss still retaining in some way the position of superior officer. both these men were eminent surgeons and physicians, possessing in a remarkable degree the subtle comprehension and sympathy which is so valuable a quality in a physician. the tie that bound these two embraced a third, apparently as incongruous as possible,--dr. benjamin wible, also of louisville, a former partner of dr. bemiss. diogenes we used to call him, and he did his best to deserve the name. his countenance was forbidding, except when lighted up by a smile, which was only upon rare occasions. he was intolerant of what he called "stuff and nonsense," and had a way of disconcerting people by grunting whenever anything like sentimentality or gush was uttered in his presence. when he first came, his stern, dictatorial manner, together with the persistent coldness which resisted all attempts to be friendly and sociable, hurt and offended me; but he was so different when among the sick, so gentle, so benignant beside the bedsides of suffering men, that i soon learned to know and appreciate the royal heart which at other times he managed to conceal under a rough and forbidding exterior. dr. archer, of maryland, was as complete a contrast as could be imagined. a poet of no mean order, indulging in all the idiosyncrasies of a poet, he was yet a man of great nerve and an excellent surgeon. always dressed with _careful_ negligence, his hands beautifully white, his beard unshorn, his auburn hair floating over his uniformed shoulders in long ringlets, soft in speech, so very deferential to ladies as to seem almost lover-like, he was, nevertheless, very manly. quite a cavalier one could look up to and respect. at first i thought him effeminate, and did not like him, but his tender ways with my sick boys, the efficacy of his prescriptions, and his careful orders as to diet quite won me over. our friendship lasted until the end of my service in the buckner hospital, since which i have never seen him. another complete contrast to diogenes was dr. conway, of virginia, our _chesterfield_. his perfect manners and courtly observance of the smallest requirements of good breeding and etiquette made us feel quite as if we were lord and ladies. dr. conway had a way of conveying subtle indefinable flattery which was very elevating to one's self-esteem. others enjoyed it in full, but often, just as our chesterfield had interviewed _me_, infusing even into the homely subject of diet-lists much that was calculated to puff up my vanity, in would stalk diogenes, who never failed to bring me to a realizing sense of the hollowness of it all. dr. hughes was a venerable and excellent gentleman, who constituted himself my mentor. he never failed to drop in every day, being always ready to smooth tangled threads for me. he was forever protesting against the habit i had contracted in richmond, and never afterwards relinquished, of remaining late by the bedside of dying patients, or going to the wards whenever summoned at night. he would say, "daughter, it is not right, it is not safe; not only do you risk contagion by breathing the foul air of the wards at night, but some of these soldiers are mighty rough and might not always justify your confidence in them." but i would not listen. my firm belief in the honor of "my boys" and in their true and chivalrous devotion towards myself caused me to trust them utterly at all times and places. i can truly say that never during the whole four years of the war was that trust disturbed by even the roughest man of them all, although i was often placed in very trying circumstances, many times being entirely dependent upon their protection and care, _which never failed me_. so i used to set at naught the well-meant counsels of my kindly old friend, to laugh at his lugubrious countenance and the portentous shaking of his silvery head. we remained firm friends, however, and, though my dear old mentor has long since passed away, i still revere his memory. dr. yates was an ideal texan, brave, determined, plain, and straightforward, either a warm, true friend or an uncompromising enemy. he wished to be at the front, and was never satisfied with hospital duties. mrs. yates was a favorite with all. dr. jackson, of alabama, in charge of the officers' quarters, performed some miracles in the way of surgical operation. he was a great favorite with his patients, who complained bitterly because they were so often deprived of his services for a time, when his skilful surgery was needed at the front. besides these were drs. devine, ruell, estell, baruch, frost, carmichael, welford, and griffith, none of whom i know particularly well. meantime, the wounded of several battles had filled and crowded the wards. as before, every train came in freighted with human misery. in the buckner hospital alone there were nearly a thousand beds, tenanted by every conceivable form of suffering. an ambulance-train arrived one night, bringing an unusually large number of sick and wounded men, whose piteous moans filled the air as they were brought up the hill on "stretchers" or alighted at the door of the hospital from ambulances, which, jolting over the rough, country road, had tortured them inexpressibly. occasionally a scream of agony would arise, but more frequently suppressed groans bespoke strong men's suffering manfully borne. in the ward where those badly wounded were placed, there was so much to be done, that morning found the work unfinished. it was, therefore, later than usual when i found time to pay my usual morning visits to other wards. upon entering ward no. , my attention was attracted by a new patient, who lay propped up on one of the bunks near a window. he was a mere lad (perhaps twenty). his eyes, as they met mine, expressed so plainly a sense of captivity and extreme dislike of it that i felt very sorry for him. he had been dressed in a clean hospital shirt, but one shoulder and arm was bare and bandaged, for he was wounded in the left shoulder,--a slight wound, but sufficient to occasion severe pain and fever. at first i did not approach him, but his eyes followed me as i paused by each bed to ascertain the needs of the sick and to bestow particular care in many cases. at last i stood by his side, and, placing my hand upon his head, spoke to him. he moved uneasily, seemingly trying to repress the quivering of his lip and the tears that, nevertheless, would come. not wishing to notice his emotion just then, i called the nurse, and, by way of diversion, gave a few trifling directions, then passed on to another ward. returning later, bringing some cooling drink and a bottle of confederate bay-water (vinegar), i gave him to drink and proceeded to sponge off his head and hands. he submitted, as it seemed at first, unwillingly, but just as i turned to leave him he suddenly seized my hand, kissed it, and laid his burning cheek upon it. from that moment i was eagerly welcomed by him whenever i appeared among the sick. when he began to mend and was allowed to talk freely, i learned his name, charley percy, that he was a native of bayou sara, louisiana, and a member of the fifth company of washington artillery, captain slocomb commanding. he had been wounded at resaca. i grew to love him dearly. as soon as he was permitted to leave his bed he became averse to remaining in the ward, and most of his waking hours were spent in the little room which was specially allotted to me. whenever i returned after my rounds among the sick it was a certainty that the glad, bright presence awaited me, and that many little plans for my rest and comfort would make the rough place homelike. he became to me like a dear young brother, devoted and ever-thoughtful. the matron's room at the hospital was called very often "soldiers' rest," and sometimes "the promised land," because many soldiers came there every day, and those newly convalescent made it a goal which they aspired to reach as soon as permitted. this habit gave me an opportunity to use properly what might have been sent in boxes which arrived frequently from different quarters, filled with a variety of goodies, but in quantities entirely insufficient to supply all the soldiers. a sangaree or any other delicacy, taken while resting after a walk which taxed the weakened energies to the utmost, or a meal served outside the fevered air of the wards, did more to build up the strength than any amount of medicine could have done. as there never was, by any chance, a supply of these things for one thousand men (the usual number assigned to buckner hospital), delicacies (already becoming scarce) were served only to the very sick or to convalescents. it was beautiful to see how young percy delighted to assist in waiting on these visitors to "the soldiers' rest,"--how his sprightliness pleased and amused them. his own great embarrassment seemed to be that he had lost all his clothes at the time he was wounded, so was compelled to wear the unbleached shirts with blue cottonade collars and cuffs, which were supplied to all patients, numbered to correspond with the bunks. these he called state's prison uniform. one day, however, dr. fenner from new orleans, louisiana, paid a visit to buckner hospital (then located at newnan, georgia), leaving with me two large boxes of clothing and stores for the louisiana soldiers. percy assisted to unpack these boxes, soon finding himself amply provided with underclothing and a nice jacket and pants of gray, also a new blanket. he was pleased, but not yet quite satisfied, for the jacket was simply gray. he wanted it trimmed with red. it chanced that there was in one of the boxes a piece of red flannel. with this i trimmed the suit under his careful supervision. i can never forget how happy he was to get into this suit, or how he danced around me, pretending to go through the artillery drill, and to load and fire at imaginary yankees. later, his cap was retrimmed, the letters and artillery badge furbished up, and one beautiful day was made sad and gloomy to his friends and myself by the departure of this brave, dear boy, to rejoin his command. eager, bright, full of fire and ardor, the young soldier went to meet his doom. he reached the front (where the company to which he belonged was always to be found) shortly before the battle of peach-tree creek, and here, his bright young face turned to the foe, his eager hands serving his gun to the last, he met a soldier's death. alas! poor percy, his fate seemed hard; yet, while sincerely grieving, i remembered with some degree of comfort the fact that so he had wished to die,--"upon the field of glory." there came to the hospital at the same time with young percy an intimate friend and comrade of his, whose name and the circumstances of his death were preserved in a diary kept by me, but which, with all my papers, fell into the hands of the enemy subsequently. this poor fellow had pneumonia, which soon developed into typhoid. he was delirious when brought in and never regained consciousness. vainly i strove to soothe him, stroking back the long, straight hair, black as a raven's wing, vainly trying to close the magnificent black eyes, which forever stared into space, while the plaintive voice repeated ceaselessly, "viens à moi, oh, ma mère" and thus he moaned and moaned until at last the white eyelids drooped beneath the gaze of death, and the finger of eternal silence was laid upon the fevered lips. of course percy was not told how his friend died until long afterward, when his questions could no longer be evaded. he was deeply moved, crying out, "i don't want to die like that. if i must die during this war, i hope i shall be instantly killed upon the battle-field." this wish was granted. he sleeps in a soldier's grave. in the light of eternity the sad mystery which still shadows the hearts of those who live to mourn the holy cause--loved and lost--exists no more for him. besides the "buckner," there were the "bragg" and two more hospitals, the names of which i have forgotten, one presided over by two gentle ladies,--mrs. harrison and mrs. ----, of florida,--whose devotion and self-sacrifice, as well as their lovely christian character and perfect manners, made them well-beloved by everybody at the post. mrs. harrison was a zealous episcopalian. through her influence and correspondence frequent services were held in newnan. we several times enjoyed the ministrations of bishops quintard, beckwith, and wilmer. the large number of wounded men, and the fearful character of their wounds, made skill and devotion on the part of the surgeons of the greatest importance. these conditions were well fulfilled, and aided by the healthy locality "and" (during the first few months) "the excellent possibilities open to our foragers," many a poor fellow struggled back to comparative health. i was particularly fortunate while in newnan in having at my command supplies of clothing and money from both louisiana and alabama. this, with the aid of my own wages, which, although i had refused to receive them, had accumulated and been placed to my account, and which i now drew, gave me excellent facilities for providing comforts, not only for the sick, but for the braves at the front, whose rations were growing "small by degrees and beautifully less." upon two occasions i received visits from the venerable dr. fenner, of louisiana, and his colleague, mr. collins. each time they left money and clothing, giving me large discretionary powers, although specifying that, as the money was supplied by louisianians, the soldiers from that state should be first considered. through mr. peter hamilton, of mobile, alabama, i also received boxes of clothing and delicacies, and, upon two occasions, six hundred dollars in money, with the request, "of course, help our boys _first_, but in _any case_ where sufferings or need exist, use your own judgment." as there were hundreds entirely cut off from home, actually suffering from want of clothing, sometimes needing a little good wine or extra food, i found many occasions where it seemed to me right to use this discretionary power, especially during visits to the front, which i was called upon to make about this time, first to my husband and his comrades in kingston and dalton, later to macon to look up some louisiana and alabama soldiers, and lastly to atlanta, where my husband and many other friends lay in the trenches. (of these experiences more hereafter.) mrs. harrison, mrs. gamble, myself, and one or two others were the only episcopalians among the ladies of the post, but the services were attended by soldiers, both officers and privates. mrs. gamble, of course, led the choir. we could always find bassos and tenors. i sang alto. the music was really good. the death of bishop polk was a great grief to everybody, especially to the faithful few among us who revered him as a minister of the church. even while saying to ourselves and to each other "god knows best," we could not at once stifle the bitterness of grief, for it seemed as if a mighty bulwark had been swept away. i had known bishop polk as a faithful and loving shepherd of souls, feeding his flock in green pastures, tenderly leading the weary and grief-stricken ones beside the waters of comfort. but when the peaceful fold was invaded, when threatening howls were arising on every side,--casting aside for a time the garb of a shepherd, he sallied forth, using valorously his trusty sword, opposing to the advance of the foe his own faithful breast, never faltering until slain by the horrid fangs which greedily fastened themselves deep in his heart. as i have already mentioned, i made during the winter and spring several visits to the front. at one time my husband, a member of fenner's louisiana battery, was with his command in winter quarters at kingston, whither i went to pay a visit and to inquire after the needs of the "boys." my little son (who had by this time joined me at newnan) accompanied me. kingston was at this time a bleak, dismal-looking place. i stopped at a large, barn-like hotel, from the gallery of which, while sitting with visitors from camp, i witnessed an arrival of georgia militia, whose disembarkation from a train in front of the hotel was met by a noisy demonstration. they were a strange-looking set of men, but had "store clothes," warm wraps, sometimes tall hats, in all cases _good ones_. this, with the air of superiority they affected, was enough to provoke the fun-loving propensities of the ragged, rough-looking veterans who had collected to watch for the arrival of the train. as the shaking, rickety cars passed out of sight, these raw troops walked up to the hotel and there strode up and down, assuming supreme indifference to the storm of raillery which assailed them. of course my sympathies were with the veterans, and i laughed heartily at their pranks. one of the first to set the ball in motion was a tall, athletic-looking soldier clad in jeans pants, with a faded red stripe adorning one leg only, ragged shoes tied up with twine strings, and a flannel shirt which undoubtedly had been washed by the confederate military process (_i.e._, tied by a string to a bush on the bank of a stream, allowed to lie in the water awhile, then stirred about with a stick or boat upon a rock, and hung up to drip and dry upon the nearest bush or tied to the swaying limb of a tree). "a shocking bad hat" of the slouch order completed his costume. approaching a tall specimen of "melish," who wore a new homespun suit of "butternut jeans," a gorgeous cravat, etc., the soldier opened his arms and cried out in intense accents, "_let_ me kiss him for his mother!" another was desired to "come out of that hat." a big veteran, laying his hand on the shoulder of a small, scared-looking, little victim, and wiping his own eyes upon his old hat, whined out, "i _say_, buddy, you didn't bring along no sugar-teats, did you? i'm got a powerful hankerin' atter some." an innocent-looking soldier would stop suddenly before one of the new-comers neatly dressed, peer closely at his shirt-front, renewing the scrutiny again and again with increasing earnestness, then, striking an attitude, would cry out, "_biled_, by jove!" one, with a stiff, thick, new overcoat, was met with the anxious inquiry, "have you got plenty of _stuffing_ in that coat, about _here_" (with a hand spread over stomach and heart), "because the yankee bullets is mighty penetrating." each new joke was hailed with shouts of laughter and ear-piercing rebel yells, but at last the "melish" was marched off and the frolic ended. i received two invitations for the following day, one to dine with the officers of fenner's louisiana battery, and one, which i accepted, from the soldiers of my husband's mess. about twelve o'clock the next morning an ambulance stood before the door of the hotel. from it descended a spruce-looking colored driver, who remarked, as he threw the reins over the mule's back, "don't nobody go foolin' wid dat da mule ontwill i comes back. i jes gwine to step ober to de store yander 'bout some biziness fur de cap'n. dat mule he feel mity gaily dis mornin'. look like he jes tryin' hisseff when he fin' nuffin' behin' him but dis amperlants (ambulance) stid ob dem hebby guns." off he went, leaving the mule standing without being tied, and looking an incarnation of mischief. the road to camp was newly cleared and full of stumps and ruts. as i stood upon the upper gallery awaiting the return of our jehu, our little boy, taking advantage of the extra fondness inspired in the heart of his father by long absence, clamored to be lifted into the ambulance. this wish was gratified, his father intending to take the reins and mount to the driver's seat, but before he could do so the mule started off at headlong speed, with georgie's scared face looking out at the back, and perhaps a dozen men and boys in hot pursuit. the mule went on to camp, creating great alarm there. the child in some miraculous manner rolled out at the back of the ambulance, and was picked up unhurt. this accident delayed matters a little, but in due time we arrived at the village of log-huts, called "camp," and, having paid our respects to the officers, repaired to the hut of my husband's mess. the dinner was already cooking outside. inside on a rough shelf were piles of shining tin-cups and plates, newly polished. the lower bunk had been filled with new, _pine_ straw, and made as soft as possible by piling upon it all the blankets of the mess. this formed the chair of state. upon it were placed, first, myself (the centre figure), on one side my husband, exempt from duty for the day, on the other my little boy, who, far from appreciating the intended honor, immediately "squirmed" down, and ran off on a tour of investigation through the camp. the mess consisted of six men including my husband, of whom the youngest was lionel c. levy, jr., a mere boy, but a splendid soldier, full of fun and nerve and dash. then there was my husband's bosom friend, j. hollingsworth, or uncle jake, as he was called by everybody. of the industrial pursuits of the mess, he was the leading spirit, indeed, in every way his resources were unbounded. his patience, carefulness, and pains-taking truly achieved wonderful results in contriving and carrying into execution plans for the comfort of the mess. he always carried an extra haversack, which contained everything that could be thought of to meet contingencies or repair the neglect of other people. he was a devoted patriot and a contented, uncomplaining soldier; never sick, always on duty, a thorough gentleman, kindly in impulses and acts, but--well, yes, there was one spot upon this sun,--he was a confirmed bachelor. he could face the hottest fire upon the battle-field, but a party of ladies--_never_ with his own consent. upon the day in question, however, i was not only an invited guest, but the wife of his messmate and friend. so, overcoming his diffidence, he made himself very agreeable, and meeting several times afterward during the war, under circumstances which made pleasant intercourse just as imperative, we became fast friends, and have remained so to this day. john sharkey, miles sharkey, and one more, whose name i have forgotten, comprised, with those mentioned above, the entire mess. the dinner was excellent, better than many a more elegant and plentiful repast of which i have partaken since the war. all the rations of beef and pork were combined to make a fricassee _à la camp_, the very small rations of flour being mixed with the cornmeal to make a large, round loaf of "stuff." these delectable dishes were both cooked in bake-ovens outside the cabin. from cross-sticks, arranged gypsy-fashion, swung an iron pot, in which was prepared the cornmeal coffee, which, with "long sweetening" (molasses) and without milk, composed the meal. in this well-arranged mess the work was so divided that each man had his day to cut all the wood, bring all the water, cook, wash dishes, and keep the cabin in order. so, on this occasion there was no confusion. all was accomplished with precision. in due time a piece of board was placed before me with my rations arranged upon it in a bright tin plate, my coffee being served in a gorgeous mug, which, i strongly suspect, had been borrowed for the occasion, having once been a shaving-mug. dinner over, lieutenant cluverius called to escort me through the camp, and at the officers' quarters i met many old acquaintances. upon inquiry, i found the boys in camp contented and entirely unwilling to receive any benefit from the fund placed in my hands. they had taken the chances of a soldier's life, and were quite willing to abide by them. the terrible bumping which i had experienced while riding to camp, in the ambulance drawn by the "gaily mule," disinclined me for another ride. so, just at sunset, my husband and i, with our boy and one or two friends, walked through the piny woods to the hotel, whence i returned next day to newnan. this was during the winter. later, i made a second trip, this time to macon, having been called upon to supply money to the family of an old soldier (deceased) who wanted to reach home. wishing to investigate in person, i went to macon. on the morning of my return, while passing through one of the hospitals, i met at the bedside of a louisiana soldier a member of fenner's battery, john augustin, of new orleans. at the depot we met again, and the gentleman very kindly took charge of me. i was going to newnan, he returning to camp. delightful conversation beguiled the way. among other subjects, poets and poetry were discussed. i told him of dr. archer, and a beautiful "ode to hygeia" composed by him, parts of which i remembered and repeated. gradually i discovered that mr. augustin had an unfinished manuscript of his own with him, entitled "doubt," and at last persuaded him to let me read it. finding me interested, he yielded to my earnest request,--that he would send me all his poems in manuscript. in due time they came, and with them a dedication to myself, so gracefully conceived, so beautifully expressed, that i may be pardoned for inserting it here. "l'envoi. "to mrs. fannie a. beers. "to you, though known but yesterday, i trust these winged thoughts of mine. be not, i pray, too critically just, rather be mercy thine! "nor think on reading my despairing rhymes that i am prone to sigh. poets, like children, weep and laugh at times, without scarce knowing why! "thoughts tend to heaven, mine are weak and faint. please help them up for me; the sick and wounded bless you as a saint, in this my patron be; "and as the sun when shining it appears on dripping rain awhile, make a bright rainbow of my fancy's tears with your condoling smile. "kingston, february , ." at the front, desultory fighting was always going on. our army under general johnston acting on the defensive, although retreating, contesting every step of the way, and from intrenched position, doing great damage to the enemy. as the spring fairly opened, our troops became more actively engaged. from the skirmishes came to us many wounded. in may, the battle of new hope church was fought. general johnston, in his "narrative," speaks of this as "the _affair_ at new hope." judging from my own knowledge of the number of wounded who were sent to the rear, and the desperate character of their wounds, i should say it was a _very terrible_ "affair." a great many officers were wounded and all our wards were full. there came to me some special friends from fenner's louisiana battery, which was heavily engaged, losing several men and nearly all the horses. lieutenant wat. tyler cluverius, while standing on the top of the breastworks and turning towards his men to wave his sword, was shot through both shoulders, a very painful wound, but which the gallant young soldier made light of, pretending to be deeply mortified because "he had been _shot in the back_." although an exceptional soldier, he was a most troublesome patient, because his strong desire to return to his command made him restless and dissatisfied, greatly retarding his recovery. indeed, he would not remain in bed or in his ward. a more splendid-looking officer i never saw. better still, under his jacket of gray there beat a heart instinct with every virtue which belongs by nature to a virginia gentleman. with the ladies of the "post" he became a prime favorite. so kind and attentive were they that i gave myself little thought concerning him. he was off and away in a wonderfully short time, for duty lay _at the front_ and the strongest attractions could not outweigh its claims. w.t. vaudry, also of fenner's louisiana battery, was by his own request sent to me. his wound was as painful as any that can be imagined. he had been struck full in the pit of the stomach by a spent ball, and was completely doubled up. he had been left on the field for dead, and for some time it was feared that fatal internal injuries had been received. from the nature of the wound, a full examination could not be made at first. speedy relief was quite impossible. even the loss of a limb or the most severe flesh-wound would have caused less intense agony. courage and endurance equally distinguish the true soldier: the one distinction was his already, the other he now nobly won during days of exquisite torture. i little thought as i bent over him day after day, bathing the fevered brow, meeting with sorrowful sympathy the eyes dim with anguish, that in this suffering _boy_ i beheld one of the future deliverers of an outraged and oppressed people. the officers' ward was delightfully situated on the corner of the main street. its many windows commanded a pleasant view of a beautiful shaded square in the midst of which stood the brick court-house (now filled with sick, and pertaining to the bragg hospital). the windows on the side street gave a view far up the street, becoming a post of observation for the gallant young officers within, who invariably arranged themselves here "_for inspection_," at the usual hour for the ladies' promenade, looking as became interesting invalids, returning with becoming languor the glances of bright eyes in which shone the pity which we are told is "akin to love." later these knights being permitted to join in the promenade, made the very most of their helplessness, enjoying hugely the necessary ministrations so simply and kindly given. among these officers were two whose condition excited my most profound sympathy as well as required special care. both were exiles; both badly wounded. one, indeed, bore a wound so terrible that even though i looked upon it every day, i could never behold it without a shudder. from a little above the knee to the toes the mechanism of the leg was entirely exposed, except upon the heel, which always rested in a suspensory bandage lifted above the level of the bed upon which he rested. every particle of the flesh had sloughed off, and the leg began to heal not "by first intention" but by unhealthy granulations like excrescences. these had constantly to be removed, either by the use of nitric acid (i believe) or by the knife. as maybe imagined, it was horribly painful, _and there was no chloroform_. day after day i was sent for, and stood by, while this terrible thing was going on, wiping the sweat from the face that, though pale as death, never quivered. save an occasional groan, deep and suppressed, there was no "fuss." does it seem to you that this was exceptional, dear reader? ah! no; in the wards outside, where lay hundreds of _private soldiers_, without the pride of rank to sustain them, only their simple, noble manhood, i daily witnessed such scenes. the courage and daring of our soldiers have won full appreciation from the whole world. of their patient endurance, i was for four years a constant witness, and i declare that it was sublime beyond conception. i cannot remember the name of the heroic officer whose wound i have described. i remember, however, that dr. jackson treated it successfully, and that in the desperate days, towards the close of the war, the wounded man was again at his post. i know not whether he fell in battle or if he still lives bearing that horrible scar. captain weller, of louisville, kentucky, was also an inmate of the same ward. my remembrance of him is that he also was badly wounded. i also recollect that he was a great favorite with his comrades in the ward, who spoke enthusiastically of his "record." he was never gay like the others, but self-contained and reticent, and frequently grave and sad, as became an exile from "the old kentucky home." my cares were at this time of constant skirmishing, greatly increased by anxiety for my husband. he had at the battle of new hope church, while carrying ammunition from the caisson to the gun, received a slight wound in the left foot, but did not consider it of sufficient importance to cause him to leave his command. later, however, he succumbed to dysentery, and after the battle of jonesboro', although having served his gun to the last, he was utterly overcome, and fell by the road-side. the last ambulance picked him up, and he was sent to newnan, as all supposed, to die. had i not been in a position to give him every advantage and excellent nursing he must have died. even with this, the disease was only arrested, not cured, and for years after the war still clung about him. under providence, his life was saved at that time. this one blessing seemed to me a full recompense for all i had hitherto encountered, and a thorough justification of my persistence in the course i marked out for myself at the beginning of the war. various "_affairs_" continued to employ the soldiers at the front; in all of these our losses were _comparatively_ small. i never saw the soldiers in better spirits. there was little if any "shirking." as soon as--almost before--they were recovered they cheerfully reported for duty. the "expediency" of johnston's retreat was freely discussed. all seemed to feel that the enemy was being drawn away from his base of supplies into a strange country, where he would be trapped at last, and to feel sure that it was "all right." "let old joe alone, _he_ knows what he is about," and on every hand expressions of strong affection and thorough confidence. the army was certainly far from being "demoralized," as general hood must have discovered, when, immediately afterward, on the d of july, and later at franklin, they withstood so magnificently the shock of battle, and at the word of command hurled themselves again and again against the enemy, rushing dauntlessly onward to meet overwhelming numbers and certain death. on the th of july, the news reached us that general johnston had been relieved from command, and that general hood had succeeded him. i knew nothing of the relative merits of the two commanders, and had no means of judging but by the effect upon the soldiers by whom i was then surrounded. the whole post seemed as if stricken by some terrible calamity. convalescents walked about with lagging steps and gloomy faces. in every ward lay men who wept bitterly or groaned aloud or, covering their faces, refused to speak or eat. from that hour the buoyant, hopeful spirit seemed to die out. i do not think anything was ever the same again. for, when after the awful sacrifice of human life which followed the inauguration of the new policy, the decimated army _still_ were forced to retreat, the shadow of doom began to creep slowly upon the land. the anchor of _my_ soul was my unbounded confidence in president davis; while he was at the helm i felt secure of ultimate success, and bore present ills and disappointments patiently, _never doubting_. meantime, disquieting rumors were flying about, railroad communication was cut off here and there, and with it mail facilities. of course the confederate leaders were apprised of the movements of the federals, but at the hospital post we were constantly on the _qui vive_. large numbers of convalescents were daily returning to the front, among them lieutenant cluverius, mr. vaudry, and captain weller. rumors of the approach of the federal forces under mccook had for days disquieted our minds. the little town of newnan and immediately surrounding country was already full of refugees. every day brought more. besides, the presence of hundreds of sick and wounded, in the hospitals which had been established there, rendered the prospect of an advance of the enemy by no means a pleasant one. but, as far as the hospitals were concerned, the surgeons in charge must await orders from headquarters. as long as none were received, we felt comparatively safe. one night, however, a regiment of roddy's confederate cavalry quietly rode in, taking possession of the railroad depot at the foot of the hill, and otherwise mysteriously disposing of themselves in the same neighborhood. the following morning opened bright and lovely, bringing to the anxious watchers of the night before that sense of security which always comes with the light. all business was resumed as usual. i had finished my early rounds, fed my special cases, and was just entering the distributing-room to send breakfast to the wards, when a volley of musketry, quickly followed by another and another, startled the morning air. quickly an excited crowd collected and rushed to the top of the hill commanding a view of the depot and railroad track. i ran with the rest. "_the yankees! the yankees!_" was the cry. the firing continued for a few moments, then ceased. when the smoke cleared away, our own troops could be seen drawn up on the railroad and on the depot platform. the hill on the opposite side seemed to swarm with yankees. evidently they had expected to surprise the town, but, finding themselves opposed by a force whose numbers they were unable to estimate, they hastily retreated up the hill. by that time a crowd of impetuous boys had armed themselves and were running down the hill on our side to join the confederates. few men followed (of the citizens), for those who were able had already joined the army. those who remained were fully occupied in attending to the women and children. it was evident that the fight was only delayed. an attack might be expected at any moment. an exodus from the town at once began. already refugees from all parts of the adjacent country had begun to pour into and pass through, in endless procession and every conceivable and inconceivable style of conveyance, drawn by horses, mules, oxen, and even by a single steer or cow. most of these were women and boys, though the faces of young children appeared here and there,--as it were, "thrown in" among the "plunder,"--looking pitifully weary and frightened, yet not so heart-broken as the anxious women who knew not where their journey was to end. nor had they "where to lay their heads," some of them having left behind only the smoking ruins of a home, which, though "ever so lowly," was "the sweetest spot on earth" to them. mccook, by his unparalleled cruelty, had made his name a horror. the citizens simply stampeded, "nor stood upon the order of their going." there was no time for deliberation. they could not move goods or chattels, only a few articles of clothing; no room for trunks and boxes. every carriage, wagon, and cart was loaded down with human freight; every saddle-horse was in demand. all the negroes from the hospital as well as those belonging to the citizens were removed at once to a safe distance. these poor creatures were as much frightened as anybody and as glad to get away. droves of cattle and sheep were driven out on the run, lowing and bleating their indignant remonstrance. while the citizens were thus occupied, the surgeons in charge of hospitals were not less busy, though far more collected and methodical. dr. mcallister, of the "buckner," and dr. s.m. bemiss, of the "bragg," were both brave, cool, executive men. their self-possession, their firm, steady grasp of the reins of authority simplified matters greatly. only those unable to bear arms were left in the wards. convalescents would have resented and probably disobeyed an order to remain. not only were they actuated by the brave spirit of southern soldiers, but they preferred anything to remaining to be captured,--better far death than the horrors of a northern prison. so all quietly presented themselves, and, with assistant-surgeons, druggists, and hospital attendants, were armed, officered, and marched off to recruit the regiment before mentioned. the ladies, wives of officers, attendants, etc., were more difficult to manage, for dread of the "yankees," combined with the pain of parting with their husbands or friends, who would soon go into battle, distracted them. fabulous prices were offered for means of conveyance. as fast as one was procured it was filled and crowded. at last, all were sent off except one two-horse buggy, which dr. mcallister had held for his wife and myself, and which was driven by his own negro boy, sam. meantime, i had visited all the wards, for some of the patients were very near death, and all were in a state of great and injurious excitement. i did not for a moment pretend to withstand their entreaties that i would remain with them, having already decided to do so. their helplessness appealed so strongly to my sympathies that i found it impossible to resist. besides, i had an idea and a hope that even in the event of the town being taken i might prevail with the enemy to ameliorate their condition as prisoners. so i promised, and quietly passed from ward to ward announcing my determination, trying to speak cheerfully. excitement, so great that it produced outward calm, enabled me to resist the angry remonstrances of the surgeon and the tearful entreaties of mrs. mcallister, who was nearly beside herself with apprehension. at last everybody was gone; intense quiet succeeded the scene of confusion. i was _alone,--left in charge_. a crushing sense of responsibility fell upon my heart. the alarm had been first given about eight o'clock in the morning. by three the same afternoon soldiers, citizens, _all_ had disappeared. only a few men who, by reason of wounds too recently healed or from other causes, were unable to march or to fight had been left to act as nurses. i sat down upon the steps of my office to think it over and to gather strength for all i had to do. on either side of me were two-story stores which had been converted into wards, where the sickest patients were generally placed, that i might have easy access to them. suddenly, from one of the upper wards, i heard a hoarse cry, as if some one had essayed to give the rebel yell. following it a confused murmur of voices. running hastily up-stairs, i met at the door of the ward a ghastly figure, clad all in white (the hospital shirt and drawers), but with a military cap on his head. it was one of my fever patients who had been lying at death's door for days. the excitement of the morning having brought on an access of fever with delirium, he had arisen from his bed, put on his cap, and started, yelling, "_to join the boys!_" weak as i had supposed him to be, his strength almost over-mastered my own. i could hardly prevent him from going down the stairs. the only man in the ward able to assist me at all was minus an arm and just recovering after amputation. i was afraid his wound might possibly begin to bleed, besides, i knew that any _man's_ interference would excite the patient still more. relying upon the kindly, chivalrous feeling which my presence always seemed to inspire in my patients, i promised to get his gun for him if he would go back and put on his clothes, and, placing my arm around the already tottering and swaying figure, by soothing and coaxing got him back to the bed. a sinking spell followed, from which he never rallied. in a lower ward another death occurred, due also to sudden excitement. fearful of the effect that a knowledge of this would have upon other patients, i resorted to deception, declaring that the dead men were better and asleep, covering them, excluding light from windows near them, and even pretending at intervals to administer medicines. and now came another trial, from which i shrank fearfully, but which must be borne. in the "wounded wards," and in tents outside where men having gangrene were isolated, horrible sights awaited me,--sights which i trembled to look upon,--fearful wounds which had, so far, been attended to only by the surgeons. these wounds were now dry, and the men were groaning with pain. minute directions having been left with me, i must nerve myself to uncover the dreadful places, wash them, and apply fresh cloths. in the cases of gangrene, poultices of yeast and charcoal, or some other preparation left by the surgeons. entering ward no. , where there were many badly-wounded men, i began my work upon a boy of perhaps nineteen years, belonging to a north carolina regiment, who had one-half of his face shot away. my readers may imagine the dreadful character of the wounds in this ward, when i relate that a day or two after a terrible battle at the front, when dozens of wounded were brought in, so badly were they mangled and so busy were the surgeons, that i was permitted to dress this boy's face unaided. _then_ it was bad enough, but neither so unsightly nor so painful as _now_ that inflammation had supervened. the poor boy tried not to flinch. his one bright eye looked gratefully up at me. after i had finished, he wrote upon the paper which was always at his hand, "you didn't hurt me like them doctors. don't let the yankees get me, i want to have another chance at _them_ when i get well." having succeeded so well, i "took heart of grace," and felt little trepidation afterward. but--oh! the horror of it. an arkansas soldier lay gasping out his life, a piece of shell having carried away a large portion of his breast, leaving the lungs exposed to view. no hope, save to alleviate his pain by applying cloths wet with cold water. another, from tennessee, had lost a part of his thigh,--and so on. the amputations were my greatest dread, lest i might displace bandages and set an artery bleeding. so i dared not remove the cloths, but used an instrument invented by one of our surgeons, as may be imagined, of primitive construction, but which, wetting the tender wounds gradually by a sort of spray, gave great relief. of course, fresh cloths were a constant necessity for suppurating wounds, but for those nearly healed, or simply inflamed, the spray was invaluable. the tents were the last visited, and by the time i had finished the rounds, it was time to make some arrangements for the patients' supper, for wounded men are always hungry. i remember gratefully to this day the comfort and moral support i received during this trying ordeal from a south carolina soldier, who even then knew that his own hours were numbered, and was looking death in the face with a calm resignation and courage which was simply sublime. he had been shot in the spine, and from the waist down was completely paralyzed. after he had been wounded, some one unintentionally having laid him down too near a fire, his feet were burned in a shocking manner. he was one of the handsomest men i ever saw, and, even in his present condition, of commanding presence and of unusual intelligence. i strive in vain to recall his name, but memory in this as in many other cases of patients to whom i was particularly attracted will present their faces only. calling me to his bedside he spoke kindly and cheerfully, praising my efforts, encouraging me to go on, drawing upon his store of general knowledge for expedients to meet the most trying cases. everything that dr. mcallister did was well and completely done. he was kind-hearted, generous, ready to do or sacrifice anything for the real good of his patients; but his rules once laid down became immutable laws, not to be transgressed by any. his constant supervision and enforcement of rules affected every department of the hospital. in my own, i had only to report a dereliction of duty, and the fate of the culprit was sealed. if a woman, i had orders to discharge her; if a man, the next train bore him to his regiment or to the office of the medical director, upon whose tender mercies no wrong-doer could rely. consequently, i had only to go to my well-ordered kitchen to find ready the food which it had been my first care to have prepared in view of the (as i hoped) temporary absence of the cooks. the departing men had all taken marching rations with them, but there was still plenty of food on hand. a bakery was attached to the buckner. we also owned several cows. in the bakery was plenty of corn-bread and some loaves of flour-bread, although flour was even then becoming scarce. the cows, with full udders, stood lowing at the bars of the pen. among the doubts and fears that had assailed me, the idea that i might have trouble with these cows never occurred to my mind. during my childhood my mother had owned several. i had often seen them milked. one had only to seize the teats firmly, pull quietly downward, and two streams of rich milk would follow. oh, yes! i could do that easily. but when i arrived at the pen, a tin bucket in one hand, a milking-stool in the other, and letting down the bars, crept inside, the cows eyed me with evident distrust and even shook their horns in a menacing manner which quite alarmed me. however, i marched up to the one which appeared the mildest-looking, and sitting down by her side, seized two of the teats, fully expecting to hear the musical sound of two white streamlets as they fell upon the bottom of the tin bucket. _not a drop could i get_. my caressing words and gentle remonstrances had not the slightest effect. if it is possible for an animal to feel and show contempt, it was revealed in the gaze that cow cast upon me as she turned her head to observe my manoeuvres. i had heard that some cows have a bad habit of holding back their milk. perhaps this was one of them. i would try another. removing the stool to the side of another meek-looking animal, i essayed to milk _her_. but she switched her tail in my face, lifting a menacing, horrid hoof. "_soh, bossy!_" cried i. "pretty, _pretty_ cow that makes pleasant milk to soak my bread." in another moment i was seated flat upon the ground, while my pretty, pretty cow capered wildly among the rest, so agitating them that, thinking discretion the better part of valor, i hastily climbed over the fence at the point nearest to me and returned to the kitchen. what should i do now? perhaps one of the decrepit nurses left in the ward knew how to milk. but no, they did not, except one poor, limping rheumatic who could only use one hand. just then a feeble-looking patient from the bragg hospital came tottering along. he also knew how to milk, and they both, volunteered to try. much to my surprise and delight, the cows now behaved beautifully, perhaps owing to the fact that, obeying the injunctions of my two recruits, i provided each with a bundle of fodder to distract their attention during the milking process. there was more milk than i could possibly use, as nearly all the convalescents were absent. so i set several pans of it away, little thinking how soon it would be needed. by the time all had been fed, i felt very weary; but it was midnight before i found a minute's time to rest. i had made frequent rounds through all the buildings of the hospital, each time finding some one who had need of me. at last, wearied out by the excitement of the day, the sick grew quiet and inclined to sleep. released for a time, i sat down on the steps of my office to think and to listen: for i did not know anything of the whereabouts of the enemy. the town might have been surrendered. at any moment the federal soldiers might appear. just then, however, the streets were utterly deserted. the stillness was oppressive. if i could only discover a friendly light in one of these deserted dwellings. oh, for the sound of a kindly voice, the sight of a familiar face! doubtless there may have been some who had remained to protect their household gods, but they were women, and remained closely within doors. melancholy thoughts oppressed me. through gathering tears i gazed at the pale moon, whose light seemed faded and wan. there came to me memories of the long-ago, when i had strayed among the orange-groves of my own dear home under a moonlight far more radiant, happy in loved companionship, listening with delight to the voices of the night, which murmured only of love and joy and hope, inhaling the perfume of a thousand flowers. to-night, as the south wind swept by in fitful gusts, it seemed to bear to my ears the sound of sorrow and mourning from homes and shrines where hope lay dead amid the ruined idols cast down and broken by that stern iconoclast--_war_. as i sat thus, buried in thought, a distant sound broke the silence, sending a thrill of terror to my heart. it was the tramp of many horses rapidly approaching. "alas! alas i the enemy had come upon us from the rear. our brave defenders were surrounded and their retreat cut off." i knew not what to expect, but anxiety for my patients banished fear. seizing a light-wood torch, i ran up the road, hoping to interview the officers at the head of the column and to intercede for my sick, perhaps to prevent intrusion into the wards. to my almost wild delight, the torch-light revealed the dear old gray uniforms. it was a portion of wheeler's cavalry sent to reinforce roddy, whose meagre forces, aided by the volunteers from newman, had held the federals in check until now, but were anxiously expecting this reinforcement. the men had ridden far and fast. they now came to a halt in front of the hospital, but had not time to dismount, hungry and thirsty though they were. the regimental servants, however, came in search of water with dozens of canteens hung around them, rattling in such a manner as to show that they were quite empty. for the next half-hour, i believe, i had almost the strength of samson. rushing to the bakery, i loaded baskets with bread and handed them up to the soldier-boys to be passed along until emptied. i then poured all the milk i had into a large bucket, added a dipper, and, threading in and out among the horses, ladled out dipperfuls until it was all gone. i then distributed about four buckets of water in the same way. my excitement was so great that not a sensation of fear or of fatigue assailed me. horses to the right of me, horses to the left of me, horses in front of me, snorted and pawed; but god gave strength and courage: i was not afraid. a comparatively small number had been supplied, when a courier from roddy's command rode up to hasten the reinforcements. at once the whole column was put in motion. as the last rider disappeared, and the tramping of the horses died away in the distance, a sense of weariness and exhaustion so overpowered me that i could have slept where i stood. so thorough was my confidence in the brave men who were sure to repel the invaders that all sense of danger passed away. my own sleeping-room was in a house situated at the foot of the hill. i could have gone there and slept securely, but dared not leave my charges. sinking upon the rough lounge in my office, intending only to rest, i fell fast asleep. i was awakened by one of the nurses, who had come to say that i was needed by a patient whom he believed to be dying, and who lay in a ward on the other side of the square. as we passed out into the street, another beautiful morning was dawning. upon entering ward no. , we found most of the patients asleep. but in one corner, between two windows which let in the fast-increasing light, lay an elderly man, calmly breathing his life away. the morning breeze stirred the thin gray hair upon his hollow temples, rustling the leaves of the bible which lay upon his pillow. stooping over him to feel the fluttering pulse, and to wipe the clammy sweat from brow and hands, i saw that he was indeed dying, a victim of that dreadful scourge that decimated the ranks of the confederate armies more surely than many battles,--dysentery,--which, if not cured in the earlier stages, resulted too surely, as now, in consumption of the bowels. he was a kentuckian, cut off from home and friends, and dying among strangers. an almost imperceptible glance indicated that he wished me to take up his bible. the fast-stiffening lips whispered, "_read_." i read to him the fourteenth chapter of st. john, stopping frequently to note if the faint breathing yet continued. each time he would move the cold fingers in a way that evidently meant "_go on_." after i had finished the reading, he whispered, so faintly that i could just catch the words, "_rock of ages_," and i softly sang the beautiful hymn. two years before i could not have done this so calmly. at first every death among my patients seemed to me like a personal bereavement. trying to read or to sing by the bedsides of the dying, uncontrollable tears and sobs would choke my voice. as i looked my last upon dead faces, i would turn away shuddering and sobbing, for a time unfit for duty. _now_, my voice did not once fail or falter. calmly i watched the dying patient, and saw (as i had seen a hundred times before) the gray shadow of death steal over the shrunken face, to be replaced at the last by a light so beautiful that i could well believe it came shining through "the gates ajar." it was sunrise when i again emerged from ward no. . hastening to my room, i quickly bathed and redressed, returning to my office in half an hour, refreshed and ready for duty. the necessity for breakfast sufficient to feed the hungry patients recalled to me the improvidence of my action in giving away so much bread the night before. it had gone a very little way toward supplying the needs of so large a body of soldiers, and now my own needed it. there was no quartermaster, no one to issue fresh rations. again i had the cows milked, gathered up all the corn-bread that was left, with some hard-tack, and with the aid of the few decrepit nurses before mentioned made a fire, and warmed up the soup and soup-meat which had been prepared for the convalescent table the day before, but was not consumed. my patients, comprehending the situation, made the best of it. but the distribution was a tedious business, as many of the patients had to be fed by myself. i had hardly begun when some of the men declared they "heard guns." i could not then detect the sound, but soon it grew louder and more sustained, and then we _knew_ a battle was in progress. for hours the fight went on. we awaited the result in painful suspense. at last the ambulances came in, bringing some of the surgeons and some wounded men, returning immediately for others. at the same time the hospital steward with his attendants and several of our nurses arrived, also the linen-master, the chief cook, and the baker. with them came orders to prepare wards for a large number of wounded, both confederate _and federal_. presently a cloud of dust appeared up the road, and a detail of confederate cavalry rode into town, bringing eight hundred federal prisoners, who were consigned to a large cotton warehouse, situated almost midway between the hospital and the railroad depot. my terrible anxiety, suspense, and heavy responsibility was now at an end, but days and nights of nursing lay before all who were connected with either the buckner or bragg hospitals. additional buildings were at once seized and converted into wards for the reception of the wounded of both armies. the hospital attendants, though weary, hungry, and some of them terribly dirty from the combined effect of perspiration, dust, and gunpowder, at once resumed their duties. the quartermaster reopened his office, requisitions were made and filled, and the work of the different departments was once more put in regular operation. i was busy in one of the wards, when a messenger drove up, and a note was handed me from dr. mcallister,--"some of our men too badly wounded to be moved right away. come out at once. bring cordials and brandy,--soup, if you have it,--also fill the enclosed requisition at the drug-store. lose no time." the battle-field was not three miles away. i was soon tearing along the road at breakneck speed. at an improvised field-hospital i met the doctor, who vainly tried to prepare me for the horrid spectacle i was about to witness. from the hospital-tent distressing groans and screams came forth. the surgeons, both confederate and federal, were busy, with coats off, sleeves rolled up, shirt-fronts and hands bloody. but _our_ work lay not here. dr. mcallister silently handed me two canteens of water, which i threw over my shoulder, receiving also a bottle of peach brandy. we then turned into a ploughed field, thickly strewn with men and horses, many stone dead, some struggling in the agonies of death. the plaintive cries and awful struggles of the horses first impressed me. they were shot in every conceivable manner, showing shattered heads, broken and bleeding limbs, and protruding entrails. they would not yield quietly to death, but continually raised their heads or struggled half-way to their feet, uttering cries of pain, while their distorted eyes seemed to reveal their suffering and implore relief. i saw a soldier shoot one of these poor animals, and felt truly glad to know that his agony was at an end. the dead lay around us on every side, singly and in groups and _piles_; men and horses, in some cases, apparently inextricably mingled. some lay as if peacefully sleeping; others, with open eyes, seemed to glare at any who bent above them. two men lay as they had died, the "blue" and the "gray," clasped in a fierce embrace. what had passed between them could never be known; but one was shot in the head, the throat of the other was partly torn away. it was awful to feel the conviction that unquenched hatred had embittered the last moments of each. they seemed mere youths, and i thought sadly of the mothers, whose hearts would throb with equal anguish in a northern and a southern home. in a corner of the field, supported by a pile of broken fence-rails, a soldier sat apparently beckoning to us. on approaching him we discovered that he was quite dead, although he sat upright, with open eyes and extended arm. several badly wounded men had been laid under the shade of some bushes a little farther on; our mission lay here. the portion of the field we crossed to reach this spot was in many places slippery with blood. the edge of my dress was red, my feet were wet with it. as we drew near the suffering men, piteous glances met our own. "water! water!" was the cry. dr. mcallister had previously discovered in one of these the son of an old friend, and although he was apparently wounded unto death, he hoped, when the ambulances returned with the stretchers sent for, to move him into town to the hospital. he now proceeded with the aid of the instruments, bandages, lint, etc., i had brought to prepare him for removal. meantime, taking from my pocket a small feeding-cup, which i always carried for use in the wards, i mixed some brandy and water, and, kneeling by one of the poor fellows who seemed worse than the others, tried to raise his head. but he was already dying. as soon as he was moved the blood ran in a little stream from his mouth. wiping it off, i put the cup to his lips, but he could not swallow, and reluctantly i left him to die. he wore the blue uniform and stripes of a federal sergeant of cavalry, and had a german face. the next seemed anxious for water, and drank eagerly. this one, a man of middle age, was later transferred to our wards, but died from blood-poisoning. he was badly wounded in the side. a third could only talk with his large, sad eyes, but made me clearly understand his desire for water. as i passed my arm under his head the red blood saturated my sleeve and spread in a moment over a part of my dress. so we went on, giving water, brandy, or soup; sometimes successful in reviving the patient, sometimes able only to whisper a few words of comfort to the dying. there were many more left, and dr. mcallister never for a moment intermitted his efforts to save them. later came more help, surgeons, and attendants with stretchers, etc. soon all were moved who could bear it. duty now recalled me to my patients at the hospital. my hands and dress and feet were bloody, and i felt sick with horror. as i was recrossing the battle-field accompanied by dr. welford, of virginia, the same terrible scenes were presented to the view. the ground was littered with the accoutrements of soldiers,--carbines, pistols, canteens, haversacks, etc. two cannon lay overturned, near one of which lay a dead federal soldier still grasping the rammer. beneath the still struggling horses lay human forms just as they had fallen. probably they had been dead ere they reached the ground, but i felt a shuddering dread lest perhaps some lingering spark of life had been crushed out by the rolling animals. we had nearly reached the road when our attention was arrested by stifled cries and groans proceeding from a little log cabin which had been nearly demolished during the fight. entering, we found it empty, but still the piteous cries continued. soon the doctor discovered a pair of human legs, hanging down the chimney, but with all his pulling could not dislodge the man, who was fast wedged and only cried out the louder. "stop your infernal noise," said the doctor, "and try to help yourself while i pull." by this time others had entered the cabin, and their united effort at length succeeded in dislodging from the chimney,--not a negro, but a white man, whose blue eyes, glassy with terror, shone through the soot which had begrimed his face. he had climbed up the chimney to escape the storm of shot, and had so wedged himself in that to release himself unaided was impossible. irrepressible laughter greeted his appearance, and i--i am bitterly ashamed to say--fell into a fit of most violent hysterical laughter and weeping. dr. welford hurried me into the buggy, which was near at hand, and drove rapidly to town, refusing to stop at the hospital, landing me at my room, where some ladies who came from i know not where kindly helped me to bed. under the influence of a sedative i soon fell into a deep sleep, awakening at daylight to find my own servant (who had returned with other negroes during the night) standing at my bedside. the surgeons had sent a little of the precious _real coffee_, of which there was only one sack left. upon awakening, i was to be at once served with a cup. a warm bath followed. by six o'clock i was once more at the hospital, ready for duty, after two days and nights, during which, it seemed to me, i had lived for years. even at this early hour, buckner hospital presented a scene of great activity. some of the surgeons had remained all night on duty, and were still busy; while others, having snatched a few hours of sleep, were now preparing for their trying work. in almost every ward lay a few wounded federals, but, all the spare beds having been filled, a long, low, brick building, on the corner opposite the drug-store, once used as a cotton-pickery, was fitted up as comfortably as the limited hospital-supplies at our command would allow for the federals exclusively, and they were permitted to have the attendance of their own surgeons, although ours always responded readily, if needed. these federal surgeons appeared to me to be very indifferent to the comfort of their patients, and to avoid all unnecessary trouble. they were tardy in beginning their work the morning after the battle, and, when they were ready, coolly sent in _requisitions_ for _chloroform_, which, having been (contrary to the dictates of humanity and to the customs of civilized nations) long since declared by their government "contraband of war," was almost unattainable, and used by our confederate surgeons only in extreme cases. in all minor, and in some severe, operations the surgeons relied upon the manly fortitude of the patients, and, _god bless our brave boys_, they bore this cruel test with a courage fully as worthy to be recorded as the most brilliant action on the battle-field. on the morning in question, as i made my early rounds, there met me everywhere ghastly reminders of the battle,--men shot and disfigured in every conceivable manner. many, fresh from the hands of the surgeons, exhausted by suffering, looked as if already death had claimed them for his own. attendants were constantly bearing into different wards fresh victims from the operating-rooms, where the bloody work would still go on for hours. these must have immediate attention,--must be closely watched and strongly nourished. this was _my_ blessed privilege; and, thanks to the humane and excellent policy adopted by general johnston, and continued by general hood,--both of whom looked well to the _ways of quartermasters_ and _commissaries_,--the means to provide for the sick and wounded were always at hand,--at least, up to the time of which i write. some of my favorite patients, whom, previous to this battle, i had nursed into convalescence, were now thrown back upon beds of pain. in one corner i found a boy whom i had nursed and fed through days and nights of suffering from typhoid fever. his name was willie hutson, and he belonged to the ---- mississippi regiment. two days ago he had been as bright as a lark, and pleading to be sent to the front. now he lay, shot through the breast, so near death that he did not know me. as i bent over him with tearful eyes, a hand placed upon my arm caused me to turn. there stood dr. gore, his kind face full of sympathy, but greatly troubled, at his side a federal surgeon in full uniform. dr. gore said, "this is one of my old chums, and--" but i cried out, "oh, doctor! i _cannot_,--look" (indicating with my hand first willie, then the entire ward)! passing swiftly out, i fled to my office and locked myself in, shedding hot tears of indignation. the dreadful work of the invaders had been before my eyes all the morning. i felt as if i could have nothing to do with them, and did not wish to see one of them again. they had not only murdered my poor boy willie, but dozens of dearer friends. they were even now running riot in the home i loved. they were invaders! i could _not_ meet them,--could not nurse them. it is painful thus to reveal the thoughts of my wicked, unchristian heart; but thus i reasoned and felt just then. after a while a note from dr. gore was handed me. he said (in substance), "i know how bitterly you feel, but pray for strength to cast out evil spirits from your heart. forget that the suffering men, thrown upon our kindness and forbearance, are _yankees_. remember only that they are god's creatures and helpless prisoners. they need you. think the matter over, and do not disappoint me. gore." i do not believe that ever before or since have i fought so hard a battle. god helping me, i decided to do right. the short, sharp contest ended--i acted at once. on my way to the federal wards, i met more than one hospital-attendant carrying off a bloody leg or arm to bury it. i felt then, and saw no reason to alter my opinion afterwards, that some of their surgeons were far rougher and less merciful than ours; and i do not believe they ever gave the poor, shattered fellows the benefit of a doubt. it was easier to amputate than to attend a tedious, troublesome recovery. so, off went legs and arms by the wholesale. i had not been five minutes in the low, brick ward, where lay the most dangerously wounded federals, when all animosity vanished and my woman's heart melted within me. these were strangers and unwelcome, but far from home and friends, suffering, dying. the surgeon said to me, "madam, one-half the attention you give to your own men will save life here." the patients were all badly, many fatally, wounded. they were silent, repellent, and evidently expectant of insult and abuse, but after a while received food and drink from my hands pleasantly, and i tried to be faithful in my ministrations. i believe that most of the soldiers in this ward were from iowa and indiana. one i remember particularly, a captain of cavalry, who was shot through the throat and had to receive nourishment by means of a rubber tube inserted for the purpose. a young man in a blue and yellow uniform--an aide or orderly--remained at his side day and night until he died. his eyes spoke to me eloquently of his gratitude, and once he wrote on a scrap of paper, "god bless you," and handed it to me. he lived about five days. the mortality was very considerable in this ward. i grew to feel a deep interest in the poor fellows, and treasured last words or little mementoes as faithfully for their distant loved ones as i had always done for confederates. among the personal belongings taken from me by raiders at macon, georgia, was a large chest, full of articles of this kind, which i intended to return to the friends of the owners whenever the opportunity offered. in another ward were several renegade kentuckians, who constantly excited my ire by noting and ridiculing deficiencies, calling my own dear boys "old jeff's ragamuffins," etc. one day dr. gore happened to be visiting this ward when these men began their usual teasing. something caused me to eulogize dr. gore and all the kentuckians who had sacrificed so much for "the cause." one of these fellows then said, "well, i'm a kentuckian too, what have you got to say about me?" i replied, "i think you hold about the same relation to the true sons of kentucky that judas iscariot bore to the beloved disciple who lay upon the bosom of our saviour." then walked out of the ward. it was rather a spiteful repartee, i must confess, but was provoked by many ill-natured remarks previously made by this renegade, and had the good effect of putting an end to them. we were comparatively safe once more,--for how long no one knew. i now became very anxious about the men in the trenches at atlanta who were lying day after day, always under fire. suffering from insufficient food, exposed to the scorching sun or equally pitiless rain, sometimes actually knee-deep in water for days. the bombardment was heavy and incessant, ceasing only for a while at sunset, when carts were hastily loaded with musty meat and poor corn-bread, driven out to the trenches, and the rations dumped there. many of my friends were lying in these trenches, among them my husband. in addition to other ills, the defenders of atlanta were in instant danger of death from shot or shell. i could not bear it. the desire to see my husband once more, and to carry some relief in the shape of provisions to himself and his comrades could not be quelled. many things stood in the way of its accomplishment, for, upon giving a hint of my project to my friends at newnan, a storm of protest broke upon my devoted head. not one bade me god-speed, _everybody_ declared i was crazy. "a _woman_ to go to atlanta under such circumstances; how utterly absurd, how mad." so i was obliged to resort to deception and subterfuge. my first step was to request leave of absence, that i might forage for provisions to be sent to the front by the first opportunity. dr. mcallister very kindly accorded me his permission, placing at my disposal an ambulance and a driver, advising me, however, not to follow the main road or the beaten track which had already been drained by foragers, but to go deep into the piny woods. said he, "only one of our foragers has ever been through that region, and his reports were not very encouraging. the people want to keep all they have got for home-consumption, and greatly distrust 'hospital people,' but if success is possible, _you_ will succeed." in anticipation, this ride into deep, odorous pine woods seemed delightful. when the ambulance with its "captured" mule drove up before my door, i gayly climbed into it, and, waving merry adieux to half-disapproving friends (among them dr. hughes, with his distressed face, and _diogenes_, who looked daggers at me), set off in high glee. the ride along the pleasant road was lovely; early birds sung sweetly; the dew, yet undisturbed, glistened everywhere, the morning breeze blew freshly in my face. as the sun began to assert his power, i became eager to penetrate into the shady woods, and at last, spying a grand aisle in "nature's temple," bade the driver enter it. for a while the result was most enjoyable. the spicy aroma of the pines, the brilliant vines climbing everywhere, the multitude of woodland blossoms blooming in such quantities and variety as i had never imagined, charmed my senses, and elevated my spirit. among these peaceful shades one might almost forget the horror and carnage which desolated the land. the driver was versed in wood-craft, and called my attention to many beauties which would have otherwise escaped me. but soon his whole attention was required to guide the restive mule through a labyrinth of stumps and ruts and horrible muddy holes, which he called "hog wallows;" my own endeavors were addressed to "holding on," and devising means to ease the horrible joltings which racked me from head to foot. after riding about two miles we came to a small clearing, and were informed that the road for ten miles was "tolerbal clar" and pretty thickly settled. so after partaking of an early country dinner, also obtaining a small amount of eggs, chickens, etc., at exorbitant prices, we resumed our ride. that expedition will never be forgotten by me. at its close, i felt that my powers of diplomacy were quite equal to any emergency. oh, the sullen, sour-looking women that i sweetly smiled upon, and flattered into good humor, praising their homes, the cloth upon the loom, the truck-patch (often a mass of weeds), the tow-headed babies (whom i caressed and admired), never hinting at my object until the innocent victims offered of their own accord to "show me round." at the spring-house i praised the new country butter, which "looked so very good that i must have a pound or two," and then skilfully leading the conversation to the subject of chickens and eggs, carelessly displaying a few crisp confederate bills, i at least became the happy possessor of a few dozens of eggs and a chicken or two, at a price which only their destination reconciled me to. at one house, approached by a road so tortuous and full of stumps that we were some time before reaching it, i distinctly heard a dreadful squawking among the fowls, but when we arrived at the gate, not one was to be seen, and the mistress declared she hadn't a "_one_: hadn't saw a chicken for a _coon's_ age." pleading excessive fatigue, i begged the privilege of resting within the cabin. an apparently unwilling assent was given. in i walked, and, occupying one of those splint chairs which so irresistibly invite one to commit a breach of good manners by "tipping back," i sat in the door-way, comfortably swaying backward and forward. every once in a while the faces of children, either black or white, would peer at me round the corner of the house, then the sound of scampering bare feet would betray their sudden flight. suddenly i caught sight of a pair of bare, black feet protruding from under the bed. presently an unmistakable squawk arose, instantly smothered, but followed by a fluttering of wings and a chorus of squawks. so upset was the lady of the house that she involuntarily called out, "_you isrul!_" "ma'am," came in a frightened voice from under the bed, then in whining tones, "i dun try to mek 'em hush up, but 'pears like mass debbel be on dey side, anyhow." further concealment being impossible, i said, "come, you have the chickens ready caught, i'll give you your own price for them." she hesitated--and was lost, for producing from my pocket a small package of snuff, to which temptation she at once succumbed, i obtained in exchange six fine, fat chickens. as i was leaving she said, in an apologetic tone, "well, i declah, i never knowed you was going to light, or i wouldn't have done sich a fool-trick." stopping at every house, meeting with varied success, we at last, just at night, arrived at a farm-house more orderly than any we had passed, where i was glad to discover the familiar face of an old lady who had sometimes brought buttermilk and eggs to the sick. at once recognizing me, she appeared delighted, and insisted upon my "lighting" and having my team put up until morning. this i was glad to do, for it was quite out of the question to start on my homeward journey that night. greatly i enjoyed the hospitality so ungrudgingly given, the appetizing supper, the state bed in the best room, with its "sunrise" quilt of patch-work. here was a confederate household. the son was a soldier. his wife and his little children were living "with ma" at the old homestead. the evening was spent in talking of the late battle. here these women were, living in the depths of the woods, consumed with anxiety, seldom hearing any news, yet quietly performing the monotonous round of duty with a patience which would have added lustre to the crown of a saint. i talked until (wonderful to relate) my tongue was tired: my audience being the old, white-haired father, the mother, the wife, and the eager children, who were shy at first, but by degrees nestled closer, with bright eyes from which sleep seemed banished forever. the next morning when, after a substantial breakfast, i was once more ready to start, every member of the family made some addition to my stores, notably, a few pounds of really good country butter. this was always highly prized by the soldiers. as a general thing, when the cows were fed upon cotton-seed the butter was white and "waxy," this was yellow and firm. the oldest girl brought me a pair of socks she had herself knitted; one of the little boys, six eggs laid by his own "dominiker," which he pointed out to me as she stalked about the yard proud of her mottled feathers and rosy comb. even the baby came toddling to the door saying, "heah, heah," and holding out a snowy little kitten. the old gentleman, mounting his horse, offered to "ride a piece" with us. thanks to his representations to the neighbors, i was able in a short time to turn my face homewards, having gathered an excellent supply of chickens, eggs, hams, home-made cordials, peach and apple brandy, and a few pairs of socks. the old farmer also showed us a way by which we could avoid a repetition of the tortures of yesterday, and rode beside the ambulance to the main road. i remember well how he looked, as he sat upon his old white mule, waiting to see the last of us. his hat, pushed back, showed a few locks of silvery hair; his coarse clothes and heavy, home-made boots were worn in a manner that betrayed the southern gentleman. the parting smile, still lingering upon his kindly face, could not conceal the "furrows of care," which had deepened with every year of the war. but, alas! i cannot recall his name, although i then thought i could never forget it. upon arriving at newnan, i lost no time in preparing my boxes for the front. everything was cooked; even the eggs were hard-boiled. there was sufficient to fill two large boxes. having packed and shipped to the depot my treasures, i prepared for the final step without hesitation, although not without some doubt as to success in eluding the vigilance of my friends. announcing my determination to see the boxes off, i--accompanied by my maid--walked down to the depot just before train-time. there was only one rickety old passenger-car attached to the train. this, as well as a long succession of box-and cattle-cars, were crowded with troops,--reinforcements to atlanta. taking advantage of the crowd, i, with tempe, quietly stepped on board, escaping discovery until just as the train was leaving, when in rushed dr. mcallister, who peremptorily ordered me off; but, being compelled to jump off himself, failed to arrest my departure. i was in high spirits. on the train were many soldiers whom i had nursed, and who cared for my comfort in every way possible under the circumstances. i was the only lady on the train, so they were thoughtful enough to stow themselves in the crowded boxes behind, that i might not be embarrassed by a large number in the passenger-car. at last, as we approached atlanta, i heard the continuous and terrific noise of the bombardment. the whistle of the engine was a signal to the enemy, who at once began to shell the depot. i did not realize the danger yet, but just as the train "slowed up" heard a shrieking sound, and saw the soldiers begin to dodge. before i could think twice, an awful explosion followed; the windows were all shivered, and the earth seemed to me to be thrown in cart-loads into the car. tempe screamed loudly, and then began to pray. i was paralyzed with extreme terror, and _could_ not scream. before i could speak, another shell exploded overhead, tearing off the corner of a brick store, causing again a deafening racket. as we glided into the station, i felt safer; but soon found out that every one around me had business to attend to, and that i must rely upon myself. the shells still shrieked and exploded; the more treacherous and dangerous solid shot continually demolished objects within our sight. for a few hours i was so utterly demoralized that my only thought was how to escape. it seemed to me _impossible_ that any body of soldiers could voluntarily expose themselves to such horrible danger. i thought if _i_ had been a soldier i must have deserted from my first battle-field. but at last i grew calmer; my courage returned, and, urged by the necessity of finding shelter, i ventured out. not a place could i find. the houses were closed and deserted, in many cases partly demolished by shot or shell, or, having taken fire, charred, smoking, and burnt to the ground. all day frightened women and children cowered and trembled and hungered and thirsted in their underground places of refuge while the earth above them shook with constant explosions. after a while i grew quite bold, and decided to stow myself and my boxes in the lower part of a house not far from the depot. the upper story had been torn off by shells. i could look through large holes in the ceiling up to the blue sky. the next move was to find means of notifying my husband and his friends of my arrival. i crept along the streets back to the depot, tempe creeping by my side, holding fast to my dress. then i found an officer just going out to the trenches, and sent by him a pencilled note to lieutenant cluverius, thinking an officer would be likely to receive a communication, when a private might not. soon after sunset, my husband joined me, and soon after many friends. they were all ragged, mud-stained, and altogether unlovely, but seemed to me most desirable and welcome visitors. one of my boxes being opened, i proceeded to do the honors. my guests having eaten very heartily, filled their haversacks, and, putting "_a sup_" in their canteens, returned to camp to send out a fresh squad. the next that came brought in extra haversacks and canteens "for some of the boys who couldn't get off," and these also were provided for. with the last squad my husband was compelled to go back to camp, as just then military rules were severe, and very strictly enforced. i passed the night in an old, broken arm-chair, tempe lying at my feet, and slept so soundly that i heard not a sound of shot or shell. very early next morning, however, we were awakened by a terrible explosion near us, and directly afterwards heard that within a hundred yards of our place of refuge a shell had exploded, tearing away the upper part of a house, killing a man and his three children, who were sleeping in one of the rooms. this made me very uneasy, and increased tempe's terror to such an extent that she became almost unmanageable. during the next day i actually became accustomed to the noise and danger, and "with a heart for any fate" passed the day. at night my levee was larger than before; among them i had the satisfaction of seeing and supplying some alabama, south carolina, and tennessee soldiers. that night the bombardment was terrific. anxiety for my husband, combined with a shuddering terror, made sleep impossible. the next morning, my husband having obtained a few hours' leave of absence, joined me in my shattered retreat. the day was darkened by the agony of parting. it seemed to me _impossible_ to leave him under such circumstances, and really required more courage than to face the shot and shell. but i could easily see that anxiety for me interfered with his duty as a soldier, so--we must part. on the same evening i returned to newnan, where my friends were so overjoyed at my safe return that they forbore to upbraid. soon afterward the battle of jonesboro' again filled our wards with shattered wrecks. as i have already stated, my husband then came for the first time to claim my care. before he was quite able to return to duty, the post was ordered to fort valley, georgia, a pleasant and very hospitable town, where new and excellent hospital buildings had been erected. from here mr. beers returned to his command. the day of his departure was marked by hours of intense anguish which i yet shudder to recall. the train which stopped at the hospital camp to take up men returning to the front was crowded with soldiers,--reinforcements. i had scarcely recovered from the fit of bitter weeping which followed the parting, when, noticing an unusual commotion outside, i went to the door to discover the cause. men were running up the railroad track in the direction taken by the train which had just left. a crowd had collected near the surgeon's office, in the midst of which stood an almost breathless messenger. his tidings seemed to have the effect of sending off succeeding groups of men in the direction taken by those i had first seen running up the road. among them i discovered several surgeons. something was wrong. wild with apprehension, i sped over to the office, and there learned that the train of cars loaded and crowded with soldiers had been thrown down a steep embankment, about three miles up the road, and that many lives were lost. waiting for nothing, i ran bareheaded and frantic up the track, for more than a mile never stopping, then hearing the slow approach of an engine, sunk down by the side of the track to await its coming. soon the engine appeared, drawing very slowly a few platform-and baggage-cars loaded with groaning, shrieking men, carrying, also, many silent forms which would never again feel pain or sorrow. the surgeons upon the first car upon descrying me crouching by the roadside, halted the train and lifted me upon the last car, where, among the "slightly hurt," i found my husband, terribly bruised and shaken, but in no danger. arrived at camp, where tents had been hastily pitched, the wounded and dying were laid out side by side in some of the largest, while others received the dead. the sights and sounds were awful in the extreme. at first i could not muster courage (shaken as i had been) to go among them. but it was necessary for purposes of identification, so i examined every one, dying and dead, feeling that _certainty_, however dreadful, might be better borne by loving hearts than prolonged suspense. among these dreadful scenes came a minister of god, whose youthful face, pale and horror-stricken, yet all alight with heavenly pity and love, i can never forget. tenderly he bent above these dying men, his trembling lips touched by divine inspiration, whispering words precious to parting souls. unshrinkingly he performed his mission to those who yet lived, then, passing among the dead, lovingly composed and prepared for decent burial the mutilated bodies. one burial-service served for all; this was as tenderly rendered as if each unfortunate had been dear to himself. this young clergyman was rev. ---- green, of columbia, s.c., a near relative of the eminent divine and inspired patriot, dr. b.m. palmer, now of new orleans. few patients were sent to fort valley. upon recovering from the effects of the railroad accident, my husband again left for his command. growing dissatisfied, i applied to dr. stout for a position nearer the front. not receiving a satisfactory reply, went to macon, where for a few weeks i remained at one of the hospitals, but still felt that i was losing time, and doing very little good. in november i was offered a position in a tent-hospital near the front, which i eagerly accepted, little dreaming (god help me!) of the hardship and disappointment which awaited me. chapter vi. omega. the detention of the railroad-train belated us, and when we (i and my servant) were left at a small station in mississippi, night had fallen. the light from a little fire of pine knots, built on the ground outside, while illuminating the rough depot and platform, left the country beyond in deeper darkness. it was bitterly cold. the driver of the ambulance informed me, we had "quite a piece to ride yet." a moment later, dr. beatty rode up on horseback, welcomed me pleasantly, waiting to see me safely stowed away in the ambulance. the ride to camp was dismal. i continued to shiver with cold; my heart grew heavy as lead, and yearned sadly for a sight of the pleasant faces, the sound of the kindly voices, to which i had been so long accustomed. at last a turn in the road brought us in sight of the numberless fires of a large camp. it was a bright scene, though, far from gay. the few men who crouched by the fires were not roistering, rollicking soldiers, but pale shadows, holding their thin hands over the blaze which scorched their faces, while their thinly-covered backs were exposed to a cold so intense that it congealed the sap in the farthest end of the log on which they sat. driving in among these, up an "avenue" bordered on either side by rows of white tents, the ambulance drew up at last before the door of my "quarters,"--a rough cabin built of logs. through the open door streamed the cheery light of a wood-fire, upon which pine knots had been freshly thrown. a bunk at one side, made of puncheons, and filled with pine straw, over which comforts and army-blankets had been thrown, hard pillows stuffed with straw, having coarse, unbleached cases, a roughly-made table before the fire, a lot of boxes marked "q.m.," etc., to serve as seats, and you have my cabin in its entirety. drawing my box up close to the fire, i sat down, tempe, in the mean while, stirring the coals and arranging the burning ends of the pine in true country style. presently my supper was brought in,--corn-bread, cornmeal coffee, a piece of musty fried salt meat, heavy brown sugar, and no milk. i was, however, hungry, and ate with a relish. tempe went off to some region unknown for the supper, returning unsatisfied and highly disgusted with the "hog-wittles" which had been offered to her. soon dr. beatty called, bringing with him mrs. dr. ----, a cheery little body, who, with her husband, occupied a room under the same roof as myself, a sort of hall open at both ends dividing us. we had some conversation regarding the number of sick and the provisions for their comfort. on the whole, the evening passed more cheerfully than i had expected. my sleep that night was dreamless. i did not even feel the cold, although tempe declared she was "dun froze stiff." very early i was astir, gazing from the door of my cabin at my new sphere of labor. snow had fallen during the night, and still came down steadily. the path was hidden, the camp-fires appeared as through a mist. a confused, steady sound of chopping echoed through the woods. i heard mysterious words, dimly saw figures moving about the fires. everything looked unpromising,--dismal. chilled to the heart, i turned back to my only comfort, the splendid fire tempe had built. my breakfast was exactly as supper had been, and was brought by the cook, a detailed soldier, who looked as if he ought to have been at the front. he apologized for the scanty rations, promising some beef for dinner. soon dr. beatty, accompanied by two assistant-surgeons, appeared to escort me to the tents. i went gladly, for i was anxious to begin my work. what i saw during that hour of inspection convinced me, not only that my services were needed, but that my work must be begun and carried on under almost insurmountable difficulties and disadvantages. i found no comforts, no hospital stores, insufficient nourishment, a scarcity of blankets and comforts, even of pillows. of the small number of the latter few had cases; all were soiled. the sick men had spit over them and the bedclothes, which could not be changed because there were no more. as i have said, there were no comforts. the patients looked as if they did not expect any, and seemed sullen and discontented. the tents were not new, nor were they all good. they seemed to me without number. passing in and out among them, i felt bewildered and doubtful whether i should ever learn to know one from another, or to find my patients. part of the camp was set apart for convalescents. here were dozens of irishmen. they were so maimed and shattered that every one should have been entitled to a discharge, but the poor fellows had no homes to go to, and were quite unable to provide for themselves. there were the remnants of companies, regiments, and brigades, many of them louisianians, and from other states outside the confederate lines. had there been any fighting to do, they would still have "taken a hand," maimed as they were. the monotony of hospital camp-life made them restless; the rules they found irksome, and constantly evaded; they growled, complained, were always "in hot water," and almost unmanageable. the first time i passed among them they eyed me askance, seeming, i feared, to resent the presence of a woman. but i made it my daily custom to visit their part of the camp, standing by their camp-fires to listen to their "yarns," or to relate some of my own experiences, trying to make their hardships seem less, listening to their complaints, meaning in earnest to speak to dr. beatty regarding palpable wrongs. this i did not fail to do, and whenever the doctor's sense of justice was aroused, he promptly acted on the right side. i do not wish to convey to my readers the idea that there were men always sullen and disagreeable. far from it, they were a jolly set of men when in a good humor, and, like all irishmen, full of wit and humor. after i became known to them their gentle, courteous treatment of me never varied. they were very fond of playing cards, but whenever i appeared upon one of the avenues, every card would disappear. not one ever failed to salute me, often adding a "god bless you, ma'am, may the heavens be your bed," etc. disliking to interfere with their only amusement, i let them know that i did not dislike to see them playing cards. at this they were very pleased, saying, "sure, it's no harrum; it's not gambling we are; divil a cint have we to win or lose." one day i stopped to look on a moment at a game of euchre. one of the players had lost an arm (close to the shoulder). said he, "sure, ma'am, it's bating the b'ys intirely, i am." i did not understand, so he explained, with a comic leer at the others,--"sure, haven't i always the '_lone hand_' on thim?" at once i recalled a similar remark made by an irish soldier lying in the hospital at newnan, who had just lost one of his legs; when i condoled with him, he looked up brightly, and, pointing at his remaining foot, explained, "niver mind, this feller _will go it alone and make it_." among the surgeons in camp was one who had highly offended these convalescents by retiring to his cabin, _pulling the latch-string inside_ and remaining deaf to all calls and appeals from outside. mutterings of discontent were heard for a while, but at last as there was no further mention of the matter, i believed it was ended. about this time the actions of the convalescents began to appear mysterious: they remained in their tents or absented themselves, as i supposed, upon foraging expeditions. frequently, i found them working upon cow-horns, making ornaments as i thought (at this business confederate soldiers were very expert). one day i caught sight of a large pile of horns and bones just brought in, but still thought nothing of it. shortly, however, a small deputation from the convalescent camp appeared at the door of my cabin just as i was eating my dinner: all saluted; the spokesman then explained that the "b'ys" were prepared to give the obnoxious surgeon a "siranade" that same night. they had been working for weeks to produce the instruments of torture which were then all ready. "we don't mane to scare _ye_, ma'am, and if it'll be displazin' to ye, sure we'll give it up." i told them that i did not want to know about it, and was sorry they had told me, but i would not be frightened at any noise i might hear in the night. "all right, ma'am," said the spokesman, winking at the others to show that he comprehended. the party then withdrew. about midnight such a startling racket suddenly broke the stillness that in spite of my previous knowledge, i was frightened. horns of all grades of sound, from deep and hoarse to shrill, tin cups and pans clashed together or beaten with bones, yells, whistling, and in short every conceivable and inconceivable noise. after the first blast, utter stillness; the startled officers, meanwhile, listening to discover the source of the unearthly noise, then, as if bedlam had broken loose, the concert began once more. it was concentrated around the cabin of the surgeon so disliked. as the quarters of the officers were somewhat removed from the hospital proper, and very near my own, i got the full benefit of the noise. i cannot now say why the racket was not put a stop to. perhaps because the serenaders numbered over one hundred and the surgeons despaired of restoring order. at all events, during the whole night we were allowed to sink into slumber, to be aroused again and again by the same hideous burst of sound. i only remember that the next day the horns, etc., were collected and carried away from camp, while the offenders were refused permission to leave their quarters for a while. in the sick camp there lay over two hundred sick and wounded men, faithfully attended and prescribed for by the physicians, but lacking every comfort. dr. beatty was worried about the sick, but under the circumstances what could he do? soon after occurred the terrible battle of franklin, when our tents were again filled with wounded men. these men were unlike any i have ever nursed. their shattered forms sufficiently attested courage and devotion to duty, but the enthusiasm and pride which had hitherto seemed to me so grand and noble when lighting up the tortured faces of wounded soldiers, appearing like a reflection of great glory, i now missed. it seemed as if they were yet revengeful and unsatisfied; their countenances not yet relaxed from the tension of the fierce struggle, their eyes yet gleaming with the fires of battle. the tales they told made me shudder: of men, maddened by the horrible butchery going on around them, mounting the horrible barricade (trampling out in many instances the little sparks of life which might have been rekindled), only to add their own bodies to the horrid pile, and to be trampled in their turn by comrades who sought to avenge them; of soldiers on both sides, grappling hand to hand, tearing open each other's wound, drenched with each other's blood, _dying_ locked in a fierce embrace. it turns me sick even now when i remember the terrible things i then heard, the awful wounds i then saw. during the whole period of my service, i never had a harder task than when striving to pour oil upon these troubled waters, to soothe and reconcile these men who talked incessantly of "sacrifice" and useless butchery. this was particularly the case with general clebourne's men, who so loved their gallant leader that, at his death, revenge had almost replaced patriotism in their hearts. i do not consider myself competent, nor do i wish to criticise the generals who led our armies and who, since the war, have, with few exceptions, labored assiduously to throw the blame of failure upon each other. i have read their books with feelings of intense sorrow and regret,--looking for a reproduction of the glories of the past,--finding whole pages of recrimination and full of "all uncharitableness." for my own part, i retain an unchanged, unchangeable respect and reverence for all alike, _believing each to have been a pure and honest patriot, who, try as he might, could not surmount the difficulties which each one in turn encountered_. a brave, _vindictive_ foe, whose superiority in numbers, in arms, and equipment, and, more than all, _rations_, they could maintain indefinitely. and to oppose them, an utterly inadequate force, whose bravery and unparalleled endurance held out to the end, although hunger gnawed at their vitals, disease and death daily decimated their ranks, intense anxiety for dear ones exposed to dangers, privations, all the horrors which everywhere attended the presence of the invaders, torturing them every hour. while yielding to none in my appreciation of the gallant general hood, there is one page in his book which always arouses my indignation and which i can never reconcile with what i know of the history of the army of tennessee, from the time general hood took command to the surrender. truly, they were far from being like "dumb driven cattle," for _every man_ was "_a hero_ in the strife." it seems to me that the memory of the battle of franklin alone should have returned to general hood to "give him pause" before he gave to the public the page referred to: (_extract._) "my failure on the th and the d to bring about a general pitched battle arose from the unfortunate policy pursued from dalton to atlanta, and which had wrought 'such' demoralization amid rank and file as to render the men unreliable in battle. i cannot give a more forcible, though homely, exemplification of the morale of the troops at that period than _by comparing the army to a team_ which has been allowed to balk at every hill, one portion will make strenuous efforts to advance, whilst the other will refuse to move, and thus paralyze the exertions of the first. moreover, it will work faultlessly one day and stall the next. no reliance can be placed upon it at any stated time. thus it was with the army when ordered into a general engagement, one corps struggled nobly, whilst the neighboring corps frustrated its efforts by simple inactivity; and whilst the entire army might fight desperately one day, it would fail in action the following day. stewart's gallant attack on the th was neutralized by hardee's inertness on the right; and the failure in the battle of the d is to be attributed also to the effect of the 'timid defensive' policy of this officer, who, although a brave and gallant soldier, neglected to obey orders, and swung away, totally independent of the main body of the army." time softens and alleviates all troubles, and this was no exception. but the winter was a very gloomy one: my heart was constantly oppressed by witnessing suffering i could not relieve, needs which could not be met. the efforts of the foragers, combined with my own purchases from country wagons (although dr. beatty was liberal in his orders, and i spent every cent i could get), were utterly insufficient, although the officers of this camp-hospital were self-denying, and all luxuries were reserved for the sick. i hit upon an expedient to vary the rations a little, which found favor with the whole camp. the beef was simply atrocious. i had it cut into slices, let it lie in salt with a sprinkling of vinegar for a day, then hung the pieces up the chimneys until it was smoked. i first tried it in my own cabin, found it an improvement, and so had a quantity prepared for the hungry wounded. and so these dark days sped on, bringing, in due time, the last confederate christmas. i will here subjoin an article originally written for the _southern bivouac_, which will give my readers an idea of how the christmas-tide was spent. for some time previous i had been revolving in my mind various plans for the celebration of christmas by making some addition to the diet of the sick and wounded soldiers then under my charge. but, plan as i would, the stubborn facts in the case rose up to confront me, and i failed to see just how to accomplish my wishes. we were then located at lauderdale springs, mississippi. i, with my servant, tempe, occupied one room of a small, double house, built of rough-hewn logs, and raised a few feet from the ground; a sort of hall, open at both ends, separated my room from one on the opposite side occupied by dr. ---- and his wife. all around, as far as one could see, amid the white snow and with lofty pine-trees towering above them, extended the hospital-tents, and in these lay the sick, the wounded, the dying. hospital-supplies were scarce, our rations of the plainest articles, which, during the first years of the war, were considered absolute necessaries, had become priceless luxuries. eggs, butter, chickens came in such small quantities that they must be reserved for the very sick. the cheerfulness, self-denial, and fellow-feeling shown by those who were even partly convalescent, seemed to me to be scarcely less admirable than the bravery which had distinguished them on the battle-field. but this is a digression: let me hasten to relate how i was helped to a decision as to christmas "goodies." one morning, going early to visit some wounded soldiers who had come in during the night, i found in one tent a newcomer, lying in one of the bunks, his head and face bandaged and bloody. by his side sat his comrade,--wounded also, but less severely,--trying to soften for the other some corn-bread, which he was soaking and beating with a stick in a tin cup of cold water. he explained that the soldier with the bandaged head had been shot in the mouth, and could take only soft food. i said, "don't give him that. i will bring him some mush and milk, or some chicken soup." he set down the cup, looked at me with queer, half-shut eyes, then remarked, "yer ga-assin' now, ain't ye?" having finally convinced him that i was not, i retired for a moment to send the nurse for some food. when it came, and while i was slowly putting spoonfuls of broth into the poor, shattered mouth of his friend, he stood looking on complacently, though with his lip quivering. i said to him, "now, what would _you_ like?" after a moment's hesitation he replied, "well, lady, i've been sort of hankerin' after a sweet-potato pone, but i s'pose ye couldn't noways get that?" "there," thought i, "that's just what i will get and give them all for christmas dinner." hastening to interview the surgeon in charge, i easily obtained permission to go on the next day among the farmers to collect materials for my feast. an ambulance was placed at my disposal. my foraging expedition was tolerably successful, and i returned next evening with a quantity of sweet potatoes, several dozen eggs, and some country butter. driving directly to the door of my cabin, i had my treasures securely placed within; for, although holding my soldier-friends in high estimation, i agreed with the driver of the ambulance,--"them 'taturs has to be taken in out of the cold." my neighbor's wife, mrs. dr. ----, entered heartily into my plans for the morrow, promising her assistance. my night-round of visits to the sick having been completed, i was soon seated by my own fireside, watching the operation of making and baking a corn hoecake, which, with some smoked beef of my own preparation and a cup of corn-coffee, made my supper on this christmas eve. it was so bitterly cold that i did not undress; but, wrapping a blanket around me, lay down on my bunk. tempe also rolled herself up, and lay down before the fire. in order to explain what followed, i must here say that the boards of my floor were only laid, not fastened, as nails were not to be had. i was awakened from "the first sweet sleep of night" by an unearthly yell from tempe, who sprang unceremoniously upon my bunk, grasping me tightly, and crying, "o lord, miss ----, yearthquate dun cum!" sitting up, i was horrified to see the boards of the floor rising and falling with a terrible noise. a moment later i realized the situation. a party of hogs had organized a raid, having for its object my precious potatoes. a sure-enough "yearthquate" would have been less appalling to me, as i have always been mortally afraid of hogs. just then one of the invaders managed to knock aside a board and get his head in full view. i shivered with terror, but tempe now grasped the state of the case, and, being "to the manner born," leaped forward to execute dire vengeance on the unfortunate hog. seizing a burning stick from the fire, she rushed upon the intruder, who had gotten wedged so that advance or retreat was alike impossible. her angry cries, and the piercing squeals of the hog, roused all in the vicinity. help soon came, our enemies were routed, quiet was restored. my pones were a great success. all who were allowed by their surgeons partook of them. i had two immense pans full brought to my cabin, where those who were able brought their plates and cups, receiving a generous quantity of the pone and a cup of sweet milk. but these struggles and hardships were nothing in comparison to what was now to befall us. the constant fighting and daily-increasing number of wounded at the front required the presence of experienced surgeons. after the battle of franklin some of ours were sent up. in one or two instances those who replaced them were young and inexperienced. they were permitted to attend the convalescents and light cases. one morning, i was aroused very early by a nurse who begged me to go to one of the convalescents who had been calling for me all night. arrived at the tent, which at that hour was rather dark, i lifted the flap to enter, but was arrested by a piteous cry from the patient, who lay facing the entrance. "for god's sake keep out that light," said he, "it hurts my eyes." the nurse said, "it's masles he has, ma'am." so i concluded the pained eyes were not unusual. approaching the bunk, and taking the patient's hand, i found he had a raging fever. but when i placed my hand upon his forehead, and felt the dreadful pustules thickly covering it, my heart almost ceased to beat. an unreasoning terror overpowered me; my impulse was to flee at once from that infected tent. but i must not give any alarm, so i simply said to the nurse, "i will go to dr. beatty for some medicine; let no one enter this tent until i come back." dr. beatty was not yet out of his cabin, but receiving my urgent message, soon appeared. i said, "doctor, in tent no.---- there is a very sick man; can we look at the books and learn what diagnosis his surgeon has made?" we went to the office, found the patient's name and number: diagnosis,--_measles_. i then said, "dr. beatty, it is not measles, but, i fear, smallpox." at once, the doctor strode off, followed closely by myself. as before, the tent was dark. "lift those flaps high," said the surgeon. it was done, and there lay before us a veritable case of smallpox. dr. beatty's entire calmness and self-possession quite restored my own. said he, "i must have time to consult my surgeons, to determine what is to be done. meanwhile, retire to your cabin. you will hear from me when matters are arranged." the next few hours were for me fraught with fearful anxiety and uncertainty,--yes, _uncertainty_,--for (to my shame, let it be recorded) i actually debated in my own mind whether or not to desert these unfortunate boys of mine, who could not themselves escape the threatened danger. god helping me, i was able to resist this terrible temptation. i had, i reasoned, been already exposed as much as was possible, having attended the sick man for days before. having dedicated myself to the holy cause, for better or worse, i could not desert it even when put to this trying test. so, when dr. beatty came to say that in a few hours quarantine would be established and rigidly enforced, offering me transportation that i might at once go on with the large party who were leaving, i simply announced my determination to remain, but asked that tempe might be sent to her owners in alabama, as i dared not risk keeping her. the poor fellow who had been first seized died that night, and afterward many unfortunates were buried beneath the snow-laden pines. some of the nurses fell sick; from morning until night, after, far into the night, my presence was required in those fever-haunted tents. when not on duty, the loneliness of my cabin was almost insupportable. sometimes i longed to flee away from the dismal monotony. often i sat upon my doorstep almost ready to scream loudly enough to drown the sad music of the pines. since the war i have seen a little poem by john esten cooke, which always reminds me of the time when the band in the pines brought such sadness to my own heart: "the band in the pines. "oh, band in the pine-wood cease! cease with your splendid call; the living are brave and noble, but the dead were bravest of all! "they throng to the martial summons, to the loud, triumphant strain; and the dear bright eyes of long-dead friends come to the heart again. "they come with the ringing bugle and the deep drum's mellow roar, till the soul is faint with longing for the hands we clasp no more! "oh, band in the pine-wood cease or the heart will melt in tears, for the gallant eyes and the smiling lips and the voices of old years!" when, at last, we were released from durance vile, the confederate army had retreated. of course, the hospitals must follow it. by this time my health was completely broken down. the rigors of the winter, the incessant toil, the hard rations had done their work well. i was no longer fit to nurse the sick. in february i left the camp, intending to go for a while wherever help was needed, relying upon a change to recuperate my exhausted energies. but from that time there was so much irregularity as far as hospital organization was concerned that one scarcely knew how best to serve the sick. besides, the presence of a lady had become embarrassing to the surgeons in charge of hospitals, who, while receiving orders one day which were likely to be countermanded the next, often having to send their stores, nurses, etc., to one place while they awaited orders in another, could find no time to provide quarters and sustenance for a lady. as an illustration of this state of things, i will here give an extract from a letter addressed to me after the war by dr. mcallister, of the "buckner hospital." "i was ordered late in november to gainesville, alabama; before reaching that place, my orders were changed to macon; in february to auburn, alabama; thence to the woods to organize a tent hospital. no sick were sent there, and i had nothing to do but to build. put up eighty large tents, built octagon homes, with rounded tops, and flag-poles on the top of each. everything looked gloomy, but i kept on as if i expected to remain there always. just as i had everything completed, received orders to move to charlotte, north carolina. when i got to columbus, georgia, was ordered to send on my stores with my negroes and women-servants, in charge of a faithful man, while i and my detailed men were to remain in the city during its investment, and as long as the struggle lasted, but at last to save myself, and join my stores in macon, georgia. remained during the fight, while the city fell, and all my detailed men were captured; rode out of the city by the light of the burning buildings, and my road was lighted for twelve or fifteen miles by the burning city; borrowed horses about twelve at night, caught the last retreating train, put my servants noel and sam on it; rode on with my true friend dr. tates. found the servants at genoa station, a distance of thirty-five miles, next morning at sunrise, thence to macon; next night found my wife on the same crowded box-car; left her with mrs. yates, mrs. calan, and another lady from columbus. some of my stores had been sent to atlanta, and some had been sent to macon; then the railroad was cut between macon and atlanta; i had either to remain at macon and be captured, or take the only road that was clear to fort valley, which i did, leaving my wife and mrs. yates at dr. green's. yates, myself, sam, and noel took to the woods, and there remained about ten days, living as best we could. then there was a flag of truce, and we came into fort valley. thousands of yankee cavalry were there in camps; all the railroads cut so we could not leave. one night we stole from the yankees two good mules, borrowed a wagon, and took our wives across the country until we could strike one end of the atlanta road, of which the yankees had not got possession; went on into the city of atlanta, where i met dr. stout, who told me the game was up, that my stores were some of them at congress station, some hundred miles away on the augusta road, and for me to go on there and surrender to the first yankee who commanded me to do so. great heaven! what a shock to me! i would rather have died than to have heard it. i went down the road and found my stores, but did not have the honor of surrendering to the yankees. a mob, constituted of women, children, and renegade confederate soldiers, and with some negroes, charged my encampment and took everything except my wife, and trunks, and mrs. yates, and her trunks, which we saved by putting them into a wagon and driving for our lives out of the back alley of the town. at last we came to atlanta, where we parted with dr. and mrs. yates. my wife and i travelled to marion in an old wagon, leaving the poor negroes scattered about in the woods. i only had time to tell them to go where they came from, to their former owners. after a tedious journey, having to beg my bread, i arrived at home (marion, alabama) about the first of may, ." the same irregularities existed everywhere; my state of health forbade me to follow these erratic movements: indeed, i was utterly broken down and therefore made my way, not without great difficulty and many detentions, to alabama, where my little boy had preceded me. even then, we never dreamed of surrender, nor did the sad news reach us until many days after it had taken place. we were utterly incredulous, we could not, would not believe it. meanwhile, the state of things described in one of the articles contained in another part of this book, designed for children (sally's ride) culminated in the long-dreaded _raid_. why the raiders had recrossed the river, returning to selma, and leaving undisturbed (alas! only for a time) the elegant plantation-homes which lay all along their route, remained a mystery. it was certain that a detachment of them had been seen and reported by our own scouts, who at that time were in the saddle day and night "watching their motions;" the negroes also declared, "dey was dare, _suah_, 'case we dun _seed_ 'em." all able-bodied men had long ago gone to the front. the "home-guard," who were doing their best to keep watch and ward over helpless women and children, were only boys, full of ardor and courage, but too young to join the army, or men who from age or disability were also ineligible. these knew every inch of ground, every hiding-place for many miles. at every plantation they were expected and welcome, whenever they could find an opportunity to dash in, dismount, report the state of matters outside, and hastily swallow the "snack" always kept ready and set before them without loss of time, quite as a matter of course. the news brought by these scouts, far from quieting apprehension, tended to increase and deepen it. the old man who, time out of mind, had managed the little ferry fifteen miles away, had been shot for refusing to ferry over some federal soldiers. the bright light so anxiously watched one dark night proved to have been a fire, which had consumed the dwelling, gin-house, stables, etc., of a widowed cousin. her cows had been slaughtered, her horses stolen, her garden and "truck-patch" ploughed all over in the search for hidden silver. other and even more hideous tales (alas! too true) appalled the hearts and tried the courage of the women, who yet must never give up _trying_ to protect the interests confided to them, must _seem_ to hold the reins of power when really they were at the mercy of the negroes, who (to their credit be it spoken) behaved under these trying circumstances extremely well, in some cases showing the most affectionate solicitude and sympathy. they could not, however, in all cases be trusted to withstand the bribes sure to be offered for information as to hiding-places of valuables. so, little by little, silver and jewelry were made up into small packages to be disposed of secretly. for several days _all_ were on the _qui vive_. the fearful suspense, dread, and anguish of that time will never be forgotten by those who shared those anxious vigils; from earliest light until nightfall, restless feet traversed the house and yard, anxious eyes watched every possible approach,--the road, the woods, the plantation. at night, not one of the "white folks" thought of undressing; the very last of a bag of real coffee, which had been treasured like gold, was now brought out. during the day, the usual sweet-potato coffee was served. in the cool april nights, a cheerful fire always blazed in the open fireplace of the parlor, by it was set a pot of very strong coffee, upon which the ladies relied to keep them awake. one at a time would doze in her chair or upon the sofa, while the others kept watch, walking from window to window, listening at the fast-locked door, starting at every sound. occasionally the dogs would bark furiously: "there they are!" cried everybody, and rising to their feet, with bated breath and wildly-beating hearts, they would listen until convinced that their four-footed friends had given a false alarm. those of the women-servants who had no husbands begged every night to sleep "in de house." they were terrified. their mattresses strewed the floors, and it really seemed as if they were a kind of protection, although they always fell asleep and snored so loudly as to drive the ladies, who wanted to listen for outside sounds, to the verge of distraction. some one would occasionally interrupt the noise by administering to each in turn a good shake or insisting upon a change of position, but at best the lull was temporary. soon one of the sleepers would give a suppressed snort, to be immediately joined by one after another, until the unearthly chorus once more swelled to rack the quivering nerves of the listeners. sometimes a peculiar tapping announced the presence outside of the master of the house. creeping softly to the window of an empty room, the wife would receive assurances of present safety. she would then hand out valuable packages of silver or jewelry to be hidden far in the woods in places unknown to any but the owner, who marked the way to the buried treasure by "blazing" certain trees. many valuables were hidden in this way and recovered after the war. the feeble condition of colonel ---- added tenfold to the anxiety of his family, for, although he persisted in doing his duty, it was certain that continual exposure and fatigue might at any time prove fatal. insidious disease was even then gnawing at his vitals; but, spartan-like, he folded above the dreadful agony the robe of manly courage and dignity, which hid it from even those who knew him best. amid all the darkness and sorrow his pleasant smile cheered, his commanding presence inspired respect and confidence. from the windows of his soul shone the steady light of the patriotism that hopeth all things, believeth all things, endureth all things. it was not god's will that he should go forth to battle, but with a kindly heart and generous hand he helped the soldiers to do their duty by caring for their "loved ones at home." meanwhile the noble wife proved a helpmate indeed. a true type of southern women. not a duty was neglected. she looked well to the ways of her household and the well-being of the negroes committed to her care. the spinning and weaving of cloth for the almost naked soldiers in the field went on; the quarters were visited, the sick were cared for. the calm, steady voice read to the old, precious promises, or instructed the young negroes as to the way of truth. so day after day passed, the same anxious dread chilling all hearts, added fear always recurring as the darkness came with its terrible possibilities. april had come, bringing a greater profusion of flowers, painting the face of nature with lovelier hues. no one knew why the neighborhood had thus far escaped being "raided." one evening the scouts (not one alone, but several) reported, "not a yankee on this side the river. gone off on a raid miles on the other side." colonel ---- came in later confirming the report. he was persuaded to remain for one night's rest, and immediately retired to his room. about dusk two men in the disguise (it is _now_ believed) of confederate soldiers--ragged, worn, _barefooted_, and hungry--came stealing in, apparently fearful of being discovered and taken prisoners. no one suspected them. they were warmly welcomed. a supper of broiled ham, milk, eggs, corn-muffins, and real coffee was set before them. they were afterwards shown to a comfortable cabin in the yard,--"the boys' room,"--provided with every comfort, a servant to wait on them, and left to repose. these also having assured the ladies that "the yanks" had gone off on a raid on the other side, it was deemed safe to take advantage of such an opportunity to go regularly to bed and rest, in preparation for whatever might befall afterwards. by ten o'clock everybody was sound asleep. about midnight one of the ladies, hearing a slight noise, arose and looked out the window. old whitey was walking about the yard, nibbling the grass. knowing he was never allowed in the yard, she simply supposed that one of the servants had left open the quarter-gate. not another sound save the mule's step broke the stillness of the night. strange to say, the dogs were nowhere to be seen, nor did they bark at the mule. wondering a little at this circumstance, the lady was about to lie down again, when simultaneously every door of the house was assailed with the butts of guns with a terrific noise. at the same time many hoarse voices yelled, "open these doors, d---- y--! open up, here, or we'll burn the house over your heads!" everybody at once realized the situation. in that fearful moment strength and courage seemed to come as from above. the servants, sleeping upon the floor, began to scream, but were instantly silenced. the ladies, slipping on dressing-gowns, but never stopping to put on shoes or stockings, quietly opened the doors. instantly the whole house swarmed with federal soldiers. their first act was to capture colonel ---- and drag him outside the house, giving him no time to put on any clothes save his pants and night-shirt. the raiders then proceeded to ransack the house. every room, every closet, every trunk, box, drawer, was rifled. two men went to the sideboard, quietly gathering up the few silver spoons, forks, ladles, etc., not hidden, wrapped them up and put them in their pockets. others stripped off the pillow-and bolster-cases, stuffing them with clothing, pictures, etc., tied them together, and placed them ready to be slung over the backs of their horses. bayonets wore thrust through portraits; the sofas, beds, and lounges were pierced in search of concealed valuables; bureau-drawers were emptied, then pitched out of the doors or windows; the panels of locked _armoires_ were broken or kicked to pieces to get at the contents; even the linen sheets were dragged off the beds and thrust into already full sacks and bags. meanwhile, bonfires had been kindled in the yard. by the light the swarming demons carried on their destructive work outside. around the pans of delicious milk in the dairy men reached over each others' heads to fill their tin cups. buttermilk, clabber, fresh butter, disappeared in an instant. in the basement the officers were feasting on ham, etc. the smoke-house was left bare. sugar, meal, flour, rice, were emptied into the yard, and stamped or shuffled into the dust. axes or the butts of guns were employed to literally smash everything. ham, shoulder-meat, etc., were tossed into wagons. cows were driven off, and, oh, the beautiful horses, the _pride_ and pets of their owners, were _led_, snorting and frightened, into the road, where the saddles of the cavalry-horses were put upon their shivering backs preparatory to being mounted and ridden away by their new masters. with perfect calmness the ladies watched the havoc and desolation which was being wrought in their beloved home, among their household treasures. to one of them had been given, some time previous, a sacred trust, a watch which before the war had been presented to a minister by his congregation. when dying in one of the confederate hospitals he had given it to mrs. ----, begging that, if possible, it might be sent to his wife in arkansas. this watch had been concealed upon the tester of a bed, and so far had escaped discovery. but one of the servants having given information regarding it, suddenly two soldiers dragged mrs. ---- into her own room, where they believed it was concealed. she positively refused to give it up. throwing off the mattress, the men held a match to the feather-bed beneath, saying, "_here_ goes your d----d old house, then." had the house been her own she might still have resisted, but as she was only a guest, and had been sheltered and most kindly treated, the watch was given up. the ruffians then insisted upon searching her, and in trying to force a ring from her finger, bruised and hurt the tender flesh. even the negro cabins were searched. in several instances small sums of money which had been saved up were taken. many threats to burn up "the whole business" were made, but, for some unknown reason, not carried into effect. just at dawn the raiders mounted their horses and rode away, recrossing the river to selma with their prisoners. as they rode through the "quarters," the negro men joined them on mules, horses, or on foot. among the prisoners rode colonel ---- upon an old, worn-out horse, without saddle or bridle. by his side, guarding him and mounted upon the colonel's magnificent riding-horse, fully accoutred, was a negro man belonging to a neighboring plantation, who had guided the federals to "ole ----'s place." just behind, upon a sorry mule, escorted by a mixture of negroes and yankees riding his own fine horses, came colonel m----, his head erect, his eyes blazing scornfully, glancing from side to side, or drawing a sharp, hard breath between his clinched teeth as he overheard some ribald jest. his house and gin-house had been burned, his fields laid waste; he had left his young daughters without protection and without shelter. what the ladies felt as they saw this sad cavalcade pass out of sight may not be told. morning dawned upon a scene of desolation, sickening in the extreme,--ruin, waste, wreck everywhere. the house emptied of everything valuable, floors filthy with the prints of muddy feet, the garden ruined, furniture battered and spoiled. outside, broken barrels, boxes, etc., strewed the earth; lard, sugar, flour, meal were mingled together and with the sandy soil; streams of molasses ran down from broken casks; guns which had belonged to the family were broken and splintered and lay where they had been hurled; fences were broken down. had there been any stock left, there was nothing to keep them out of garden or yard. only old whitey was left, however, and he walked gingerly about sniffing at the cumbered ground, looking as surprised as he was able. the carriage and buggy had been drawn out, the curtains and cushions cut and _smeared thoroughly with molasses and lard_. breakfast-time arrived, but no ruthy came up from the quarter; no smoke curled upward from the kitchen-chimney; a more hopeless, dismal party could not well be imagined than the three women who walked from room to room among the _débris_, neither noticing or caring for the losses, only intensely anxious regarding the helpless prisoner, who was surely suffering, but whom they could not hope to relieve. as the day wore on, some of the women from the quarters ventured near, bringing some coarse food which had been cooked in their own cabins; they would not, however, go inside the house, "mass yankee tole us we gwine ter get kill ef we wait on you all." towards evening mrs. ---- walked down to the "quarter." not a man was to be seen. the women were evidently frightened and uncertain as to how far the power of "mass yankee" extended. their mistress had been a kind friend, and their habitual obedience and respect for her could not at once be overcome, but the threats and promises of the federals had disturbed and unsettled them. aunt sophy was an old servant who had nursed mrs. ----'s mother. for years she had been an invalid, kindly nursed and cared for by her master and mistress, receiving her meals from the family table, and having always some of the younger servants detailed to wait on her. passing by her cottage now, mrs. ---- was astonished to see it empty. "where is sophy? what has happened to her?" "oh, she dun gone to selma." "that is impossible; why, she has not walked even as far as the house for months." "well, she dun gone, shuah; she make elsie hitch up ole whitey in de cart and dribe her ober. one genplum he gwine gib her a mule for her own sef and forty acres ob groun'; so she dun gon' ter see 'bout hit." "did any one else go?" "oh, yes, mistis, uncle albert and aunt alice dey go too, and dey want we all to go 'long, but i's gwine ter wait untwill sees what jack got ter say, 'cause i ain't gwine _nowha_ dragging all dem chillum along untwill i knows for sartin whar i's gwine ter stop." sick at heart, the lady turned away, slowly returning to the desolated house. her occupation was gone; order and system could not be restored. there was nothing before the anxious woman but to watch and wait for news. on the second day one of the negro men returned, bringing a tale almost too horrible for belief,--colonel m----, whose defiant bearing had incensed his captors more and more, had been shot down for refusing to obey orders. "master was well, but looked mighty bad." the man also brought the first news of the surrender, a rumor which all refused to believe, although even the possibility filled all breasts with terrible forebodings. _could_ it be true? no! a thousand times no! and yet,--oh, the dread, the anguish of waiting to know. the bright sunlight, the waving trees, the joyous notes of the feathered songsters seemed a mockery. their stricken hearts cried out to all the beautiful things of nature,-- "how can ye bloom so fresh and fair? how can ye sing, ye little birds, and i so weary, fu' o' care?" towards evening on the third day of suspense the master returned fresh from the prison, weary, ragged, dirty, and utterly woe-begone, for he had been set at liberty only to learn that liberty was but an empty sound. sadly he confirmed the story of the surrender. the kindly eyes still strove to cheer, but their happy light was forever quenched. the firm lip quivered not as he told to the sorrowing women the woful tale, but the iron had entered his soul and rankled there until its fatal work was accomplished. ah, many a noble spirit shrunk appalled from the "frowning providence" which then and long afterwards _utterly_ hid the face of a merciful and loving father. and yet, as mother nature with tender hands and loving care soon effaces all traces of havoc and desolation, creating new beauties in lovely profusion to cover even the saddest ruins, so it is wisely ordered that time shall bring healing to wounded hearts. the women who on that april evening long ago grieved so bitterly over the news of the surrender have since known deep sorrow, have wept over many graves. but, like all the women of the south, they have taken up the burden of life bravely, and, god helping them, will not falter or fail until he shall release them. by and by, the men and boys of the family, from distant appomattox, from the army of tennessee, came straggling home. all had walked interminable miles,--all wore equally ragged, dirty, foot-sore, weary, dejected, despairing. they had done their best and had failed. their labor was ended. all over the land lay the ruins of once happy homes. as men gazed upon them, and thought of the past and _the future_, the apathy of despair crept over them; life seemed a burden too heavy to be borne; they longed to lay it down forever. for a time, men who had faced death again and again while struggling for _freedom_, could not find courage to look upon the desolation of the land, or to face the dread future. closing their weary eyes, they slept until the clanking of chains awakened them. despotic power wrung the already bleeding, tortured heart of the south, until crying aloud, she held out to her sons her fettered hands. and then, fully aroused, hearing the piteous cries, the rattle of chains, seeing the beloved face, full of woe, conscious of every bitter, burning tear (which as it fell, seemed to sear their own hearts), struggling to reach, to succor her, they found _themselves_ bound and powerless to save. alas, dear friends, that the pathway which opened so brightly, which seemed to lead to heights of superlative glory, should have ended beside the grave of hope. oh, was it not hard to believe that "whatever is is right?" to kneel submissively in this valley of humiliation, and lift our streaming eyes to the heavens, that seemed of brass, to the father who, it then appeared, had forgotten to be merciful. the glory which even then was apparent to the outside world, could not penetrate the clouds which hung above us. the land was yet red with blood that had been poured out in vain. from once happy homes came wails of grief and despair. even the embers wore dead upon the hearths around which loved ones should never more gather. and since hope is dead, and naught can avail to change the decrees of fate, let me close this record of mingled glory and gloom, for hero must be written,-- omega. chapter vii. confederate women. no historian can faithfully recount the story of the war and leave untouched the record made by southern women. their patriotism was not the outcome of mere sentiment, but a pure steady flame which from the beginning of the war to the end burned brightly upon the altars of sacrifice, which they set up all over the land. "the power behind the throne" never ceased to be felt. its spirit pervaded every breast of the living barricades which opposed the invaders, nerved every arm to battle for the right, inspired valorous deeds which dazzled the world. from quiet homes far from the maddening strife, where faithful women toiled and spun, facing and grappling with difficulties, even dangers, never complained of, came bright, cheery letters, unshadowed by the clouds which often hung dense and dark over their daily pathway but glowing with unshaken faith, undaunted patriotism, lofty courage, and more than all pride in the exceptional bravery which _they always took for granted_. men must not fail to come up to the standard set up in simple faith by mothers, wives, daughters, and, as all the world knows, _they did not_. it was my daily business during the war to read and answer letters to sick soldiers. almost all were such as i have described. a few, alas! were far different. as i read them and watched the agony they caused, i understood why some men became deserters, and absolutely revered the manliness and patriotism which resisted a temptation so terrible. it seemed once that i could never forget the contents of letters which particularly impressed me, but am sorry i have done so and cannot reproduce them here. one i can never forget. a tall, splendid missouri soldier came into my office one morning, his face convulsed with grief. handing me a letter, he sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands and sobbing pitifully. a letter had been somehow conveyed to him from his sister-in-law announcing that his wife was dying of consumption. appended to the letter (which was sad enough) were a few lines written by the trembling hand of the dying one. "darling, do not let any thoughts of me come between you and your duty to our country. i have longed to see you once more, to die with my head upon your breast; but that is past,--i am calm and happy. we have long known that this parting must be; perhaps when my soul is free i may be nearer you. if possible, my spirit will be with you wherever you are." i can only recall these few lines. a volume could not convey more strongly the spirit of southern women, strong even in death. i could only offer the stricken soldier the little comfort human sympathy can give, but my tears flowed plentifully as he told me of his wife and his home. he was, as i afterwards learned, killed at the battle of franklin. i thought almost with pleasure of the happy reunion which i felt sure must have followed. how often i have marshalled into the hospital wards mothers and wives, who for the sake of some absent loved one had come from homes many miles away, to bring some offering to the sick. timid, yet earnest women, poorly dressed, with sunbrowned faces and rough hands, yet bearing in their hearts the very essence of loving-kindness towards the poor fellows upon whose pale faces and ghastly wounds they looked with "round-eyed wonder" and pity. after a while they would gain courage to approach some soldier whom they found "sort o' favored" their own, to whom they ventured to offer some dainty, would stroke the wasted hand, smooth the hair, or hold to the fevered lips a drink of buttermilk or a piece of delicious fruit. ah, _how many_ times i have watched such scenes! to the warmly-expressed thanks of the beneficiaries they would simply answer, "that is nothing; 'mebbe' somebody will do as much for mine when he needs it." about seven miles from ringgold, georgia, lived an old couple, mr. and mrs. russell, who, although ardently loving the _cause_, were too old and feeble to _serve_ it otherwise than by their unceasing prayers, and by giving freely of their substance to sustain the patients at the hospitals then established at ringgold. their daughter, "miss phemie," a beautiful young girl, was never weary of conferring benefits upon the southern soldiers; every day she rode in, never minding even heavy storms, and often riding upon a wagon because it would hold a larger supply of vegetables, etc. many a soldier was taken to the homestead to be cared for. those who could not go from under medical or surgical treatment were often treated to little rides. her devotion to the soldiers i can never forget. among the sick and wounded who were sent to the hospital at newnan were many georgians whose homes were within twenty-five or thirty miles. after the fight at missionary ridge, two boys, brothers, were brought in. one was threatened with pneumonia; the other, a lad of sixteen, had his right arm shattered from the shoulder down. at his earnest request his mother was sent for; the necessary amputation being deferred awhile, because he begged so hard that the surgeon should await her arrival. she had to ride all the way on a wagon drawn by a steer (oh, mothers, can you not imagine the agony which attended that lengthened journey?), and she was so long detained that i had to take her place at her boy's side while the operation was performed. the boy rapidly sunk,--when his mother came was past speaking, and could only express with his dying eyes his great love for her. kneeling beside him, she watched intently, but without a tear or a sob, the dear life fast ebbing away. the expression of that mother's face no one who saw it can ever forget. when all was over, i led her to my own room, where she asked to be left alone for a while. at last, in answer to the sobbing appeals of her remaining son, she opened the door. he threw himself into her arms, crying out, "buddie's gone, but you're got me, ma, and i'll never leave you again. i'll help you take buddie home, and i'll stay with you and help you work the farm." the mother gently and tenderly held him off a little way, looking with burning eyes into his face; her own was pale as death, but not a sob or tear yet. quietly she said, "no, my son, your place is not by me; i can get along as i have done; you are needed yonder (at the front); _go_ and avenge your brother; he did his duty to the last; don't disgrace him and me. come, son, don't cry any more; you're mother's man, you know." that same night that mother started _alone_ back to her home, bearing the coffined body of her youngest son, parting bravely from the elder, whose sorrow was overwhelming. just before leaving, she took me aside and said, "my boy is no coward, but he loved his buddie, and is grieving for him; try to comfort him, won't you?" i did try, but during the whole night he paced with restless feet up and down my office. at daylight i sat watching his uneasy slumber. a few weeks later a young wife came by train to visit her husband, who lay very ill of fever, bringing with her a lovely blue-eyed baby girl about two years old. i found a room for her at a house near the hospital, and she was allowed to nurse her husband. when he was nearly ready to report for duty, a fearful accident happened by which the baby nearly lost her life, and was awfully disfigured. at the house where the young wife boarded there was a ferocious bull-dog, which was generally kept chained until it showed such evident fondness for the babe that he was sometimes allowed to lie upon the gallery beside it while it slept, and the little one on awakening would crawl all over the dog, who patiently submitted, and would affectionately lick her face. one day, however, when the family were all assembled upon the gallery, the dog suddenly sprung upon the little girl, fastening his dreadful fangs in one side of her face. everybody was stricken with horror. nothing availed to make the beast loosen his hold, until suddenly he withdrew his teeth from the child's face and fastened them once more in her shoulder. at last, as no other alternative presented itself, some one placed a pistol to his ear and killed him. the baby on being released still breathed, but was so torn and disfigured that the sight turned strong men sick. the father fell in a swoon; the young mother, pale and shaking as with an ague, yet held her mutilated babe through all the examination and the surgical operations which followed. for two weeks it seemed as if the child must die, but she did not, and soon, unconscious of her disfigurement, began to play and smile. all pitied the unfortunate father when, after some time allowed him through sympathy with his misfortune, it became necessary for him to return to the front. he had borne an excellent record, but now broke down utterly, declaring he could not leave his child. the young wife, putting down with a strong hand her own sorrow, actually set herself to rouse her husband to a sense of duty, and succeeded; i was present at the depot when the brave, girlish wife waved to the soldier a smiling farewell, and afterwards witnessed her vain efforts to suppress the short, sharp screams of agony which had been kept under as long as her husband needed to be upheld, but which after his departure convulsed her at intervals for hours. there are two women against whom, during and since the war, i held and still hold a grudge. one was of that class of women who undervalue and strive to undo all the good done by others; who hold opinions and views which they absolutely insist upon carrying out regardless of consequences. during the whole four years of the war i was annoyed by these would-be directresses of hospitals. they would intrude themselves into my wards, where they hesitated not to air their superior knowledge of all sickness, to inspire discomfort and distrust in the patients by expressive gestures, revealing extreme surprise at the modes of treatment, and by lugubrious shakes of the head their idea of the inevitably fatal result. while the kindly women, who, though already overburdened, would take from the wards of the hospital enough of convalescents or sick men to crowd their own homes, often thereby saving lives,--always doing good,--these prowling women would manage to convey their sense of the dreadful condition of hitherto well-satisfied patients without ever suggesting a remedy. in one of the large churches used for sick-wards in newnan lay a young man from maryland, who had suffered the amputation of an arm. the wound had been carefully bandaged, the arteries taken up, etc., but as inflammation supervened the pain became almost unbearable, the poor fellow moaned unceasingly. one night two old women visited the ward. afterward, upon making my last round, i found the young man above mentioned so quiet that i did not disturb him. it so happened that dr. merriweather, of alabama, was in newnan, in close attendance upon his young son, who had received a most peculiar and apparently fatal wound. he was shot through the liver. the wound, at all times excessively painful, exuded bile. whenever dr. merriweather wanted an hour's rest i took my place at the bedside of the lad. interest in the case took me very frequently to the ward. just before bedtime, therefore, i returned to the side of young merriweather to let his father off for a while. inquiring of the nurse as to the patient who had been so restive, i learned that he had neither moved nor spoken. feeling uneasy, i walked over to the corner where he lay. at once i heard a drip, drip, drip, and, calling for a light, soon discovered that the bed and floor were bloody. dr. yates was called at once, but too late. that dreadful meddler, the old woman visitor, had actually dared to loosen the bandages, and the poor victim, feeling only relief, had sunk tranquilly to his death. the other was a heartless girl, who has, i feel sure, by this time made a selfish, unloving wife to some poor man. her lover, after the battle of franklin, was brought to the tent hospital, having lost a leg and being wounded in the face. he confided to me the fact of his engagement to "one of the prettiest and _peartest_ girls in 'massissip,'" and begged me to write her of his condition, and, said the poor fellow, "if she don't care about sticking to a fellow murdered up like i am, i reckon i'll have to let her off" (this with a sigh). then, with a brighter look, "maybe she'll stick, anyhow." how he watched for the answer to that letter! his restlessness was pitiful to see. i tried to help him by reading to him and by relating to him instances of women who only loved more because the object of their affection had been unfortunate. among other things, i told him of the noble english girl who wrote to her mangled lover that she still loved and would marry him "if there was enough of his body left to contain his soul." afterward i felt sorry that i had encouraged him to hope, for it was my misfortune to read to him a very cold letter from his lady-love, who declined to marry "a _cripple_." she wanted a husband who could support her, and as some man who lived near was "mighty fond of her company and could give her a good home," she reckoned she would take his offer under consideration. for a few days my poor young friend was inconsolable; but one morning i found him singing. "i've been thinking over that matter," said he, "and i reckon i've had a lucky escape. that trifling girl would never have made me a good, faithful wife." from that day he seemed to have recovered his cheerfulness. i have never forgiven that faithless girl. all over the south, wherever "pain and anguish wrung the brow" of their defenders, women became "ministering angels." even those who had been bereft of their own suppressed their tears, stifled the cry of bleeding hearts, and, by unwearied attention to living sufferers, strove to honor their dead. self-abnegation was, during the war, a word of meaning intense and real. its spirit had its dwelling-place in the souls of faithful women, looked out from the bright eyes of young girls, whose tender feet were newly set in a thorny pathway, as well as from the pale, stricken faces of those whose hearts the thorn had pierced. among the tender and true women with whom i have corresponded since the war is the mother of colonel robadeaux wheat, the noble louisianian who fell at gaines's mill. i have several of her letters by me, written in the tremulous hand of one who had passed her seventy-ninth birthday, but glowing with love for the _cause_, and fondest pride in the sons who died in its defence. it is touching to see how she clings to and cherishes the record, given by his companions in arms, of "robadeux's" last hours on earth, when, in the early morning, before going forth to battle, his heart seemed to return to the simple faith of his boyhood, and, gathering his subordinate officers around him in his tent; he read reverently the service of prayer which committed himself and them to the protection of the god of battles. mrs. wheat's letters are, i think, among the most beautiful and touching i ever read, yet sprightly and interesting. believing that all my readers will feel an interest in the mother of glorious "bob wheat," i will here transcribe a small portion. in one letter she says,-- "i am, thank god, in excellent health for one aged seventy-eight. my husband was born in this city (washington, d.c.) in _the year one, he says_. "we shall soon celebrate the fifty-ninth anniversary of our marriage, and he is deeply engaged upon some 'post-nuptial lines' for me." in another,-- "i want to send you a sword and flag for the exposition. how i wish i could _take_ it to new orleans, where i lived many years when my husband was rector of st. paul's church! you know, our second son, i.t. wheat, was secretary of the secession committee when louisiana seceded, also secretary of the legislature. he was killed at shiloh at the same hour as general sydney johnston, and is buried in nashville. we are hoping to have the dear brother's monument in hollywood, richmond, where both beloved ones shall rest in the same grave." .... in conclusion, "our love and blessings rest ever on yourself and all friends of our hero sons. truly yours, in christian fellowship, "selima wheat." here is the record of another mother, who is to this day proud of the splendid record made by her sons, and devoted in the memory of _the cause_. at the commencement of the war there lived in sharon, mississippi, mr. and mrs. o'leary, surrounded by a family of five stalwart sons. mrs. catharine o'leary was a fond and loving mother, but also an unfaltering patriot, and her heart was fired with love for the cause of southern liberty. therefore, when her brave sons, one after the other, went forth to battle for the right, she bade them god-speed. "be true to your god and your country," said this noble woman, "and never disgrace your mother by flinching from duty." her youngest and, perhaps, dearest was at that time only fifteen. for a while she felt that his place was by her side; but in , when he was barely seventeen, she no longer tried to restrain him. her trembling hands, having arrayed the last beloved boy for the sacrifice, rested in blessings on _his_ head ere he went forth. repressing the agony which swelled her heart, she calmly bade him, also, "do your whole duty. if you must die, let it be with your face to the foe." and so went forth james a. o'leary, at the tender age of seventeen, full of ardor and hope. he was at once assigned to courier duty under general loring. on the th of july, , at the battle of atlanta, he was shot through the hip, the bullet remaining in the wound, causing intense suffering, until , when it was extracted, and the wound healed for the first time. notwithstanding this wound, he insisted upon returning to his command, which, in the mean time, had joined wood's regiment of cavalry. this was in , and so wounded he served three months, surrendering with general wirt adams at gainesville. a short but very glorious record. this young hero is now residing in shreveport, louisiana, is a successful physician, and an honored member of the veteran association of that city,--dr. james a. o'leary. of his brothers, the oldest, ignatius s. o'leary, served throughout the war, and is now a prominent druggist of vicksburg, mississippi. dr. richard o'leary, surgeon p.a.c.s., now practises medicine in vicksburg. cornelius o'leary, badly wounded at the battle of fredericksburg, lay on the field for hours with the legions of friend and foe alternately charging over him. after a long illness he recovered, and is now a planter near sharon, mississippi. john pearce o'leary was killed in the battle of the wilderness. mrs. o'leary still lives in sharon. the old fire is unquenched. there are two names of patriotic women which will always awaken in every southern heart profound veneration, and imperishable love and gratitude,--women who devoted themselves so entirely, so continuously to the soldiers of the confederacy as to obliterate self, unconsciously winning for themselves the while a name and fame which history will proudly record. their names--written in many hearts, fondly cherished in the homes of veterans whose children are taught to revere them--are mrs. buck morris and mrs. l.m. caldwell. mrs. morris was by birth a kentuckian, but at the beginning of the war resided with her husband, a prominent and wealthy lawyer, in chicago, illinois. her sympathies, always southern, became strongly enlisted upon the side of the unfortunate prisoners at camp douglas. both judge morris and his wife were deeply implicated in the plot to release these men. their home in chicago was a place of secret rendezvous for southerners who, in the interest of these prisoners, were secretly visiting chicago. by some means constant communication with the prisoners was established, and if they still suffered horribly, hope revived among them for a while, and her blessed presence lightened their burdens. mrs. morris well knew that by implicating herself in the plot she was placing herself and husband in a position to suffer in their own persons and property in case of failure. death would be the most probable consequence. yet she risked it all. to use her own words, copied from a letter which i received from her shortly before her death, "i _did_ help my suffering, starving countrymen, who were subjected to the horrors of camp douglas. i loved them with all the sympathy and pride of a mother, and i did spend upon them every dollar of my own money and as much of my husband's as i could _get_ by fair means or foul in my hands. "at the close of the war we found ourselves broken in health and fortune, but my husband had still enough left for our support; but the great chicago fire swept our all away. "should my health improve, i wish to make an effort to send you a fuller account, and to add my small morsel of praise to the gallantry and patient endurance of the most bitter and maddening trials that men were ever called upon to endure. "one unselfish action i would like to have recorded of a member of j.h. morgan's command, the same to which my dear friend colonel b.f. forman belonged, and he can tell you how proud all kentucky was of her brave boys. this is what i wish to write, because i like to have every noble deed recorded. after my good brother, ex-governor blackman (who has administered medicine whenever i needed it), removed to tennessee, and i felt the attack coming on from which i have so long and so severely suffered, i applied to dr. r. wilson thompson for medical advice, and, receiving it, put my hand in my pocket. he said, almost sternly, 'no, no, mrs. morris, do not attempt that; you cannot do it,' and, rising abruptly, left the house. returning the second day, he said, 'i fear you did not understand me, mrs. morris: i feel as every confederate soldier feels, or ought to feel,--that he could never do enough for _you_; we could never receive pay from _you_ for anything.' and so for the last five months he, although like many of our brave boys has had many hardships to endure, and his constitution shattered, has come through snow and sleet night and day to minister to the relief of an old woman who only did her duty to him and his people twenty long years ago. how few remember to be grateful so long! present my best love to my old friend b.f. forman. i remain always your friend and well-wisher, "mrs. mary b. morris. "spring station, kentucky." from one of the many louisiana soldiers who received, at the hands of mrs. caldwell, the tender care and excellent nursing which doubtless saved his life, i have received a description of the "refuge," which, during three years of the war, was opened to louisiana soldiers; not to officers, although a few personal friends of mr. and mrs. caldwell were there by special invitation; but it was understood that none but private soldiers were expected without an invitation, while all privates were welcomed as to a home. the 'refuge,' the residence of john b. caldwell during the war, was situated in amherst county, virginia, about three and a half miles from lynchburg. the residence was of peculiar build, having more the appearance of the queen anne style of architecture than any else, and was probably the only house in that section of country where the constructor had diverged from the accepted style for a country residence, hence, even in its isolated situation, it was known far and wide. the estate comprised an area of about eight hundred acres, and was cultivated in wheat, corn, etc. the route to it from lynchburg lay, for about a mile and a half, along the north side of the james river, from which the road turned at almost right angles toward the north, over an undulating country, and through a long lane, which was part of the farm. the house stood about fifty yards from the road, and presented a rather picturesque appearance, the lawn being surrounded by a fence, outside of which and in front of the house a circular lawn had been laid out, around which was the carriage drive. there were four rooms on the ground floor of the house, and two in the main building up-stairs, and two additional rooms which had been added, but were so situated that an accurate description would be hard to give, and perhaps harder to understand after giving. the house faced nearly east, and had a porch up and down-stairs, and on the north side a gallery. there were the usual out-houses, and a feature of the place was the spring, which was situated at the foot of the hill upon which the house stood. water was supplied from this spring by means of a ram-pump with pipes. around the spring was a growth of very fine walnut-and chestnut-trees, which made it a very cool retreat during the warm days of summer. a large orchard of apples, plums, and peaches was immediately in the rear of the residence. between the farm and the road which led from lynchburg to amherst court-house, a distance of about two miles, was a thick growth of woods, consisting principally of chestnut-trees. "the whole face of the country consisted of hills and dales, and was rather rugged; the soil rather poor, probably having been exhausted by long cultivation. the nearest house was fully a mile distant, that section of country being but sparsely settled." their painful journey thitherward ended, just imagine what it must have been to these suffering men to arrive at such a haven of rest!--a "refuge" indeed. think of the cool, breezy chambers, clean and white and fragrant, _like home_, of the tender ministry of that gentle woman, whose loving service was theirs to command, of the country food, of the cool, sparkling water from the spring under the oaks, held to fevered lips by ever-ready hands, while the favored patients drank at the same time draughts of sympathy from eyes whose kindly glances fell upon the humblest as upon their very own. the excellence and faithfulness of the nursing is fully proved by the fact that while three or four hundred patients were sent to this blessed "refuge," no mortality occurred among the soldiers, the only death being that of a little son of captain laurence nichols, who had fallen in battle at gaines's mill, and whose widow found in this lovely, hospitable home a temporary resting-place for the body of her gallant husband, and shelter for herself and child, a lovely boy of three years, who was thence transferred to the arms of the good shepherd. sad, indeed, were the hearts of the little band of women gathered at the "refuge." the trials of the bereaved wife and mother were indeed sore and hard to be borne, but she could go to the graves of her dead and there pray for faith to look upward, where she knew her treasures were safe for time and for eternity. under the same roof the wife of general francis t. nichols passed days and nights of agonizing suspense. her husband was wounded and a prisoner. she knew he had suffered amputation of an arm, but could learn nothing more. _rumors_ were fearful enough to distress the young wife, whose trembling heart was filled with foreboding. every few days reports that _seemed_ true startled her,--he was _dead_. alas! it might be true, for how could he live in the midst of enemies to whom his high spirit would not bend, wounded, suffering, deprived of the loving care for which he pined? again, he had tried to escape in the garb of a peddler, and had been taken up as a spy (which no one who knew him believed). in that sad household mrs. caldwell's duties became onerous and multifarious enough to appall one less stout-hearted or less devoted to the cause. the inmates of the dwelling looked to her for sympathy, advice, nursing, and all kinds of attention, as well as for the comfort which could come only by superexcellent housekeeping. and all this was done, and _well_ done, by one woman, inspired by supreme devotion to the _confederate_ cause and its defenders. truly such a woman deserves to be immortalized, to live in history long after the hearts that now enshrine her image shall have ceased to beat. later, larger hospital accommodation having been provided, it became difficult to obtain permission for private soldiers to leave the wards to which they had been assigned. mr. and mrs. j. edwards caldwell then resolved to fill up the "refuge" with their own friends among the officers, saying to each other, "we will do all the good we can, and will agree to sustain each other in any course without consulting." very sick and very badly-wounded patients were now sent to mrs. caldwell. in fact, cases which were considered hopeless, but lingering, were despatched from the hospital to the "refuge" to die, but not one of them did what was expected of him. the efforts of mrs. caldwell were blessed of god, and her patients, without exception, improved. one of these was lawson lewis davis, of new orleans, wounded at frazier's mills, near richmond. he was suffering from a terrible wound, the cap of the shoulder having been removed. he suffered for a whole year before recovering. a still more remarkable case was that of captain charles knowlton, tenth louisiana regiment. he was wounded in the knee in november, , and was at once invited to the "refuge," but, having recession of the knee, was compelled to remain under surgical treatment until april, , when he was sent to mrs. caldwell, and remained nine months more under her care. an order had been issued that in all such cases amputation should be performed, but dr. reid, of richmond, his attendant surgeon, decided to attempt to save the limb, and was successful. out of many cases of the kind, this was the only one recorded where amputation was avoided and the patient's life was saved. captain knowlton now resides near hopevilla, east baton rouge, louisiana, is married, and has two children. another desperate case was that of john mccormick, from whose leg nearly all the bones were removed, but who also recovered. there were, besides, three men sick of fever and dysentery, desperately ill, considered hopeless when sent to the "refuge," but who all recovered. this is certainly a remarkable record, and one to be proud of. among the patients was that noble patriot, colonel alcibiades de blanc, of st. martin's parish, louisiana, of whom lousianians proudly relate that he refused to be made a brigadier-general, saying he did not feel competent to fill such a position, and was content to serve his country as a private soldier, feeling that no position could be more honorable. of company k, eighth louisiana, and company h, seventh louisiana, nearly all the sick and wounded enjoyed, at one time or another during the war, the hospitalities of the "refuge." general hays was a personal friend and honored guest. henry weir baker there recovered from typhoid fever. this gentleman was a member of washington artillery, a distinction which is enough of itself, without an added word of praise. he is now residing in new orleans, a successful journalist, and has been untiring in his patriotic efforts to develop the splendid resources of louisiana. fred washington, of new orleans, was also saved to his country by the kindly attentions of mrs. caldwell. he also is an honored citizen of new orleans, engaged as a journalist, and is one of the faithful few who _do not forget_. he is an active member of the association a.n. va., always "to the fore" when opportunities occur to honor the dead confederates or to succor the living. of the hundreds who now live to remember with liveliest gratitude the "refuge" they once found from the horrors and toils and pains of battle, and the gentle hostess who so unweariedly ministered to them, i can gather only a few names besides those already mentioned,--those of lieutenant brooks, seventh louisiana; dr. henry larreux, ---- ----; lieutenant henri puisson, tenth louisiana. mr. and mrs. caldwell were new orleans people. their temporary home in virginia was taken with the definite object in view of offering a "refuge" to sick and wounded louisiana soldiers. she is, of course, proud of its "record" and her own, but simply says in her letter to me, "on opening the 'refuge' (mr. john edwards caldwell said to his wife) we will each do all we find to do, and all we _can_ do, without consulting or telling each other what we do. and this we carried out." while seeking materials for this sketch, i have interviewed several of the veterans who were in virginia her guests and patients. i had but to mention her name to ask, "do you know mrs. caldwell, of the 'refuge?'" and forthwith the eyes of stern men grew misty, and an indescribable look brightened careworn faces, the look i know so well and have learned to think more beautiful than "any light that falls on land or sea." "_know her!_ why, but for her i must have died." thus to become of blessed memory is worth a lifetime of toil and self-devotion. and yet the _cause_ and its defenders were worth it all, and more. as far as the wounded and sick soldiers are concerned, i am sure that mrs. caldwell, equally with myself and all others, who during the war were so blessed as to be permitted to minister to them, will be willing to declare that magnificent as were their brave deeds, their patient endurance seemed almost "the better part of valor." there is one bright, shining record of a patriotic and tireless woman which remains undimmed when placed beside that of the most devoted of confederate women: i refer to mrs. rose rooney, of company k, fifteenth louisiana regiment, who left new orleans in june, , and never deserted the "b'ys" for a day until the surrender. she was no hanger-on about camp, but in everything but actual fighting was as useful as any of the boys she loved with all her big, warm, irish heart, and served with the undaunted bravery which led her to risk the dangers of every battle-field where the regiment was engaged, unheeding the zip of the minies, the shock of shells, or the horrible havoc made by the solid shot, so that she might give timely succor to the wounded or comfort the dying. when in camp she looked after the comfort of the regiment, both sick and well, and many a one escaped being sent to the hospital because rose attended to him so well. she managed by some means to keep on hand a stock of real coffee, paying at times thirty-five dollars per pound for it. the surrender almost broke her heart. her defiant ways caused her to be taken prisoner. i will give in her own words an account of what followed. "sure, the yankees took me prisoner along with the rest. the next day, when they were changing the camps to fix up for the wounded, i asked them what would they do with _me_. they tould me to 'go to the divil.' i tould them, 'i've been long enough in his company; i'd choose something better.' i then asked them where any confederates lived. they tould me about three miles through the woods. on my way i met some yankees. they asked me, 'what have you in that bag?' i said, 'some rags of my own.' i had a lot of rags on the top, but six new dresses at the bottom; and sure i got off with them all. then they asked me if i had any money. i said no; but in my stocking i had two hundred dollars in confederate money. one of the yankees, a poor divil of a private soldier, handed to me three twenty-five cents of yankee money. i said to him, 'sure, you must be an irishman.' 'yes,' said he. i then went on till i got to the house. mrs. crump and her sister were in the yard, and about twenty negro women--no men. i had not a bite for two days, nor any water, so i began to cry from weakness. mrs. crump said, 'don't cry, you are among friends.' she then gave me plenty to eat,--hot hoe-cake and buttermilk. i stayed there fifteen days, superintending the cooking for the sick and wounded men. one-half of the house was full of confederates, and the other of yankees. they then brought us to burkesville, where all the yankees were gathered together. there was an ould doctor there, and he began to curse me, and to talk about all we had done to their prisoners. i tould him, 'and what have _you_ to say to what you done to _our_ poor fellows?' he tould me to shut up, _and sure i did_. they asked me fifty questions after, and i never opened me mouth. the next day was the day when all the confederate flags came to petersburg. i had some papers in my pocket that would have done harrum to some people, so i chewed them all up and ate them, but i wouldn't take the oath, and _i never did take it_. the flags were brought in on dirt-cars, and as they passed the federal camps them yankees would unfurl them and shake them about to show them. my journey from burkesville to petersburg was from eleven in the morning till eleven at night, and i sitting on my bundle all the way. the yankee soldiers in the car were cursing me, and calling me a damn rebel, and more ugly talk. i said, 'mabbe some of you has got a mother or wife; if so, you'll show some respect for _me_.' then they were quiet. i had to walk three miles to captain buckner's headquarters. the family were in a house near the battle-ground, but the door was shut, and i didn't know who was inside, and i couldn't see any light. i sat down on the porch, and thought i would have to stay there all night. after a while i saw a light coming from under the door, and so i knocked; when the door was opened and they saw who it was, they were all delighted to see me, because they were afraid i was dead. i wanted to go to richmond, but would not go on a yankee transportation. when the brigade came down, i cried me heart out because i was not let go on with them. i stayed three months with mrs. cloyd, and then mayor rawle sent me forty dollars and fifty more if i needed it, and that brought me home to new orleans." mrs. rooney is still cared for and cherished by the veterans of louisiana. at the soldiers' home she holds the position of matron, and her little room is a shrine never neglected by visitors to "camp nichols." upon every occasion when the association of a.n.va. appear as an association, mrs. rooney is with them, an honored and honorary member. neatly dressed, her cap of the real irish pattern surmounting her face, beaming with pride in "the _b'ys_." in fiery patriotism, unfaltering devotion, defiant courage the women of new orleans had no rival, save the women of baltimore. i know no other place where the fiery furnace was so hot, the martyrdom so general or so severe. in both instances the iron hand of despotism failed to crush or subdue. women continued to give aid and comfort to confederate soldiers in hospital and prison, using every art they possessed to accomplish their ends. the sick were nursed and fed and comforted. prisoners were assisted to escape, concealed until they could be spirited away, while their fair friends bravely faced and dared the consequences of discovery, never hesitating to avow their partisanship, crying, "if this be treason, make the most of it." a dozen arrests among these devotees did no good, for their name was legion. every house was a nest of "treason;" for here dwelt the women whose best beloved were confederate soldiers. and when the end came, when the bravest soldiers returned, wretched and despairing, even weeping bitter tears within the faithful arms that sheltered them, the faces which bent above them still bravely smiled. beloved voices whispered of encouragement and hope, patient hearts assumed burdens under which men fainted and failed. from the root of patriotism, deeply buried in the hearts of southern women, sprung a new and vigorous growth. its tendrils overspread and concealed desolate places; the breath of its flowers filled all the land, stealing over the senses like an invigorating breeze. "there is life in the old land yet," said men to each other. let us cherish and develop it. and so, once more each lifted his heavy burden, and finding it unexpectedly lightened, turned to find at his side, no longer a helpless clinging form which should hamper his every step, but a true woman, strong in the love which defied discouragement, "with a heart for any fate," a _helpmeet_, indeed, who hereafter would allow no burden to remain unshared. thus faithful to the living, the women of the south never forgot their dead heroes. at first it was impossible to do more than to "keep green" their sacred graves, or to deposit thereon a few simple flowers, but the earliest rays of the sun of prosperity fell upon many a "storied urn and animated bust," raised by tireless love and self-sacrifice, to mark "the bivouac of the dead." in connection with one of these, erected by the ladies of new orleans, in greenwood cemetery, i know an anecdote which has always seemed to me particularly beautiful and touching, as illustrative of an exquisite sentiment which could have had its birth only in the heart of a true and tender woman. after the removal of the bones of the confederate soldiers, who had died in and about new orleans, from their lowly graves to their last resting-place, under their grand and beautiful monument, many people repaired thither as to a shrine. among them appeared one evening mrs. h----, a sister of the gallant and ever-lamented major nelligan, of the first louisiana. after viewing the monument, mrs. h---- strolled over among the graves, and there came upon a few bones of confederate soldiers, which had been accidentally left upon the ground. they seemed to her so precious, so sacred, that they must have sepulchre; but how should she accomplish this end? nothing that she had or could get, in short, nothing that had been used would do. instantly she sought the first store where a piece of new linen could be bought; returning with it, she reverently laid the bones within it, and, without speaking a word to any one of her intentions, buried them in the garden at home, where they now lie. i have not yet told all i know about confederate women, nor even the half, nor is it needful that i should. while recounting their history to future generations, fame will put by her brazen trumpet, yet sing their praises in tones so sweet and clear that all the world shall hear and wonder and admire. chapter viii. an incident of the battle of the wilderness. these facts were related to me by a virginia soldier, and woven by me into a story for the _southern bivouac_. on the night of may , , lee had withdrawn his forces from a salient point called the "horseshoe," in consequence of a retrograde or flank movement of the enemy opposite that point. a battery of artillery, consisting of four companies, which was to have occupied that point, was removed some two miles back. at early dawn, word was brought that grant's forces had again advanced, and the artillery was ordered to return with all speed. faster and faster they advanced until they reached the top of the hill, in the very toe of the horseshoe, to find themselves in the jaws of the enemy. it fell to the lot of a non-commissioned officer of captain w.p. carter's battery to prepare the ammunition. he first cut the fuse for one second's time. after preparing several shells and receiving no word from his general he made ready several charges of canister, knowing the enemy to be close at hand. still nobody came for the ammunition. he observed next that the drivers of the limber-chest had dismounted and left their horses, and the horses being without a driver, backed the wheels of the limber over the ammunition. to prevent damage, he seized the off-leader by the bridle, turning them back to a front position. while doing this, he distinctly heard the minie-balls crashing through the bones of the horses. they did not fall at once, however, and he had just gotten them to a front position, when a forcible blow upon the right shoulder, made by the enemy's color-bearer with the point of his staff, showed him that they were upon him. there was no time to say "good-morning," so he beat a hasty retreat around his limber, "_sauve que peut_." he had scarcely commenced to run when he felt a heavy blow about the middle of his back. his thought was, "can that color-bearer have repeated his blow, or am i struck by a ball, which has deadened the sense of feeling?" there being no flow of blood, however, he concluded he was not much hurt. after a run of forty yards he came to the dry bed of a stream between two hills. here he paused to reconnoitre. the morning fog and the smoke of battle obscured the view, except close to the ground. crouching on all-fours, he peered below the cloud of smoke toward the crest of the hill where the battery was. he soon saw that the case was hopeless, and the battery in possession of the enemy. looking to the left, he read in the anxious countenance of an aide-de-camp on horseback that matters at that point were in a desperate case. running up the bed of the stream, he reached the shelter of the woods on his left. so far he had run parallel to the line of battle. when well in the woods, turning at right angles, it seemed that he had made his escape. meeting just then with an officer of the battery (the only one who escaped) and several comrades, a brief consultation was held, suddenly cut short by a continuous roar of musketry in the rear and near the heel of the horseshoe, showing that the party were in danger of being enclosed and cut off within the circle. the consultation was summarily ended, and flight again resumed. this time they ran well out of the horseshoe and out of danger, stopping not until they met lee's reinforcements going to the front. here, from a point of safety, they could hear war holding high revelry in the bottom below. now, for the first time the soldier took occasion to examine his knapsack. a minie-ball had entered the lower part, passing through sixteen folds of tent-cloth, many folds of a blanket, riddling several articles of underwear, and finally burying itself in a small bible. such was its force that not a leaf from revelations to genesis remained without impress of the ball, and half the leaves were actually penetrated. just at this time he was overjoyed to see his brother (about whom he had been painfully anxious) returning to the rear with a company of the richmond howitzers, who, having spent all their ammunition, came to replenish their chests. this young man had been color-bearer of the company, and when the battery first reached the hill, had turned to the woods on his left to tie his horse. hearing a wild yell, which he supposed to be the battle-cry of the confederates, he joined lustily in the shout and rushed forward bearing his colors. the fog and smoke concealing from him the true state of affairs, it was a terrible shock to see, suddenly, the enemy's color floating from the battery. realizing for the first time that all was lost, he hastily lowered his flag between the chests of a caisson, and, tearing off the colors, thrust them into his bosom, throwing the staff away. he then ran into the woods and up the lines, where he came upon a company of the richmond howitzers, and served with them until their ammunition was exhausted. a remarkable circumstance connected with the above incident was the fact that, during the confusion and haste following the order for the hasty march, the brothers lost sight of each other, and the elder (who bore the flag) was compelled to gallop to the front, leaving the tent-cloth and blankets, which usually were included in the roll behind the saddle, to be carried in the other's knapsack. the first thought of the younger was impatience at the unusual burden he had to carry into battle, but reflection brought with it a feeling (perhaps a premonition), "it is all right and perhaps the means of saving my life." in less than half an hour it had proved indeed a blessing in disguise. the owner of the bible, then a youth of nineteen, now a minister of the protestant episcopal church, cherishes the book and the minie-ball, not only as a memento of the war, but with feelings of deepest gratitude, which find appropriate expression in the consecration of his life to him who "protected his head in the day of battle." it is his earnest hope that he may, by the blessing of god, so expound the teaching of that blessed book as to make it a means of salvation to many souls. chapter ix. fenner's louisiana battery. dear friends, when you read the caption of this page in my book of "memories," do not accuse me in your hearts of favoritism. of all soldiers who wore the gray, only one was nearer than others to my heart. i took no special pride in one organization above others, save in the command to which my husband belonged. surely this is quite natural. who does not remember the epidemic of blue cockades which broke out in new orleans during the winter of and , and raged violently throughout the whole city? the little blue cockade, with its pelican button in the centre and its two small streamers, was the distinguishing mark of the "secessionist." by none was it more universally and proudly worn than by the youth and young men, who, in april, , discarded it with their citizen's dress and began "the wearing of the gray," which they have helped to make a garb of honor and a glory forever. when the dreux battalion embarked for pensacola, it was with a definite purpose in view, and a certain conviction that they would at once meet and vanquish the enemy. their prowess was to teach the yankee a lesson and to settle matters inside of sixty days. they fully expected to fight, and were eager to begin. day after day, night after night, they momentarily expected an assault upon fort pickens. but they did _not_ expect to be set at the hard duty of digging and wheeling sand hour after hour, and throwing up intrenchments under a burning sun. then the irksomeness of being under military discipline, which at first was frequently infringed. for instance, a party of orleans cadets overstayed their leave of absence an hour or two; "upon our return we found ourselves locked up in the guard-house for four hours and a half." here is an account of one of the monotonous days, transcribed from a letter of one of the orleans cadets, a boy who had been used at home to take his coffee before rising, a late, comfortable breakfast, and to walk down-town at his leisure on the shady side of the street, clad in the cool, white linen suit then so universally worn: "we get up at five o'clock to attend roll-call; at . get our coffee and our breakfast, which consists of crackers and salt pork; at . , back to our tents and pack our knapsack, rub our guns, and get ready for parade at nine o'clock. "we are now drilling at light infantry tactics (hardee's), which occupies until eleven. we then _wash our clothes, bring wood for the cook, also water_ and various other things; dine at two, and again drill at four until dark; get our supper at seven; lie around until roll-call at nine; afterward go to bed to dream of home. "general bragg has just sent us word that we are to be exempt from hard labor at present." it is not to be supposed that the men were confined to the rations here mentioned. all had money and could buy additional food; most of the messes had negro servants, who were excellent cooks, and boxes of goodies arrived continually from home. but, as i said before, the strict discipline, combined with deprivation of the glorious fighting in which they had expected to participate, was terribly irksome. it was a most welcome order which transferred them to virginia, and to the shady and delightful camping-ground which i have described in a former article (introductory). an order to join the forces about to engage in the battle of manassas was countermanded on account of a movement of the enemy which resulted in the "affair" at "bethel church." they remained upon the peninsula under general mcgruder, who was successfully holding mcclellan in check by appearing at every point assailed by the federals. "the forces under general _mcgruder_ were the only obstacle in mcclellan's road to richmond. "under these circumstances, mcgruder, with superb rashness, threw out his whole force as skirmishers, along a line of nine or ten miles. "the dreux battalion bore a conspicuous part in all the operations of this campaign." later, the battalion went into winter quarters. because i wish to contrast the condition of these men during the first part of their service and when, later, they encountered inconceivable hardships and deprivations, i will here give entire a letter from one of the battalion, kindly placed at my disposal, describing the "house-warming" which was given when they moved into winter quarters on the peninsula: "camp rightor, november , . "i received yours of the th a few days since, and the th yesterday, both of which i will answer in one. the half-barrel of sugar was received long since, as you will see by looking over my letter to you about three weeks ago. the sugar came through in good order, also the white sugar, medicine, and coffee; the latter we use sparingly, mixing it with wheat,--one-third coffee and two-thirds wheat. the wheat does not seem to change the flavor in the least. sweet potatoes are also used in camp in place of coffee,--you dry it, then parch and grind it; we have not tried that method yet on account of the scarcity of potatoes. all our cabins are finished at last; the tents are used no more to sleep in. our house-warming has taken place. we made about ten gallons of egg-nog for the occasion; we used about six dozen eggs. walton's mess was over, and a good many from the rifles; various members from both companies of the guards. also the major, doctor, adjutant, and lieutenant dunn, grivot guards. they say it was the best nog they ever drank; the house was crowded. the nog gave out, and we had to produce the jug. if we had had our sick messmate from williamsburg, we would have had noise (noyes) all night, but as it was it only lasted until one o'clock. everybody in camp seemed to be trying to make more noise than his neighbor. beard told us next day that it was a very well-conducted affair, that everything passed off _so quietly_ with so much nog as that. he evidently went to bed early after he left us. i saw posey yesterday, he was looking badly, seeming to have been troubled with the chills for some time. since it has become so cold we have had to take the cook in the house, which makes eleven. this boy outsnores creation, beating anything you ever heard; he woke me up last night, and i thought it was the dog cadet barking outside at the door. "if you get this before ma sends off the expected-to-be-sent package, and if there is some room, you might put in _one_ blanket. since we sleep two in a bunk, we spread our blankets across the bunk. brunet has three, and i have three, which makes it equal to six apiece. send the blanket; it shall do its share of warming, i assure you. i suppose what ma sends will be my share of christmas in new orleans. our turkeys look droopy, and there is no telling when they will peg out. we keep the gobbler's spirits up by making him fight. the camp is full of turkeys, and we make ours fight every day. _i have plenty of clothes and socks: i have over half a dozen of woollen socks_. "the gopher mess send their best regards. "yours affectionately, "co. a, orleans cadets, "louisiana battalion, williamsburg, virginia." the formation of fenner's louisiana battery was attended by tremendous difficulties and discouragements, patiently met, nobly overcome, by the gallant officer who found himself at last at the head of a company composed of men who, whether considered in the aggregate, or as individuals, had not their superiors in the confederate armies,--intelligently brave, enthusiastic, patriotic, gentlemen by birth, breeding, and education, whom chivalrous devotion to duty forbade to murmur at any hardship which fell to their lot. as officers or private soldiers, looking to the future of the confederacy as to something assured; never despairing, ready to follow wherever and whenever a "hope" was led, no matter how "forlorn." the record of this little band of devoted patriots has never been thoroughly known or understood as it deserves to be. only once has its history appeared in print,--upon the occasion of a reunion of the command held in new orleans, may , . with great pride i transfer to these pages part of an article which then appeared in the _times-democrat_ of that date: "as the term of service (twelve months) of the corps began to approach its end, captain charles e. fenner, commanding the company of louisiana guards, conceived the idea of raising a battery of artillery. he had no difficulty in getting the men, a sufficient number volunteering at once from the battalion, but he encountered other most disheartening obstacles. the war department had not the means of equipping the artillery companies already in service, and authorized to be raised, and he could only obtain the authority to raise this battery on condition of furnishing his own armament of guns. he succeeded, however, in making arrangements with his friends in new orleans to furnish the guns, and the battery had been made and was ready for him in new orleans, when the city fell, and it was captured. "upon the discharge of the battalion, however, he changed his rendezvous to jackson, mississippi, and proceeded there to try and accomplish his object. many of those who intended to join him looked upon his enterprise as so hopeless that they abandoned it and joined other commands. a sufficient number, however, rallied around him at jackson, mississippi, and, on the th of may, , his company was organized by the election of officers, and on the th was mustered into service. meantime, the chance of getting an armament was hopeless indeed. at last, however, captain fenner found, lying abandoned by the railroad, the ruins of a battery, which had been destroyed on the eve of evacuating new orleans, under the apprehension that it would have to be left, but was subsequently brought off. the guns were spiked and rammed with wads and balls, the spokes and felloes of the wheels were cut, the trails hacked to pieces, and all the ordinary means of disabling a battery had been resorted to. the task of reconstructing this ruined battery was undertaken, and, after much difficulty, successfully accomplished. "then came the trouble of obtaining horses, harness, and other equipments, which had to be wrested from reluctant and ill-supplied quartermasters and ordnance-officers. at last, however, all difficulties were overcome. a few weeks of active drilling, and fenner's battery was ready for the field. on august , , it received marching-orders for port hudson. arrived there just after the evacuation of baton rouge by the federal forces. ordered on to baton rouge. remained there a few days, when the battery returned to port hudson with the exception of one section, which was left with one regiment of infantry to occupy the city. held it till retaken by the federals in december, when our small force successfully evacuated it under the fire of the enemy's gunboats, and before the advance of their infantry, which had landed. the battery remained at port hudson, participating in all the operations of the forces there till may , , when it was ordered to williams's bridge to intercept grierson's raid, arriving there a few hours after the raid had passed. "may . ordered to jackson, mississippi, with marcy's brigade. "participated in the big black campaign of general johnston. "in position at jackson, and engaged in the fighting around that place from th to th of july, losing several men killed and wounded. "after the evacuation of jackson, retreated with johnston's army to forrest and morton. thence to enterprise, and from there to mobile, and remained there till november , , when ordered to the army of tennessee. "reached dalton november , just after the defeat at missionary ridge. "spent the winter in building winter-quarters successively at dalton and kingston, which were evacuated before occupied. "on the st of may, , general sherman advanced from chattanooga toward dalton, and the great georgia campaign commenced. from that time till the st of september following, the army of tennessee was almost constantly engaged with the enemy. "may to . battery in position at mill creek gap, near dalton, and engaged with the enemy. they fell back to resaca. engaged on the th of may in supporting charge by stewart's division upon the enemy. "on the th, battle of oostenaula. the battery was divided, one section on each side of a battery in a fortified work. the charge of the enemy was most desperate, and they captured and held the fortification, but were repulsed from the front of each section of fenner's battery, which held their positions till night, and then evacuated. retreat of the army was continued to calhoun, adairsville, cassville, centerville; engaged more or less at each of those points. "on the th of may occurred the battle of new hope church, one of the finest fights of the war. it was an assault of the whole of hooker's corps on stewart's division. the attack was almost a complete surprise. fenner's battery went into position at a gallop, had several horses killed while unlimbering, and fired canister at the first discharge. the engagement was continuous for two hours, during the whole of which time, owing to the thickness of the woods, the enemy's skirmishers were enabled to maintain their position within from fifty to one hundred yards, but their repeated charges were well repulsed. the enemy's loss was terrific, admitted to be over two thousand, far exceeding the number of our men engaged. fenner's battery lost twenty-three men killed and wounded, and nearly all of its horses, and was specially complimented in orders for gallantry and efficiency. "from this point, in continual conflict with the enemy, the army gradually fell back till it reached atlanta, around which continuous fighting was kept up, until its evacuation on the d of september. " st september. battle of jonesboro', in which the battery was engaged. "this may be considered the end of the georgia campaign. "after brief rest at lovejoy's station, the army commenced its long march to tennessee by centre, jacksonville, gadsden, and florence. "left florence november ; arrived at columbia, tennessee, and struck the enemy there november . enemy evacuate on the th. "november . battle of franklin. "december . reached nashville. "december . fenner's battery was ordered to join general forrest's command at murfreesboro'; participated in the battle of murfreesboro' on the th, and was still with forrest when the battles of nashville were fought, on the th and th, and the great retreat commenced. "in this fight, which is called the second of murfreesboro', it will be remembered that bates's infantry division was stampeded early in the action, causing the loss of several guns of the fifth company, washington artillery. on this occasion (one of the few instances, if not the only one during the war) six pieces of field artillery, being four napoleons of fenner's battery and two rifled pieces of missouri battery, placed in position by general forrest,--their horses having been sent to the rear across stone river,--held the line for three-quarters of an hour against the enemy's entire force until the infantry and wagons had safely crossed the river on the only bridge half a mile in the rear. "as soon as the news reached forrest, his command started across from murfreesboro' to join the main column at columbia. there was no turnpike, the roads were in awful condition, the horses reduced and broken down, and a continuous rain pouring down. two of the guns reached columbia in safety; the other two would have been brought through but for the swelling of a creek by the rain, which it was impossible to cross,--the only guns the battery ever lost. the men remained by them alone till columbia was evacuated by our forces and the enemy within a mile of them, when they destroyed their pieces, swam duck river, and started after the army. the terrors of the retreat from tennessee in midwinter, the men shoeless, without blankets, and almost without clothes, need not be recounted here. "january . the battery reached columbus, mississippi. "january . ordered to mobile. remained there as heavy artillery till th of april, when it was evacuated; go up the river to demopolis; from there to cuba station, meridian, where, on the th of may, arms are laid down and the battery with the rest of general taylor's army." a member of the battery, who was an exceptional soldier, and who still cherishes and venerates everything that reminds him of the glorious past, has kindly placed in my hands some letters which i am permitted to copy and here subjoin, feeling sure that they will prove quite as interesting as the numerous documents of the kind published in the "lives" of those high in authority, although they contain only the experience of a young private soldier, conveyed in dutiful letters to his mother. some of these will suggest the changes which befell the soldiers who gave the house-warming in virginia, and the difference between the first and last years of the war. "near new hope church, georgia, "may , . "my dear,--knowing that you will be anxious to hear from me and the company after the late fight, i avail myself of the first opportunity to write. stewart's division of hood's corps arrived in the vicinity of the church yesterday morning. soon after skirmishes commenced, moving a mile off, and gradually approached us. by p.m. it commenced to near us, and p.m. found us galloping into position. clayton's brigade supported us behind log works, which served as an excellent shelter for us from the minies. the yankees approached under cover of the woods to within two or three hundred yards, where they made their lines. as soon as we could see where they were we commenced firing into them, and kept it up until the ammunition of the limber was expended. they made several charges, but were repulsed by the infantry and artillery each time. our loss was heavy (artillery), the infantry not being as much exposed as we were; their casualties were slight. at our howitzer willie brunet was killed after firing some fifteen rounds. he was killed in the act of giving the command to fire, the ball piercing him above the left eye. early had four wounded,--viz., vaudry, painfully in the breast; j.t. pecot, painfully in the back; eaton, in the wrist; corporal j----, ball in the side. at carly's piece none were killed, but mcgrath and joe murphy were shot through the arm,--the latter it is thought will lose his arm,--and young ford. at woester's piece, r.a. bridges was killed; joe bridges was shot in the leg; mccarty, in the foot; dunbar, in the thigh; lieutenant cluverius, wounded in the side; joe reeves, through the leg; st. germain, foot. the loss in horses was heavy. woester had all eight horses of his piece killed, and his riding-horse. lieutenant cluverius lost his horse 'rebel,' who was shot in the head, and died. our detachment had three wounded; the horses saved themselves by running away. in all, we lost twenty-three, and perhaps more. stanford was on our left, they lost about fifteen killed and wounded; oliver, sixteen. john cooper has a welt on his shin from a spent ball; john was driving and lost both horses. i was number six at the limber until willie was killed, when i acted as gunner. mcgregor ranks me, and hereafter i expect to be caisson-corporal. general clayton paid us the very highest compliment upon the manner in which the guns were managed; '_too flattering_ to be repeated,' as captain fenner remarked. 'owing to the loss in horses, men, and ammunition expended,' we were relieved and sent to the rear to replenish. a couple of days may right us, when we will again be in the front. stewart did the fighting yesterday; i don't believe any other division was engaged. a part of polk's (if not all) arrived about midnight. since polk's corps joined us, i have found several acquaintances, among whom are john butler, lieutenant of engineers; the two spencer boys, in cowan's battery; and ed. hoops, in tenth mississippi. they were all apparently well when i saw them last, and inquired particularly of you. "respectfully yours, "----" i enclose a letter that we received from general clayton on a copy of the letter to the captain, with an extract from the general's report of the battle of new hope church: "headquarters, clayton's brigade, "june , . "captain,--i take pleasure in making for you the following extract from my report of the battle of new hope church. with renewed expression of the profoundest acknowledgments for the signal service you did the country, and particularly my brigade, of which every officer and man speak in the highest terms, "believe me, dear captain, "yours always, "a.d. clayton, "brigadier-general." ("_extract._") "for its conduct in the engagement too much praise cannot be awarded to fenner's louisiana battery, which occupied a position along my line. although the enemy came within fifty or sixty yards of the guns, every officer and man stood bravely to his post." the following letter describing a christmas dinner in presents so true a picture of the situation, and at the same time so well illustrates the soldierly spirit of the battery, that i publish it in full: "rienza, mississippi, january , . "my dear mother,--an opportunity of writing now offers,--the first since our leaving florence, before going on our tennessee campaign, which has finally terminated so disastrously for us. had orders been obeyed and carried out at spring hill, there never would have been a fight at nashville. by some misunderstanding, the yankee army was allowed to cross at the above-named place without being attacked. we followed on their tracks to franklin, picking up stragglers and prisoners all along the way, to the amount of several hundred. "we left columbia at daylight, marched twenty-three miles, and fought the battle of franklin before dark. our battery did not take part in the battle: we were in position, but, owing to the close proximity of the two armies, could not fire,--we were under fire, but no one was hurt. stewart's and cheatam's corps with one division from our corps, fought the battle. i passed over the field next morning and saw _enough_ for never wanting to see another such field. the men were actually lying in some portions of the trenches _three deep_. ours being the attacking party suffered severely,--almost an equal loss to the yankees. our loss was about forty-five hundred, and theirs five thousand, including prisoners. next day we started for nashville, eighteen miles distant. our battery remained there till the th, when we were ordered to murfreesboro' to aid general forrest in reducing that place. on the th we arrived there, took position, and built works. next day, on account of a flank movement by the enemy, we had to move our position back a mile. soon the enemy appeared in our front, and skirmishing commenced. the infantry fell back, leaving the artillery to do the fighting without one musket to protect us. we stayed as long as we could, when we finally had to follow the footsteps of the infantrymen. the fight--there was none--nothing but a big scare and run. general forrest sent general bateman with his division to nashville, but kept our battery with him. we lost one man at murfreesboro, i.t. preston, brother of the prestons of carrollton. we stayed in camp for seven days when general forrest determined to attack again and took one section of the battery with him,--the other section, the one i belong to, was sent to protect his wagon-train. two days afterwards the army commenced its retreat from nashville (the particulars of which no doubt you have already learned). our march was over a muddy and rugged road for fifty miles to columbia. it was the severest march i ever undertook: we pushed and worked at the wheels all the time. the horses finally broke down, and we had to take oxen and yoke them in and drive them. can you imagine me up to my knees in mud, barefooted and muddy, with a long pole, driving oxen. it was a very picturesque scene, and no doubt the 'yankee illustrators' would pay a good price for such a picture. i was about on a par with two-thirds of the others, and we made as merry as possible under the circumstances. we had no rations, and lived entirely on the people: they treated us splendidly, gave us more than we could eat, and left us duly indebted to them for their many kindnesses. i for one will never forget the hospitality received in tennessee. we recrossed the tennessee on the th of december. christmas day was quite an event to us. we were then out of tennessee, in a poor country, and could get very little to eat. all day myself and mess were without food; late in the evening we saw a butcher-pen and made for it; all we could get was oxtails and a little tallow procured by a good deal of industry from certain portions of the beef. one of the boys procured a lot of bran and unbolted flour and at twelve o'clock at night we sat down at our christmas dinner (oxtail soup and biscuit), and if i ever enjoyed a meal i enjoyed that one. the army is retiring to okolona and the artillery to columbus, mississippi. the barefooted men were left here to go by rail. when we get away i cannot say. we had to leave two of our pieces stuck in the mud, the other side of columbus; the third piece was thrown in the river; the fourth piece, the one i am interested in, was saved and represents the battery." and here is the _last_, written from demopolis, alabama, april , : "dear mother,--you have heard ere this of the evacuation of mobile, which happened on the day of the eleventh. after the fall of spanish fort and blakely, all hope of holding mobile was given up. the works around the city were made to be manned by eight thousand, but, after the capture of the garrison at blakely, our forces were too much reduced to hold the place. when evacuated, the place was not threatened, but might have been completely invested in a week's time. all the heavy guns were destroyed: we destroyed seven twenty-four pounders. the total loss of guns must have amounted to three hundred. we left mobile by boat, and each man with a musket. it is a heavy fall for us who have been in artillery for three years, and now find ourselves as infantrymen, much to our displeasure. as much as i dislike it, i shall keep my musket until something better turns up...." the history of the battery, from first to last, is that of thorough soldiers, brave in battle, uncomplaining, cheerful, even _jolly_, under the most trying circumstances, bearing with equanimity the lesser ills of a soldier's life, with unshaken fortitude and undiminished devotion to "the cause," indescribable hardships and discouragements. proud as i am of their whole record, i must admire the noble spirit which animated these patriots, when, at mobile, having been deprived of their cannon, they _cheerfully_ shouldered the muskets assigned to them, and were prepared to use them, never dreaming that the bitter end was so near. all soldiers will well understand that this was a _crucial test_ of their devotion and patriotism. the exceptional talent which, during the war, these young men freely gave in aid of every charity, was then only budding. since the war, splendid fruit has appeared. perhaps no single company of veterans numbers among its members more talented and remarkable men, or more prominent and loyal citizens. of the "boys" who once composed fenner's louisiana battery, a goodly number yet survive. the ties of old comradeship bind them closely. not one forgets the glories of the past. true, "_some_ names they loved to hear have been carved for many a year on the tomb," but the survivors "close up" the broken ranks, and still preserve, in a marked degree, the _esprit du corps_ which belonged to "the days that are no more." chapter x. "bob wheat." _the boy and the man._ (communicated.) in the early summer of , after the victories of palo alto and resaca de la palma, the united states army, under general zachary taylor, lay near the town of matamoras. visiting the hospital quarters of a recently-joined volunteer corps from "the states," i remarked a bright-eyed youth of some nineteen years, wan with disease, but cheery withal. the interest he inspired led to his removal to army headquarters, where he soon recovered health and became a pet. this was "bob wheat," son of an episcopal clergyman, and he had left school to come to the war. he next went to cuba with lopez, was wounded and captured, but escaped the garroters to follow general walker to nicaragua. exhausting the capacity of south american patriots to _pronounce_, he quitted their society in disgust, and joined garibaldi in italy, whence his keen scent of combat summoned him home in time to receive a bullet at manassas. the most complete dugald dalgetty possible; he had "all the defects of the good qualities" of that doughty warrior. some months after the time of which i am writing, a body of federal horse was captured in the valley of virginia. the colonel commanding, who had dismounted in the fray, approached me. a stalwart, with huge moustache, cavalry boots adorned with spurs worthy of a caballero, slouched hat and plume; he strode along with the nonchalant air of one who had wooed dame fortune too long to be cast down by her frowns. suddenly major wheat near by sprung from his horse with a cry of "percy, old boy!" "why, bob!" was echoed back, and a warm embrace followed. colonel percy windham, an englishman in the federal service, had parted from wheat in italy, where the pleasant business of killing was then going on, and now fraternized with his friend in the manner described. poor wheat! a month later he slept his last sleep on the bloody battle-field of cold harbor. he lies there in a soldier's grave. gallant spirit; let us hope that his readiness to die for his country has made "the scarlet of his sins like unto snow." part ii. for young people. chapter i. nelly. in the early autumn, on a lovely afternoon, a little girl sat upon the stile which led from a spacious farmyard into a field of newly-mown wheat. in her hand she held a long switch, and her business was to watch the motions of a large flock of fowls, which, as is usual at harvest-time, had been kept in their coop all day, and only let out for an hour or two, just before sunset, to run about in the grassy yard, seeking bugs and worms, or other dainties, which they alone know how to find. of course they could not be allowed in the field before the grain had been safely garnered, so nelly had been permitted to mount guard upon the stile, the better to observe and control them. she quite felt the importance of the trust, and, holding her switch as proudly as if it had been a sceptre, was eager and quick to discover occasions to use it. many a staid and demure-looking hen, or saucy, daring young chicken, had stolen quite near to her post, stopping every few moments to peer cautiously around, or to peck at a blade of grass or an imaginary worm, as if quite indifferent to the attractions presented by the field beyond, but just as they had come close to the fence, thinking themselves unnoticed, nelly would jump from her perch, and, with a _thwack_ of the switch, send them squawking back to their companions. at length, however, the child seemed to grow weary of her task. slowly descending to the ground, she walked toward the barn, and, returning with her apron full of corn, opened the door of the chicken-house, and, having enticed her charge within, shut them up for the night. this done, nelly wandered aimlessly about for a while, then, sitting down upon a large stone, which seemed to have been rolled under a tree just to make a nice seat, she looked around in an impatient and discontented manner. the sights and sounds which surrounded her were very pleasant, and--one would have imagined--exceedingly attractive to a child. the rays of the declining sun, slanting across the grassy yard, brightened up the low, brown farm-house until the old-fashioned glass door and latticed windows on either side seemed as if brilliantly lighted from within. one might easily have imagined it an enchanted castle. the mossy roof looked as if gilded. in front of the house the well-bucket, hanging high upon the sweep, seemed dropping gold into the depths beneath. on the porch, upon a table scrubbed "white as the driven snow," were set the bright tin pans ready to receive the evening's milk. within the house the maids were singing gayly as they passed to and fro preparing a substantial supper for the farmer. outside, the creaking wagons were being driven into the barn-yard. gentle oxen, released from their daily toil, stood patiently waiting to be fed. horses, with a great deal of stamping and fuss, were led into the barn. up the lane came the cow-boy, alternately whistling, singing, and cracking his whip, until at length the drove of sweet-breathed cows stood lowing at the bars, which, at milking-time, would be let down for them to pass each to her own stall. nelly seemed to see and hear nothing that was passing around her. the shadow upon her face deepened; the sweet blue eyes filled with tears. at last she rose, and, crossing the stile, passed rapidly through the wheat-field, climbed a low stone wall and presently came to a green knoll, shaded by a sycamore-tree, commanding a view of the public road. here she stood, eagerly gazing down the road, while seemingly struggling to subdue a sorrow which, however, soon found vent in heart-broken sobs. still searching the road with anxious, tearful eyes, she seemed to hesitate for a while, but at last, after casting many a fearful glance toward the farm-house, the little girl began to descend the high bank, slipping many times, and sadly scratched by the rough gravel and projecting roots of the trees. having reached the bottom, she did not pause a moment, but drew her light shawl over her head and ran swiftly away. and now let us try to discover the cause of all this trouble. my dear young friends, have you ever heard of a disease called "nostalgia?" a long, hard word, and one which contains a world of terrible meaning. it is a kind of sickness which attacks not only children, but also strong and wise men, who have been known to suffer, nay, even to _die_, because they could not obtain the only remedy which ever does any good. nostalgia means homesickness. poor little nelly was homesick, and in desperation she had fled, hoping to find, not her own dear, southern home, for that she knew she could never see again, but the house of her grandmamma, where she had some time before left her dear mother. the little girl had, ever since she could remember, lived very happily with her parents in their lovely virginia home. an only child, she was petted to her heart's content, having scarcely a wish ungratified. but when the war began her papa became a soldier. nelly thought he looked very grand in his uniform of gray with its red trimmings and bright buttons, and rather liked the idea of having a soldier papa. but after he had gone away she missed him dreadfully. her mamma was always so pale and sad that the child also grew anxious, and could no longer enjoy her play. at first letters from the absent soldier cheered them, but as the months passed they ceased to hear at all, except the wild rumors which often frightened and distressed the anxious wife. "maum winnie," an old negro servant, who claimed to have "raised mars ned" (nelly's papa), now proved a faithful friend and a great comfort to her mistress; but nelly, missing the old woman's cheerful talk and the laugh that used often to shake her fat sides, thought she had grown cross and exacting. the bright morning sunlight sometimes made the little girl forget to be sorrowful, and when her "ponto" came frisking around her, she gladly joined him in a wild romp. immediately maum winnie would appear, the very picture of dignified astonishment,--"now, miss nelly, _ain't_ you 'shame'? yer pore mar she bin had a mity onrestless night, an' jes' as she 'bout to ketch a nap o' sleep, yere you bin start all dis 'fusion. now, her eye dun pop wide open, an' she gwine straight to studyin' agin." the days passed, each made more gloomy by rumors of the near approach of the enemy. at last, one dreadful night, a regiment of federal soldiers suddenly appeared, and at midnight nelly and her mamma were compelled to seek shelter in maum winnie's cabin. the next morning only a heap of smoking ruins remained to show where their sweet home had been. the plantation owned by nelly's papa was some three miles distant from the family residence; therefore, only the few servants necessary for household service lived upon the "home place." their cabins, somewhat removed from the house, had escaped the flames. maum winnie's was larger and better furnished than any, and far more attractive in appearance. a rustic fence, built by her old husband, "uncle abe" (long since dead), enclosed a small yard, where grew all kinds of bright, gaudy "posies," with here and there a bunch of mint or parsley or sage, and an occasional stalk or two of cabbage. over the little porch were trained morning-glories and a flourishing gourd vine. beneath, on each side, ran a wide seat, where, in the shade, maum winnie used to sit with her knitting, or nodding over the big bible which on sunday evening she always pretended to read. the neat fence was now broken down, the bright flowers all trampled and crushed by the feet of men and horses. inside also, the once spotless floor was muddy and stained with tobacco, all the old woman's treasures being broken and scattered. amid all this confusion, in the little front room, once the pride of winnie's heart, was carefully placed almost the only thing saved from the burning, an easy-chair, cushioned upon the back and sides, and covered with old-fashioned chintz. how the faithful soul had managed to get it there no one could have told, but there it stood, and winnie said, "dat ar wos ole mistes' cheer, and she sot in it plum twill she die. ole winnie couldn't stan' an' see _dat_ burn, nohow." upon the little porch sat nelly and her mamma on the morning after the fire, worn out with excitement, and feeling utterly forlorn. soon winnie appeared, bearing upon a gay red tray two steaming cups of coffee. mrs. grey took only a sip or two, then setting the cup upon the bench at her side, she grasped the arm of her old servant, and, leaning her head upon the faithful breast, began to sob and moan piteously. nelly at this also cried bitterly. tears streamed down winnie's fat black cheeks. but the faithful negro tried to soothe and comfort her mistress, patting her shoulders as if she had been a baby, saying, "dah! dah! honey, don't take it so haad. try to truss in de lawd. he dun promus, an' he aint gwine back on nobody. i's dun sperience _dat_." at last, won by nelly's caresses and maum winnie's coaxing, the weary lady consented to take some repose in "ole missis' cheer," where, leaning her aching head upon the cushioned side, she fell asleep. nelly greatly enjoyed the strong coffee (which she never before had been allowed to drink). it made her feel very wide awake. presently she strolled off toward the adjoining cabins. these were quite empty, the men-servants having disappeared with the federal soldiers the night before, the women had followed to their camp not far distant. not a living thing was to be seen; even the chickens had disappeared. the whole scene was very desolate,--the smoking ruins, the deserted cabin, a cloudy sky. soon the child remembered her playfellow, ponto, and began to call him. a doleful whine answered her, seeming to proceed from under one of the negro cabins. nelly stooped to look, but could only see two glowing eyes, and hear the knocking of the dog's tail upon the ground. ponto had been so badly frightened that no coaxing or ordering would induce him to come out. so his little mistress walked angrily away, and, passing through the broken gate, stood looking up and down the road. presently there came riding along a federal officer on horseback, who, discovering the forlorn child, stopped to speak to her. nelly's first impulse was to run away, but, instead, she stood clinging to the gate-post, kicking the ground with one foot and flashing angry glances at the "yankee." the officer sighed deeply as his glance fell upon the ruined home, and then upon the little, tear-stained face before him. dismounting, he approached more closely, and strove to take the unwilling hand. but the child now broke into a storm of sobs, crying out, "go away! you're a naughty yankee, and i hate you. 'you alls' have burnt up my mamma's pretty house, and all our things, and my mamma just cries and cries; but my papa is gone to fight the 'yankees,' and i hope he will shoot them all!" the soldier slowly paced back and forth. "ah," said he, softly, "if this were my little ida: god bless her! little girl, where is your mamma? perhaps i can help her. will you lead me to her?" the child had hidden her face upon her arm, but now looked up in affright. "you won't hurt my mamma? you ar'n't going to burn up maum winnie's house?" said she. gradually his kind face and gentle manner reassured her, and she was, at last, persuaded to convey to her mother a few lines which he pencilled on a card. to nelly's surprise, mrs. grey consented to receive the "yankee." the little girl was sent to conduct him to the cabin. the lady was standing at the door as the officer and his little escort drew near. nelly thought she had never seen her mamma look so pretty. her eyes were shining, a lovely red spot glowed upon each cheek, but she did not smile as she used to do when receiving a guest, and, while offering the stranger a seat, she remained standing, looking very tall and grand. during the conversation which followed, mrs. grey learned that as a battle was imminent at the front it was impossible to pass her through the lines (which had been her hope when she consented to see the officer). it was equally impossible to remain where she was. her only place of refuge was her mother's home in maryland, where she had been raised, and had lived previous to her marriage. promising to arrange for her transportation to the nearest railroad station, the kind-hearted officer took his leave. when maum winnie was told of the proposed journey, she was greatly troubled. but when mrs. grey further informed her that she was free and not expected to make one of the party, her distress knew no bounds. rushing out of the cabin, she seated herself on a log at some distance, and, throwing her apron over her head, rocked her body to and fro, wailing out, "oh, my hebbenly marster, 'pears like i aint fitten to bar all dis trouble. an' how dem dar gwine to do 'out ole winnie?" after a while, drawing her pipe and tobacco from her pocket, she sought the comfort of a smoke. just then, ruthy, the cook, made her appearance with a large bucket on her head. flaunting past the old woman, she entered the kitchen without a word, and set about preparing a supper for the hungry inmates of the cabin. where the material came from she declared was "her bizness," and her saucy manner and independent talk so confounded maum winnie that she asked no more questions, concluding that "mars yankee sont 'em an' made dat gal fotch 'em." mrs. grey and nelly had few preparations to make for the morrow. the child, soon after sunset, threw herself across the foot of the high feather-bed which stood in a corner of the cabin, and slept soundly. maum winnie, taking off her shoes, bustled about in her stocking-feet, apparently very busy. her movements were for some time unobserved by her mistress, who was lost in thought. at last, kneeling before the fireplace, she reached up the chimney and brought out from its hiding-place an old, black tea-pot, with a broken spout. from this she took several papers of dried "yarbs," some watermelon-seed, an old thimble, a broken tea-spoon, a lock of "de ole man's ha'r," and lastly, the foot of an old stocking, firmly tied up. this last it took some time to undo, but finally, approaching mrs. grey, she turned out into the astonished lady's lap what proved to be a collection of gold and silver coins, the hoarded savings of years, the gift of many whom she had served. "why, winnie," said mrs. grey, "what does this mean? where did you get this money, and why do you give it to me?" "wall, miss ellen, yo' see, ez fur back ez ole mass an' mistes' time, me an' my ole man usen to wait on de wite genplums an' ladies wot come to de big house, an' de ole man he mity clus-fisted, an' nebber spen' nuffìn, an' sence he die, an' ole mass an' miss dey gone, too, mars ned he dun tuk mity good keer of ole winnie, an' i nebber bin had no excessity to spend dat money, so i's kep' it an' kep' it, ontwill 'pears like de lawd he dun pint out de way fur it to go. 'sides, we all's gwine way off yander, an' we can't 'pear _no ways_ 'spectable 'dout little cash money." "but, winnie, only nelly and i are going away. you are free now, and will find other friends, and--" "dah! dah! honey," broke in the poor old creature, "don' say no mo'! i's _'bleeged_ to go 'long. wat i want to be free for? who gwine keer 'bout me? 'sides, i dun promus mars ned i gwine to see to you an' dat chile yander, an' i's gwine 'long _shuah_." wearied and exhausted with the discussion, and unwilling to grieve her husband's faithful old nurse, who still clung to her own fallen fortunes, mrs. grey ceased to object, but resolutely refused to take the money, which winnie reluctantly gathered up and carried out of the room, to seek among the numerous secret pockets she always wore a secure hiding-place for her treasure. this decided upon, while mrs. grey sank into an uneasy slumber in the chair, the old woman made a little fire just outside the back shed, where, with her pipe now lighted and now "dead out," she nodded and dozed until morning. nelly awoke at sunrise, bewildered at her strange surroundings, then oppressed and sadly grieved by recollections of all that had happened. catching sight of her mother's pale, suffering face, the child flew to her side, seeking to cheer her by fond caresses. just then the sound of wheels was heard as the ambulance-wagon, which was to convey them to the railroad, drew up before the door. the driver dismounting, announced that, as the camp was about to be broken up, colonel ---- desired the ladies to start at once, adding that "the colonel would ride over to see them off." their loss by the fire had been so complete that there was no baggage. nelly was glad to wear a clean, white sun-bonnet of winnie's, and mrs. grey was similarly equipped with a black one and a small black shawl. maum winnie appeared in full sunday rig, her head crowned with a towering head-handkerchief. her manner was lofty and imposing. evidently she was aiming to support the family dignity, which had been quite lost sight of by the others, mrs. grey being far too sorrowful, and nelly, in spite of everything, gay and excited at the prospect of a ride and a change. putting on her brass-rimmed spectacles, the old woman inspected, with an air of supreme contempt, the "turnout" before the door, occasionally rolling her eyes toward the driver in a manner that spoke volumes, but was quite lost upon "dat po' wite trash, who 'spected miss ellen to git in dat ole market-wagon." after the others were seated, winnie disappeared within the cabin, and, after much delay, came out dragging an immense bundle. she had tied up in a gorgeous bed-quilt her feather-bed and pillows with,--nobody knows how many things besides. the driver sprang to the ground in consternation. "hey, old nigger, what's in that great bundle? you can't lug that along. what you got in there, anyhow?" "dat my bizness," retorted winnie. "you is too inquisity; 'sides, who you call nigga'? i's a 'spectable cullud ooman, and mars ned nebber 'low nobody to call me outen my name." mrs. grey vainly tried to restore peace; her voice was not even heard; but just then colonel ---- rode up, and as winnie seemed inclined to stand her ground, he gave her a choice between mounting at once to a seat beside the driver or being left behind. then perceiving that mrs. grey seemed quite overcome by emotion, and wishing to remove her as quickly as possible from the desolate scene before her, he gave the order to drive on, and, raising his hat, rode off towards camp before the lady could find voice to express her gratitude. a few hours' ride brought the refugees to the railroad station, where they took the cars for ----, the home of nelly's grandmamma. here a warm welcome and entire comfort awaited them. nelly had often spent weeks at a time with her grandmamma, and was delighted to find all her old haunts as pleasant as ever. her dolls, toys, books, etc., had been carefully kept. better than all, she discovered a fine newfoundland puppy and a litter of pretty white kittens to console her for the loss of ponto. one day, when they had been at grandmamma's only a fortnight, nelly saw a neighboring farmer drive up to the front gate, and ran gladly to meet him, for farmer dale was a cheery old man, who had always seemed very fond of the child. now, however, he looked very grave, merely shaking hands, then bidding nelly tell her grandmamma that he must see her at once, "and, nelly, you need not come back," said he, "i have business with your grandma." soon after the farmer drove away, while grandmamma returned to the house, wearing a very serious face, and after sitting in the darkened parlor awhile, apparently thinking deeply, passed slowly into her daughter's room. then nelly heard a faint cry from her mamma, and hurrying into the house, found her excitedly walking up and down, wringing her hands, and crying, "i must go to him! i must, i must!" a letter received by farmer dale from his son, who was a confederate soldier, had contained the news that mr. grey was wounded and a prisoner. just where was unknown, or whether his wounds were severe or perhaps fatal. this news rendered the poor wife almost frantic. all night she paced the floor in sleepless agony. next day the farmer paid a second visit, and was for a long time closeted with the distressed ladies. afterward, mrs. grey seemed more restless than before, requiring the constant attention of both grandmamma and maum winnie. thus a week passed. suddenly, one morning farmer dale again appeared, and this time very smiling and gracious to nelly. "chatterbox," said he, "how would you like to ride home with me and stay awhile, until your mother gets better? you can run about over there, and make all the noise you want to; nobody will mind it." nelly could not tell whether she would like or not. it was very dull where she was, but she did not care to leave her poor mamma. grandmamma, however, decided the matter by assuring her that mrs. grey needed perfect quiet, and would be better without her. so the little girl ran off to maum winnie to be dressed for her ride. arrived at the farm-house, the kindness of the family, and the novelty of everything she saw, so charmed the child that for a while she was quite content. little tasks were, by her own request, assigned to her, easy and pleasant, but seeming to the child of great consequence. but, in spite of all, homesickness attacked her; she grew weary of everything, and begged to be taken to her mamma. the kind farmer and his wife tried to turn her thoughts from the subject, telling her she could not go just then; but day by day nelly became more dissatisfied, the longing for home grew stronger, until, on the evening when this begins, she actually ran away. and now let us see what became of her. once on the road, nelly ran very fast, until, almost breathless, she found herself compelled to rest awhile in a little grove by the roadside. scarcely had she seated herself upon the grass when the steady trot, trot of a horse was heard. she had barely time to hide behind a large tree when one of the farm-hands passed on his way from the mill. it seemed to nelly that the slight rustle of the leaves under her feet must betray her, and the loud beatings of her heart be heard. but the boy passed on, and soon his low whistle, as well as the measured beat of the horse's hoofs, grew fainter. however, all danger was not over, for just as she was about to venture forth, the panting of some animal startled her. for a moment her terror was extreme. this changed to chagrin and vexation as rover, the farmer's dog, ran to her hiding-place and fawned upon her. having followed the farm-boy to the distant mill, the poor dog, growing weary with his long run, had fallen far behind. now rover and the little girl had been great friends, and had enjoyed many a romp together, but just then his presence made her very cross; so, seizing a large stick, she beat the poor fellow until he ran yelping away. left alone once more, nelly set off in the direction of town. having often, in her rides with grandmamma, passed along the same road, she thought she knew the way; but night was approaching. it appeared to the child that darkness must bring added danger. besides, she would soon be missed at the farm, pursued, overtaken, and carried back. this dread gave her fresh courage, and again the young traveller walked rapidly on. before she had gone far, a light wagon overtook her. in its driver she gladly recognized an old man who sometimes supplied her grandmamma with vegetables. he drew up in great astonishment as nelly called to him, but at her request allowed her to climb to the seat beside him. as they approached the town, the heart of the runaway began to sink; a sense of her disobedience, and the knowledge that it would add to the grief of her dear mother, and, perhaps, greatly displease grandmamma, oppressed her sorely. she decided that she could not face them just then. begging the old man to put her down at the nearest corner, the unhappy little girl approached the house by a back entrance, and, concealed amid the shrubbery, stood trembling and weeping. the lamps had been lighted, and from the windows of the dining-room a bright ray shone out upon the lawn, seeming almost to reach the place where the child was hidden. within was a pleasant little group gathered around the tea-table. to her great surprise, nelly discovered her mother busily engaged in arranging upon a waiter covered with a white napkin a nice supper, while grandmamma added a cup of steaming tea. winnie stood by as if waiting to carry supper to somebody, but nelly was puzzled to know for whom it was intended. just then, however, the gate-bell rang loudly. winnie hurriedly caught up the waiter and disappeared as the opposite door opened to admit farmer dale. his first words seemed greatly to disturb and alarm the ladies. grandmamma quickly arose with a cry of grief and horror. mrs. grey stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the farmer's face, her hands pressed to her heart. nelly could bear no more. rushing impetuously into the house, she threw both her arms around her frightened mother, crying,-- "oh, mamma, grandmamma, i am not lost, but i have been so naughty. i wanted you so, and i ran away. oh, let me stay; please let me stay." the mother sank into a chair, her arms instinctively enfolding her naughty child, but she did not kiss or welcome her. grandmamma, too, looked very grave and troubled. after a few minutes of painful silence, the farmer took his leave, saying,-- "i'll leave you to settle with the little one. i must make haste to relieve my wife's anxiety." after his departure, the penitent nestled more closely to her mother. she felt sure of her love and forgiveness, and hoped that grandmamma might not be too severe, although she fully expected a good scolding and some kind of punishment besides, which she meant to bear quite meekly. to her surprise, neither mentioned her fault. her mother seemed to be thinking of something else, and nelly did not at all understand the queer looks which passed between the ladies. at last winnie put her head in the door, evidently to deliver some message, for she began, "mars--," when mrs. grey started up suddenly, saying,-- "oh, winnie, here is our nelly," while the child sprang forward to throw herself on the breast of her astonished nurse. "de lawd er massy! whar dat chile cum from dis time o' nite?" "why, winnie," explained grandmamma, "she has run away from the farm, and here she is. did you ever hear of such badness?" "dah, now!" cried the negro, "didn't i tole you dat? i jest know dat chile wasn't gwine to stay nowhar 'dout her mar an' me. po' chile, she look mity bad, 'deed she do." "well, winnie, never mind that now, she is only tired; let her eat her supper and go to bed." nelly had expected, at the very least, to be sent supperless to bed, but instead, grandma gave her all she could eat, and, but for the strange preoccupied manner which so puzzled her, the child would have been very comfortable. when, led by her mamma and attended by winnie, she went up-stairs she found that her couch had been removed into her grandmamma's room. "you will be better here," explained mrs. grey, "for i am very restless and might disturb you." nelly was just conscious of an unusual bustle in the passage outside, and of hearing voices and footsteps going up to the third story; but, too sleepy to pay attention, she soon ceased to hear anything. when she awoke the morning was far advanced, and her grandmamma was not in the room. while she lay thinking over the strange events of the day before, maum winnie appeared with some fresh, clean clothes upon her arm. "mornin', little missy," said she, pleasantly; "is you gwine ter sleep all day?" nelly sprang up and was soon dressed. running into her mamma's room, she found it all in order, the sweet wind and the morning sun coming in freely through the open windows. mrs. grey, however, was not there; nor did she find her in the breakfast-room, where only grandmamma sat waiting to give the child her breakfast. upon the sideboard stood a tray which had contained breakfast for somebody; nelly wondered who, and suddenly asked,-- "is mamma sick?" "no, she is quite well now," was the reply. "well, did she eat breakfast with you?" "yes." the child again glanced toward the sideboard, and at last asked plainly,-- "whose breakfast is that yonder, and who did you all send supper to last night?" "nelly," said her grandmamma, sharply, "eat your breakfast, and ask no more questions. little girls should be seen and not heard." the child obeyed, but remained curious, and determined to find out the mystery, if she could. soon her mother came in, kissed her affectionately, and stood for a few moments by her chair, smoothing back her curls just as she used to do. nelly thought gladly of the happy day she would spend at her mother's side, but mrs. grey disappointed her by saying,-- "my daughter, you must play as quietly as possible to-day, and don't run or romp near the house. i am far from well, and very nervous." the little girl, however, drew her mother out of the room upon the vine-shaded gallery, where they walked up and down for a few moments. but mrs. grey still seemed ill at ease, and soon returned within the house. then nelly ran down the steps and across the lawn in search of her old playmates, the kittens and the puppy, visited the garden and summer-house, where she occupied herself in arranging a bouquet for her mamma. at last it seemed to her that it must be nearly twelve o'clock; so returning to the house, and finding the lower rooms deserted, she wandered into the kitchen, where she found maum winnie broiling some birds and preparing some nice toast, while near by upon the kitchen-table was a waiter ready to carry up the delicate lunch to somebody. nelly at once began,-- "oh, maum winnie, who are those birds for? where is the cook? what are you in the kitchen cooking for?" winnie seemed wonderfully flurried and confused by all these questions, and nelly was equally disconcerted at finding the old woman so cross. "jes' listen to de chile!" cried winnie. "wot you makin' all dis miration 'bout? i nebber seed nobody so inquisity as you is. de cook she dun leff, an' i's cookin' ontwill yer grandmar git somebody. ef you don' belieb me, ax yer mar. ennyhow, i's gwine to 'quaint yer mar with yer conduck, axin' so many perterment questions." "but, who are the birds for?" persisted nelly. "i know mamma never eats birds, and grandmamma isn't sick." "i 'clar, miss nelly, _i's_ outdone wid you. go outer heah, 'fore i calls yer grandmar." nelly left, still very curious and dissatisfied. having wandered about aimlessly for a while, the little girl at last strayed into the empty parlor, and there sat down to consider. suddenly she heard a stealthy step upon the stairs. at the same time a faint odor of broiled birds saluted her nostrils. nelly crept softly to the door, just in time to see her grandma ascending the flight of stairs leading to the third story. "now," thought the child, "i will find out what all this means." waiting until the old lady had passed out of sight in the corridor above, she stealthily followed. all the doors of the rooms in the third story were closed, but through an open transom came the sound of voices. listening eagerly, she heard her mamma speaking, and in reply a voice which set her heart beating wildly and made her dizzy with surprise. in a moment she was vainly striving to open the locked door, screaming loudly, "papa! oh, papa!" instantly the door was opened, and she found herself dragged inside the room, her grandma's hand placed closely over her mouth, while her mother, in a hoarse whisper, said, "nelly, for _pity's sake hush, no one must know_." gazing about her with wildly-distended eyes, the frightened girl beheld, reclining in an easy-chair by the bedside, her dear papa, but, oh, so pale, so changed. a small table drawn closely to his side so as to project over the arm of the chair held a large pillow covered with oil-cloth, upon this lay one arm, which, with the shoulder, was entirely bare; just under the collar-bone appeared a frightful wound, over which mrs. grey was preparing to lay a linen cloth wet with cool water. nelly gasped for breath and turned very white, but when her papa held out his well hand towards her with the old sweet smile she so well remembered, she ran to his side and nestled there, still trembling and sobbing, for she had been frightened, first by the rough treatment of her grandma, and yet more by the changed appearance of the dearly-loved father, who, as it seemed to her, must be dying. as further concealment was useless, nelly was taken into the confidence of the ladies, who, however, seemed almost in despair lest the child in some thoughtless manner should betray the _secret so anxiously guarded_. a short time before the visit to the farm a dreadful battle had been fought in virginia, not many miles from the state-line, near which stood the house of nelly's grandma. it so happened that the regiment to which mr. grey belonged had participated in the fight, and at the conclusion he found himself badly wounded and a prisoner. having been ill previously, the wounded soldier was unable to be marched off with other prisoners, but was left, as all supposed, to die. the tide of battle rolled on, leaving the field where the fight began strewn with the dying and the dead. a blazing sun poured its intolerable light and heat upon the upturned faces and defenceless heads of hundreds of suffering, dying men, adding frightful tortures to the pain of their wounds. when the dews of night came to moisten parched lips, to cool aching brows, mr. grey managed to drag himself to a stump near by, and placing his back against it, waited hoping to gain a little more strength. his mouth was parched and dry, but he had not a drop of water. suddenly his eyes fell upon a canteen lying at no great distance, almost within reach of his hand; with infinite pain and trouble he at last possessed himself of it. it was not quite empty, but just as mr. grey was about to drink, he heard a deep groan, and turning, met the imploring eyes of a federal soldier. he was but a youth, and had been shot through the body and mortally wounded. his parched lips refused to speak, only the earnest eyes begged for water. mr. grey at once handed him the canteen, although he felt almost as if he would die for want of the water it contained. eagerly the dying boy drank. it seemed as if he must take all, there was so very little, but after a swallow or two he resolutely handed it back, gasping, "god bless ----. left you some." when the moon arose, its rays fell upon the dead young face of the boy in his gory blue, whose last words had been a blessing upon the wounded, exhausted soldier in gray sitting beside him. later came help,--old men who, starting when the first news of the battle reached them, had ridden miles guided by the sound of the firing. most of them were marylanders, who had sent forth their sons to battle for the confederate cause, and who now sought among the dead and dying with dim, anxious eyes for the loved faces they yet prayed not to find. among them came farmer dale, whose son was a confederate soldier. eagerly he examined the faces of those who lay upon the bloody field. all, however, were strange, until at last he came upon mr. grey. carefully assisting him to reach an old cabin which stood near, he made the suffering man as comfortable as possible, then, without loss of time, set out to convey the news to mrs. grey. now, it would seem that the very easiest thing would have been to carry the wounded soldier at once to the house of his wife's mother to be nursed and _cared_ for, but it must be remembered that the federal army had been shown in many ways that they were considered as invaders by the people of maryland, and that their presence was obnoxious and hateful. they, on the other hand, considered all southern sympathizers as traitors to their flag and their country. every open expression of such feelings was severely punished. had it been known that any confederate soldier was harbored or concealed in any house within the federal lines, the owners would have been arrested together with the soldier they had hidden, their house would probably have been burned. so it was necessary in the case of mr. grey to observe great secrecy and to plan carefully his removal. my readers will remember that nelly was suddenly sent off to stay at the farm-house. then maum winnie took occasion to pick a quarrel with the white servants, in which she succeeded so well that they both left in high displeasure. shortly afterward, one dark night, farmer dale drove up to the carriage gate with a high-piled load of hay. there was a great deal of "geeing" and "hawing" and fuss, and then, instead of getting down, the farmer called out,-- "say, are you all asleep?" at once maum winnie's voice was heard inquiring,-- "who dat?" "hey, old girl, come down here and open the gate. i've brought your hay, but i got stalled on the way, and it's too late to put it up to-night. i'll have to drive the wagon in and leave it. i'll unload it in the morning." maum winnie shut the window, and soon was heard shuffling along the carriage-road, grumbling to herself. "'fore do lawd, i _is_ plum wore out. i dun wuk sence sun-up, an' dere dat ar fodder fotch here jes' es i gwine ter lie down." this pretence of ill-humor was kept up until the wagon was well out of sight from the street and driven up under a shed close by the kitchen-door, when poor old maum winnie came up close and whispered,-- "_is_ you brung mars ned shure 'nuff? oh, _whar_ he? tell winnie _whar_ he!" just then the two ladies stole out from the house and came close to the wagon. both seemed calm and self-possessed, save that the hurried breathing of mrs. grey showed her excitement. a light might have betrayed them, and they dared not run any risks. no time was now to be lost. mr. grey was, indeed, concealed among the hay, and needed immediate attention, for the long ride had greatly increased the pain and fever of his wound. slowly he crept out from his hiding-place, and, with the assistance of the farmer and winnie, managed to reach an upper room, where he sank exhausted, yet with a contented sigh, on the comfortable bed which had been for days awaiting him. under the loving care of the ladies and maum winnie he slowly improved. no one had suspected his presence in the house until nelly discovered him, as above related. mr. grey scarcely dared to hope that the little girl would be able to keep the secret, but all was explained to her. she was made to understand the extreme danger to all concerned in case of discovery. the trust reposed in her made the child feel quite womanly. every day she became more helpful, a greater comfort to her anxious mamma, better able to assist in nursing. weeks passed, bringing renewed health and strength to the soldier, who began to feel very anxious to rejoin his command. various plans were discussed, but none appeared practicable. rumors of an advance of the confederate forces, and of an impending battle, became every day more like certainties. at last, one morning all were startled by the sound of heavy guns; later, volleys of musketry could be plainly heard. federal troops marched at double-quick through the town, on their way to the scene of strife. all day the fight raged. sometimes the sound of firing would seem nearer, then farther off; at nightfall it ceased. when it became quite dark, mr. grey, bidding them all farewell, hurriedly left the house, hoping to join some detachment of confederates during the night, and to participate in the battle next day. the next day was fought the battle of ----, which raged almost in sight of the town. nelly was, of course, in a state of great alarm and excitement, but both her mamma and grandma were carefully preparing the house for the reception of the wounded. soon every room was occupied, and the ladies had their hands full in attending to them. on the second day a wounded federal was brought to the house. while nursing him, mrs. grey learned that he was a private in the regiment commanded by colonel ----, the officer who had so kindly assisted in her time of need. he told her that the colonel had been terribly wounded and carried to a hospital on the battle-field. mrs. grey at once determined to find him, and, if still alive, to do him all the good in her power. so, summoning farmer dale, she rode with him to the hospital. being an officer, colonel ---- was easily found. he had just suffered amputation of an arm, and was weak from loss of blood, but recognizing mrs. grey, smiled and seemed glad to see her. it was impossible to move him, but from that time he lacked nothing that could add to his comfort. later, nelly was allowed to visit him, frequently bringing flowers, and in many pleasant ways cheering his loneliness. meanwhile the confederate forces had swept on into pennsylvania, but, alas, were forced back. when they returned to virginia, mrs. grey and nelly went with them, for both preferred to risk all chances rather than to remain within the federal lines, cut off from all communication with the husband and father who might at any time need their services. so they became "refugees," living as did thousands of homeless ones, as best they might. maum winnie having proved her skill as a nurse, found plenty of employment. her wages, added to the little mrs. grey could earn by her needle, kept them from absolute want. at last came the sad day of "the surrender." nelly was yet too young to understand the sorrow and despair of her mother, nor could she refrain from exceeding wonder when one day mr. grey appeared, looking like an old and haggard man, and without a greeting to his wife and child, tottered to a seat, throwing his arms upon the table, burying his face within them, while be moaned and sobbed as only a man can. kneeling by his side, his wife tried to soothe and comfort him, but although he was able at last to restrain his grief, it was many a day before he was seen to smile. there was nothing left for the impoverished family but to return to the old virginia home, and try to make the best of it. they were compelled to travel as best they could, sometimes walking many miles, sometimes taking advantage of a passing wagon. at last one evening, just as the sun was setting, they approached the home-place, once a blooming paradise, now a desert waste. the cabin of maum winnie with a few of the servants' houses were still standing, but deserted and desolate. doors, log fireplaces, etc., had been torn down for firewood, and in many places patches of charred wood, or dead embers, showed where camp-fires had been lighted. the little garden in front of maum winnie's cabin, made and carefully tended by "de ole man," was a wilderness of weeds among which flowers of rank growth still struggled for a place. where the chimneys of the "house" still stood, and all over the half-burned trunks of once beautiful trees crept and clung sickly-looking vines, springing from the roots which had once nourished a luxuriant growth and were not wholly dead. as mr. grey surveyed the scene, a deep groan burst from his lips; but the wife laid her hand upon his shoulder, saying, "courage, dear, we will make a home even here." maum winnie here stepped to the front, briskly leading the way to the little cabin, followed by nelly, who, child-like, entered readily into any plan that promised to be novel and exciting. everything of value had been carried off, but a few chairs and a bed with a shuck mattress remained, together with a few pots and pans. the fireplaces were also ready for use. winnie soon had a cheerful fire, while nelly set out on the top of a box the remains of the rations they had brought along, and which with some steaming coffee of parched corn formed the evening meal. ten years later a plain but tasteful cottage occupied the site of the ruined home. fast-growing vines were doing their best to rival the luxuriant foliage which once almost hid the old house. a well-kept garden perfumed the air and delighted the eye. fields ripe for the harvest occupied the land where the negro cabins had stood, forming an effective background to the newly-repaired and whitewashed house of maum winnie, which stood, a pleasant feature of this scene of peace and plenty, its fences intact, posies blooming as of old. on the little porch sat the old woman, dozing over her knitting. the gallery of the house was occupied by a family group, who were enjoying the fresh coolness of the evening out of doors. mrs. grey sat upon the upper steps arranging some flowers, which were supplied to her as she called for them by a lovely boy, who had just brought his apron full of them. nelly, swinging in a hammock, was a picture of lazy enjoyment. the attention of all was attracted by the sound of wheels, which ceased as a carriage drove up containing a gentleman and lady, and a young lady who sat by the driver (an old negro who was often employed as a driver and guide by strangers). nelly ran down to the gate, followed by her mother. the gentleman had by this time descended. one glance at the empty sleeve was enough, even if the kindly face had not been so little changed. it was colonel ----, who, having business in richmond, had "stopped off" at the wayside station for a few hours, that he might endeavor to find the greys, and introduce to his wife and daughter the kind friends who had so faithfully nursed him when wounded, and also show them the scene of incidents often related to them. the ladies having been introduced, the strangers accepted a cordial invitation to alight. while they were chatting pleasantly upon the vine-shaded gallery, mr. grey rode into the yard upon a strong-looking white mule. the greeting of the soldiers was courteous and pleasant. the contrast between them was striking indeed. the one clad elegantly and fashionably, his shirt-front blazing with diamond studs, his hair and beard luxuriant and carefully kept. the pleasant eyes untroubled and smiling. the other in the plain garb of one who must earn his bread, coarse but scrupulously neat. the face bronzed from exposure, the hair damp with the sweat of toil, and yet, when the brown, hardened hand of the virginia gentleman met the white clasp of the rich man of the north, mr. grey lost nothing by comparison. colonel ---- having laughingly inquired after maum winnie, the whole party repaired to her cabin. the old woman received her guests with stately politeness, holding her turbaned head high, as she _majestically_ stalked before them to show, at their request, her chickens, ducks, and pigs. she omitted nothing that was due to her visitors, but there was a strained politeness, and a rolling of her eyes toward them, which made mrs. grey uneasy and quite prepared her for what followed. while colonel ---- was in the act of saying something which he thought would quite win the old creature's heart, she looked up at him over her glasses, saying,-- "yer ain't seen nuffin er dat ar fedder-bed yet, is yer? kase ole miss she dun giv' me dat ar bed too long to talk about, an' ebery one ob dem fedders was ris rite on dis yere place. 'fore de lawd, if ole miss know i dun loss dat ar bed she gwine ter rise rite outen de grabe." colonel ----, remembering the scene of the disaster to winnie's feather-bed, felt inclined to laugh heartily, but wishing to mollify the old creature preserved his gravity while he offered her quite a handsome sum "to buy some more feathers." a look from mr. grey put a stop to the old woman's talk. soon the visitors took their leave, having given and received most pleasant impressions. their visit recalled so vividly their time of trial and adventure that the greys sat talking far into night. the next morning mr. grey walked over to the cabin to administer a rebuke to maum winnie. as he drew near the gate the quavering voice of the old woman was heard singing jerkily, and with a pause between every few words,-- "al_do_ yer _sees_ me _gwine_ 'long _so_, i has my troubles _heah_ below." at last, discovering mr. grey, she rose and dropped a courtesy. "mornin', mars ned." "well, winnie, you forgot your virginia raising yesterday. what is all this about your feather-bed?" "well, mars ned, dey dun stole it." "who stole it?" "_dah_, honey, de lawd only knows, an' he ain't gwine ter tell. i dun loss it anyhow, an' my pore ole bones mity sore sleepin' on dem shucks." mr. grey, finding that the old creature's grievance was very real to her, refrained from scolding, and, passing out through the little flower-garden, proceeded to the stable to feed the stock, a piece of work which before the war had employed many hands, but which now was performed by himself, assisted only by one negro man. upon the summer air rang the sweet voice of nelly as she sang at her work. in the scented garden mrs. grey with her little boy weeded and trimmed and twined the lovely flowers, feeling really a greater delight in the fruit of their labor than if they had no real acquaintance with the flowers, but only received them from the hands of a gardener. dear reader, we must now say farewell to our nelly. let us hope that the clouds which darkened her childhood and early youth have passed never to return, and that although "into each life some rain must fall," her rainy days may be few and far between. chapter ii. brave boys. i believe i may safely say that no cause ever fought for, no army ever raised, numbered among its adherents and soldiers so many mere boys as rallied around "the bonnie blue flag," bringing to its defence the ardor of youth, added to unquestioning loyalty and spartan bravery. aye, more wonderful, more worthy of admiration than the bravery of the spartan youth, because our southern boys had, up to the beginning of the war, known nothing of hardship or danger. yet they met with splendid courage all that fell to their lot as soldiers, fighting with an impetuosity and determination which equalled that of the oldest veterans. my book contains already many instances of lofty courage and patient endurance as shown by boys. i will add one or two incidents worthy of record. in one of the companies of the third lee battalion was a bright irish boy named flannagan, who had been brought to virginia by one of the officers as his attendant. during the seven days' fight around richmond this child, having procured a small shot-gun, fought with the best of them, coming out safe and sound. i learned this little history from a soldier who knew the boy. flannagan now lives in texas. it is well known that the boys of the virginia university did excellent service under "stonewall" jackson. here is a story of some other school-boys, related to me by their teacher, himself a brave soldier who lost an arm in one of the battles around richmond. when wilson's raiders reached charlotte county, virginia, preparations were made by the home guards, aided by a few veterans who happened to be home on furlough, to check their further progress. breastworks were thrown up on the south side of stanton river, the railroad bridge was blockaded, and a gun placed in position to defend the passage. colonel coleman, who was at home on furlough, gave it as his opinion that these precautions must be supplemented and supported by rifle-pits on the north side, or no successful defence could be made. the pits were hastily dug, but, when volunteers were called for, the extreme danger prevented a hearty response. none appeared except a few old soldiers and six or seven school-boys, whose ages ranged from fourteen to sixteen. the yankees advanced in line, in an open plain, about two thousand strong. a rapid fire was opened from the rifle-pits and from the gun on the railroad bridge. after a few minutes the enemy retired, reformed, and came on again, but were again routed as before. although the boys held a place where many a veteran would have quailed, they stood their ground nobly, and did a soldier's duty. after the fight was over, two of them had a quarrel regarding a federal officer whom both shot at and both claimed to have killed. these were virginia boys, the sons of veterans, and attending a local school. the raid came to grief soon after, being routed by fitz-hugh lee. thomas hilton, of uniontown, alabama, volunteered in the "witherspoon guards," twenty-first alabama regiment, at the tender age of fourteen. he was too small to carry a musket, and was detailed as a drummer boy. at the battle of shiloh he threw away his drum and so importuned his captain for a gun that it was given him. shortly after, while in the thick of the fight, he was shot through the face, the ball entering one side and passing out at the other. rev. n.i. witherspoon (chaplain of the regiment) found him lying upon the ground, bleeding to death as he then supposed, and knelt beside him to pray. to his surprise the boy looked up, the fire in his eyes unquenched, and gasped out while the blood gushed afresh at every word,-- "yes--chaplain--i'm--badly hurt--but--i'm--not--_whipped_." thomas hilton still lives in uniontown, alabama, respected by all who know him. his fellow-citizens regard the ugly scar which still appears upon his face with pride and reverence. the battle of mansfield, louisiana, was one of the most hotly-contested and bloody of the war, the loss in men and officers being terrific. the tide of battle rolled on, through lofty pine forests, amid tangled undergrowth, and over open fields, where the soldiers were exposed a to storm of shot and shell, and where, on that beautiful sunday morning, hundreds of the dead and dying strewed the ground. while the battle was at its height it became necessary, in order to secure concerted action, to send dispatches to a certain point. the only way lay across a ploughed field, exposed to a terrific fire from the enemy, whose target the messenger would become: and it seemed as if certain death must be the fate of any one who should attempt to run the gauntlet. and yet the necessity was met. _a boy of eighteen years_ stepped forth from the ranks of company g, crescent regiment, louisiana volunteers, and offered to perform this dangerous service. dashing on through a perfect hail of shot and shell, stumbling and falling over the furrowed ground, struggling up and on again, he passed unharmed, successfully executing his mission. his escape was so miraculous that one can only account for it by the belief that god gave his angels charge concerning him. the name of this valiant boy--james v. nolan--should live in history. he still lives, and has been for years secretary of the cotton exchange at shreveport, louisiana. chapter iii. the young color-bearer. the story of "the little apron" was written up by major mcdonald, of louisville, to be read at a meeting of veterans of association army of northern virginia, kentucky division. it is true in every particular,--indeed, a matter of history. i have given it a place here because i feel sure that many of my young readers will remember having seen the apron in question, and will like to read its full history. it was very kindly loaned to me, during the new orleans exposition, by major mcdonald, and was on exhibition at my tent ("the soldiers' best"), among many other confederate relics, where it never ceased to be an object of profound interest and veneration. hundreds of people handled it. veterans gazed upon it with moistened eyes. women bedewed it with tears, and often pressed kisses upon it. children touched it reverently, listening with profound interest while its story was told. the little apron was of plain white cotton, bordered and belted with "turkey red,"--an apron of "red, white, and red," purposely made of these blended colors in order to express sympathy with the confederates. it yet bears several blood-stains. the button-hole at the back of the belt is torn out, for the eager little patriot did not wait to unbutton it. there is another hole, just under the belt in front, made when the wounded boy tore it from the staff to which he had nailed it to conceal it in his bosom. the story as told by major mcdonald is as follows: in the spring of , while the army of northern virginia was encamped on the rapidan river, preparing for that memorable campaign which included the battle of gettysburg, there came to it, from hampshire county, virginia, a beardless boy, scarcely eighteen years of age, the eldest son of a widowed mother. his home was within the enemy's lines, and he had walked more than one hundred miles to offer his services to assist in repelling a foe which was then preying upon the fairest portions of his native state. he made application to join company d, eleventh virginia cavalry, which was made up principally from his county, and, therefore, contained many of his acquaintances, and seemed much surprised when told that the confederate government did not furnish its cavalry with horses and equipments. some members of the company present, who noticed his earnestness and the disappointment caused by this announcement from the officer, said,-- "enroll him, captain; we will see that he has a horse and equipments the next fight we get into." on faith of this promise he was enrolled,--james m. watkins, company d, eleventh virginia cavalry, jones's brigade. shortly afterward the campaign opened with the fight at brandy station, in which twenty thousand cavalry were engaged from daylight to sundown. before the battle was over watkins, mounted and fully equipped, took his place with his company. it was not long after this engagement that general lee advanced the whole army, and crossed into maryland, watkins's command covering the rear. during the battle of gettysburg, on the d and th of july, we were engaged several times with the enemy's cavalry on our right, upon which occasions he was always found in the front, and while on the march was ever bright and cheerful. on the evening of the th, general lee, in preparation for his retreat, began to send his wagons to the rear in the direction of williamsport, when it was found that the enemy's cavalry had gone around our left and taken possession of a pass in south mountain, through which lay our line of march. to dislodge them required a stubborn fight, lasting late into the night, in which general jones's brigade was engaged, and he himself, becoming separated from his men in the darkness, was supposed to have been captured or killed. finally the federals were repulsed, and the wagon-train proceeded on its way to williamsport. in the morning watkins's command was ordered to march on the left flank of the train to prevent a renewal of the attack upon it, and on approaching hagerstown those in the rear of the column heard loud and repeated cheering from the men in front. after having been in an enemy's country fighting night and day, in rain and mud, those cheers came to those who heard them in the distance as the first rays of sunshine after a storm. many were the conjectures as to their cause: some said it was fresh troops from the other side of the potomac; others that it was the ammunition-wagons, for the supply was known to be short; while others surmised that it was general jones reappearing after his supposed death or capture. whatever the cause was, its effect was wonderful upon the morale of those men, and cheers went up all along the line from those who did not know the cause in answer to those who did. when the command had reached a stone mill, about three miles southeast of hagerstown, they found the cause only a little girl about fourteen years of age, perhaps the miller's daughter, standing in the door wearing an apron in which the colors were so blended as to represent the confederate flag. a trivial thing it may seem to those who were not there, but to those jaded, war-worn men it was the first expression of sympathy for them and their cause that had been openly given them since they had crossed the potomac, and their cheers went up in recognition of the courage of the little girl and her parents, who thus dared to give their sympathy to a retreating army, almost in sight of a revengeful foe. when company d was passing the house the captain rode up and thanked the little girl for having done so much to revive the spirits of the troops, and asked her if she would give him a piece of the apron as a souvenir of the incident. "yes, certainly," she replied, "you may have it all," and in her enthusiasm she tore it off, not waiting to unbutton it, and handed it to the officer, who said it should be the flag of his company as long as it was upon maryland soil. "let me be the color-bearer, captain," said young watkins, who was by his side; "i promise to protect it with my life." fastening it to a staff he resumed his place at the head of the company, which was in the front squadron of the regiment. later in the evening, in obedience to an order brought by a courier, the eleventh cavalry moved at a gallop in the direction of williamsport, whence the roll of musketry and report of cannon had been heard for some time, and, rejoining the brigade, was engaged in a desperate struggle to prevent the federal cavalry from destroying the wagons of the whole army, which, the river being unfordable, were halted and parked at this point, their principal defence against the whole cavalry force of the enemy being the teamsters and stragglers that general imboden had organized. the eleventh cavalry charged the battery in front of them, this gallant boy with his apron flag riding side by side with those who led the charge. the battery was taken and retaken, and then taken again, before the federals withdrew from the field, followed in the direction of boonsboro', until darkness covered their retreat. in those desperate surges many went down on both sides, and it was not until after it was over that men thought of their comrades and inquiries were made of the missing. the captain of company d, looking over the field for the killed and wounded, found young watkins lying on the ground, his head supported by the surgeon. in reply to his question, "was he badly hurt?" he answered, "not much, captain, but _i've got the flag!_" and, putting his hand in his bosom, he drew out the little apron and gave it to the officer. when asked how it came there, he said that when he was wounded and fell from his horse the federals were all around him, and to prevent them from capturing it he had torn it from the staff and hid it in his bosom. the surgeon told the captain, aside, that his leg was shattered by a large piece of shell, which was imbedded in the bone; that amputation would be necessary, and he feared the wound was mortal. "but," he added, "he has been so intent upon the safe delivery of that apron into your hands as to seem utterly unconscious of his wound." after parting with his flag the brave boy sank rapidly. he was tenderly carried by his comrades back to hagerstown, where a hospital had been established, and his leg amputated. the next morning his captain found him pale and haggard from suffering. by his side was a bouquet of flowers, placed by some kind friend, which seemed to cheer him much. the third day afterward he died, and was buried in a strange land, by strangers' hands, without a stone to mark the place where he sleeps. thus ended the mortal career of this gallant youth, who had scarcely seen sixty days' service; but though he lies in an unknown grave, he has left behind a name which should outlast the most costly obelisk that wealth or fame can erect. gentle as a woman, yet perfectly fearless in the discharge of his duty, so sacred did he deem the trust confided to him that he forgot even his own terrible sufferings while defending it. such names as this it is our duty to rescue from oblivion, and to write on the page of history, where the children of our common country may learn from them lessons of virtue and self-sacrifice. in his character and death he was not isolated from many of his comrades: he was but a type of many men, young and old, whose devotion to what is known as the "lost cause" made them heroes in the fullest acceptation of the term, flinching from neither suffering nor death itself if coming to them in the line of duty. chapter iv. bravery honored by a foe. the following story was written out for me by eddie souby, of new orleans, while i was acting as assistant editress of the _southern bivouac_. it was related to him by his father, e.j. souby, esq., formerly a gallant soldier of the fifth regiment, hay's brigade, and now an honored member of association army of northern virginia, louisiana division. it is a true story in every particular, and the name of the youthful hero is given, that it may live in our hearts, and be honored as it deserves, though he who so nobly bore it is now dead. i wish that i could also give the name of his generous foe,--no doubt as brave as generous,--the federal officer who interposed his authority to preserve the life of this gallant boy. they should be recorded, side by side, on the same page of history, and be remembered with pride by the youth of our land, no matter whether their fathers wore the blue or the gray during the late civil war. nathan cunningham was the name of this young hero. he was a member of the second company orleans cadets, afterwards company e, fifth regiment, louisiana volunteers, hay's brigade, array of northern virginia, and color-bearer of the regiment at the time the incident narrated below occurred. the story is as follows: it was a dark and starless night. tattoo-beat had long been heard, and hay's brigade, weary after a long day's march, rested beneath the dewy boughs of gigantic oaks in a dense forest near the placid rappahannock. no sound broke the stillness of the night. the troops were lying on nature's rude couch, sweetly sleeping, perhaps, little dreaming of the awful dawn which was soon to break upon them. the camp-fires had burned low. the morrow's rations had been hastily cooked, hunger appeased, and the balance laid carefully away; but that which was most essential to life had, unfortunately, been neglected. no provision for water had been made. the springs being somewhat distant from the camp, but few had spirit, after the day's weary march, to go farther. the canteens were, for the most part, empty. though thirsting, the tired soldiers slept, oblivious to their physical sufferings. but ere the morning broke, the distant sound of musketry echoed through the woods, rudely dispelling the solemn silence of the night, and awakening from their broken dreams of home and kindred the whole mass of living valor. the roll of the drum and the stentorian voice of the gallant chief calling to arms mingled together. aroused to duty, and groping their way through the darkness, the troops sallied forth in battle array. in a rifle-pit, on the brow of a hill overlooking the river, near fredericksburg, were men who had exhausted their ammunition in the vain attempt to check the advancing column of hooker's finely equipped and disciplined army, which was crossing the river. but owing to the heavy mist which prevailed as the morning broke, little or no execution had been done. to the relief of these few came the brigade in double-quick time. but no sooner were they intrenched than the firing on the opposite side of the river became terrific, and the constant roaring of musketry and artillery became appalling. undismayed, however, stood the little band of veterans, pouring volley after volley into the crossing column. soon many soldiers fell. their agonizing cries, as they lay helpless in the trenches, calling most piteously for water, caused many a tear to steal down the cheeks of their comrades in arms, and stout hearts shook in the performance of their duty. "water!" "water!" but, alas! there was none to give. roused as they had been from peaceful dreams to meet an assault so early and so unexpected, no time was left them to do aught but buckle on their armor. "boys!" exclaimed a lad of eighteen, the color-bearer of one of the regiments, "i can't stand this any longer. my nature can't bear it. they want water, and water they must have. so let me have a few canteens, and i'll go for some." carefully laying the colors, which he had conspicuously borne on many a field, in the trench, he leaped out in search of water, and was soon, owing to the heavy mist, out of sight. shortly afterwards the firing ceased for a while, and there came a courier with orders to fall back to the main line, a distance of over twelve hundred yards to the rear. it had, doubtless, become evident to general lee that hooker had crossed the river in sufficient force to advance. the retreating column had not proceeded far when it met the noble youth, his canteens all filled with water, returning to the sufferers, who were still lying in the distant trenches. the eyes of the soldier-boy, who had oftentimes tenderly and lovingly gazed upon the war-worn and faded flag floating over the ranks, now saw it not. the troops, in their hurry to obey orders and owing, probably, to the heavy mist that surrounded them, had overlooked or forgotten the colors. on sped the color-bearer back to the trenches to relieve the thirst of his wounded companions as well as to save the honor of his regiment by rescuing its colors. his mission of mercy was soon accomplished. the wounded men drank freely, thanked and blessed him. and now to seize the flag and double-quick back to his regiment was the thought and act of a moment. but hardly had he gone ten paces from the ditch when a company of federal soldiers appeared ascending the hill. the voice of an officer sternly commanded him to "halt and surrender!" the morning sun, piercing with a lurid glare the dense mist, reveals a hundred rifles levelled at his breast. one moment more and his soul is to pass into eternity, for his answer is, "never while i hold these colors." but why is he not fired upon? why do we still see him with the colors flying above his head, now beyond the reach of rifle-balls, when but a moment before he could have been riddled with bullets? and now, see i he enters proudly but breathlessly the ranks, and receives the congratulations of his friends in loud acclaim. the answer comes, because of the generous act of the federal officer in command of that company. when this noble officer saw that the love of honor was far dearer to the youth than life, in the impulse of a magnanimous heart he freely gave him both in the word of command,-- "bring back your pieces, men! don't shoot that brave boy!" such nobility of character and such a generous nature as that displayed by this officer, must ever remain a living monument to true greatness; and should these lines perchance meet his eyes, let him know and feel the proud satisfaction that the remembrance of his noble deed is gratefully cherished, and forever engraved in the heart of the soldier-boy in gray. chapter v. sally's ride. on a bright sunday morning sally sat upon the gallery of her uncle's house slowly swaying backward and forward in a low rocking-chair. in her hand was her prayer-book, but i greatly fear she had not read as she ought, for while her finger was held between the shut covers, marking "the psalms for the day," her bright eyes wandered continually over the lovely scene before her. above her head branches of tender green were tossing merrily in the march wind, at her feet lay a parterre bright with spring buds and flowers. beyond the garden-fence the carriage-road described a curve, and swept away under the lofty pines which here bounded the view. on either side lay fields of newly-planted cotton. behind the house, seen through the wide-open doors and windows, the orchard gleamed pink and white. still beyond, blue smoke curled upward from the cabins of the negroes in "the quarter,"--almost a village in itself. the noise of their children at play was borne upon the wind, mingled with the weird chanting of hymns by the older negroes. the family, with the exception of sally, had gone to church,--a distance of twelve miles. for weeks it had been known that "wilson's raiders" would be likely at any time to appear; but continued security had lulled the apprehensions of the planters hereabouts, and, besides, they depended upon confederate scouts to give timely warning. but suddenly on this peaceful sunday a confused noise from the direction of "the quarter" startled sally, and directly a crowd of frightened negroes ran to the house with the tale that a party of scouts had been driven in, reporting the yankees approaching and only ten miles away. the sense of responsibility which at once took possession of the girl's mind overmastered her terror. she, as well as a few servants considered worthy of trust, had received clear instructions how to act in such an emergency; but before anything could be accomplished a party of horsemen (confederates) rode up, and hastily giving information that the federals had taken the "pleasant hill road," dashed off again. this knowledge did not relieve sally's mind, however, for on the pleasant hill road lay the fine plantation of another uncle, dr. ----, who was, she knew, absent. the overseer, unaware of the approach of the raiders, would, unless warned, not have time to run off the valuable horses. by the road the enemy had taken the distance was several miles, but there was a "short cut" through the woods, which would bring a rapid rider to the plantation much sooner, and at once it occurred to our heroine to send a boy on the only available animal, an old white mule, which had long enjoyed exemption from all but light work as a reward for faithful services in the past. alas! sally found she had "reckoned without her"--negro. abject terror had overcome even the habitual obedience of the servants, and not one would venture; they only rolled their eyes wildly, breaking forth into such agony of protestations that the girl ceased to urge them, and, dismayed at the peril she was powerless to arrest, sat down to consider matters. she know that the family had that morning driven to church, and so the carriage-horses were safe for the present. but there was the doctor's buggy-horse, a magnificent iron-gray, and persimmon, her cousin's riding-horse, a beautiful cream-colored mare with black, flowing mane and tail, and _green persimmon_, her colt, which was like its mother, and scarcely less beautiful. besides, there were horses and mules which, if not so ornamental, were indispensable. oh, these must be run off and saved,--but how? goaded by these thoughts, and upon the impulse of the moment, the girl ordered a sidesaddle to be put upon old "whitey," and, hastily mounting, belabored the astonished beast until, yielding to the inevitable, he started off at a smart trot. once in the woods, sally's heart quailed within her; her terror was extreme. the tramp, tramp of her steed she thought was as loud as thunder, and felt sure that thus she would be betrayed. the agitation of the underbrush caused by the wind seemed to her to denote the presence of a concealed enemy. she momentarily expected a "yank" to step from behind a tree and seize her bridle. as she rushed along, hanging branches (which at another time she would have stooped to avoid) severely scratched her face and dishevelled her hair; but never heeding, she urged on old whitey until he really seemed to become inspired with the spirit of the occasion, to regain his youthful fire, and so dashed on until at length sally drew rein at the bars of the horse-lot, where the objects of her solicitude were quietly grazing, with the exception of green persimmon, who seemed to be playing a series of undignified capers for the amusement of her elders. to catch these was a work of time: sally looked on in an agony of impatience. but, fortunately, a neighbor rode up just then with the news that for some unknown reason the federal soldiers had, after halting awhile just beyond the forks of the road, marched back to the river and were recrossing. with the usual inconsistency of her sex, sally now began to cry, trembling so violently that she was fain to dismount, and submit to be _coddled_ and petted awhile by the old servants. she declared that she never could repass those dreadful woods, but later, a sense of duty overcame her nervousness, and (the family having returned), escorted by her cousins and followed by a faithful servant, she returned to her anxious friends, who in one breath scolded her for having dared so great risks and in the next praised her courage and devotion. the visit of the raiders was, alas! not long delayed, but its attendant horrors may not here be described. the terrible story may, perhaps, be told at another time,--for the present, _adieu_. chapter vi. the following story, originally written by me for the _southern bivouac_, is strictly true. the successful forager was once a patient of mine, and is well known to me. i also know that he perpetrated the joke as described. the article is intended to appear as if written by a soldier's son. high price for needles and thread. by walter. my father was once a private soldier in the confederate army, and he often tells us interesting stories of the war. one morning, just as he was going down town, mother sent me to ask him to change a dollar. he could not do it, but he said,-- "ask your mother how much change she wants." she only wanted a dime to buy a paper of needles and some silk to mend my jacket. so i went back and asked for ten cents. instead of taking it out of his vest-pocket, father opened his pocket-book and said,-- "did you say you wanted _ten dollars_ or ten _cents_, my boy?" "why, father," said i, "whoever heard of paying ten dollars for needles and thread?" "i have," said he. "i once heard of a paper of needles, and a skein of silk, worth _more_ than ten dollars." his eyes twinkled and looked so pleasant that i knew there was a story on hand, so i told mother and sis' loo, who promised to find out all about it. after supper that night mother coaxed father to tell us the story. we liked it ever so much: so i got mother to write it down for the _bivouac_. after the battle of chickamauga, one of "our mess" found a needle-case which had belonged to some poor fellow, probably among the killed. he did not place much value upon the contents, although there was a paper of no. needles, several buttons, and a skein or two of thread, cut at each end and neatly braided so that each thread could be smoothly drawn out. he put the whole thing in his breast-pocket, and thought no more about it. but one day, while out foraging for himself and his mess, he found himself near a house where money could have procured a fine meal of fried chicken, corn-pone, and buttermilk, besides a small supply to carry back to camp. but confederate soldiers' purses were generally as empty as their stomachs, and in this instance the lady of the house did not offer to give away her nice dinner. while the poor fellow was inhaling the enticing odor, and feeling desperately hungry, a girl rode up to the gate on horseback, and bawled out to another girl inside the house,-- "oh, cindy, i rid over to see if you couldn't lend me a needle! i broke the last one i had to-day, and pap says thar ain't nary 'nother to be bought in the country hereabouts!" cindy declared she was in the same fix, and couldn't finish her new homespun dress for that reason. the soldier just then had an idea. he retired to a little distance, pulled out his case, sticking two needles on the front of his jacket, then went back and offered one of them, with his best bow, to the girl on the horse. right away the lady of the house offered to trade for the one remaining. the result was a plentiful dinner for himself; and in consideration of a thread or two of silk, a full haversack and canteen. after this our mess was well supplied, and our forager began to look sleek and fat. the secret of his success did not leak out till long afterward, when he astonished the boys by declaring that he "had been 'living like a fighting-cock' on a paper of needles and two skeins of silk." "and," added father, "if he had paid for all the meals he got in confederate money, the amount would have been far more than ten dollars." i know other boys and girls will think this a queer story, but i hope they will like it as well as mother and loo and i did. chapter vii. bunny. one bright morning i sat in the matron's room of the "buckner hospital," then located at newnan, georgia. shall i describe to you this room--or my suite of rooms? indeed, i fear you will be disappointed, dear young readers, for perhaps the word "hospital" conveys to your mind the idea of a handsome and lofty building containing every convenience for nursing the sick, and for the comfort of attendants. alas! during the war hospital arrangements were of the roughest. frequent changes of location were imperative, transportation was difficult. so it became a "military necessity" to seize upon such buildings as were suitable in the towns where it was intended to establish a "post." courthouses, halls, stores, hotels, even churches had to be used,--the pews being removed and replaced by the rough hospital beds. the "buckner hospital" was expected to accommodate nearly one thousand sick and wounded, and embraced every building for two solid squares. near the centre a small store had been appropriated to the matron's use during the day. here all business relating to the comfort of the sick and wounded was transacted. the store as it stood, shelves, counters, and all, became the "linen-room," and was piled from floor to ceiling with bedding and clean clothing. the back "shed-room" was the matron's own. a rough table, planed on the top, stood in the centre. with the exception of one large rocking-chair, kindly donated by a lady of ringgold, georgia, boxes served for chairs. a couch made of boxes and piled with comforts and pillows stood in one corner. this served not only as an occasional resting-place for the matron, but, with the arm-chair, was frequently occupied by soldiers who, in the early stages of convalescence, having made a pilgrimage to my room, were too weak to return at once, and so rested awhile. here i sat on the morning in question looking over some "diet lists," when i heard a slight noise at the door. soon a little girl edged her way into the room. her dress was plain and faded, but when she pushed back the calico sun-bonnet a sweet, bright face appeared. she came forward as shyly as a little bird and stood at my side. as i put out my hand to draw her closer, she cried, "don't, you'll scare him!" and then i perceived that she held close to her breast, wrapped in her check apron, something that moved and trembled. carefully the little girl removed a corner of the apron, disclosing the gray head and frightened eyes of a squirrel. said she, "it's bunny; he's mine; i raised him, and i want to give him to the sick soldiers! _daddy's a soldier!_" and as she stated this last fact the sweet face took on a look of pride. "what is your name, and how did you get here?" i said. "my name is ca-line. uncle jack, he brung in a load of truck, and mammy let me come along, an' i didn't have nothing to fetch to the poor soldiers but bunny. he's mine," she repeated, as she tenderly covered again the trembling little creature. i soon found that she desired to give the squirrel away with her own hands, and did not by any means consider _me_ a sick soldier. that she should visit the fever-wards was out of the question, so i decided to go with her to a ward where were some wounded men, most of whom were convalescent. my own eyes, alas! were so accustomed to the sight of the pale, suffering faces, empty sleeves, and dreadful scars, that i did not dream of the effect it would have upon the child. as we entered she dropped my hand, clinging convulsively to my dress. addressing the soldiers, i said, "boys, little ca-line has brought you her pet squirrel; her father is a soldier, she says." but here the poor child broke down utterly; from her pale lips came a cry which brought tears to the eyes of the brave men who surrounded her: "oh, daddy, daddy; i don't _want_ you to be a soldier! oh, lady, _will_ they do my daddy like this?" hastily retreating, i led the tortured child to my room, where at last she recovered herself. i gave her lunch, feeding bunny with some corn-bread, which he ate, sitting on the table by his little mistress, his bright eyes fixed warily upon me. a knock at the door startled us. the child quickly snatched up her pet and hid him in her apron. the visitor proved to be "uncle jack," a white-headed old negro, who had come for "little missy." tears came to my eyes as i watched the struggle which at once began in that brave little heart. her streaming eyes and heaving breast showed how hard it was to give up bunny. uncle jack was impatient, however, and at last "missy" thrust the squirrel into my hands, saying, sobbingly, "_thar_, you keep him to show to 'em, but don't let nothin' hurt him." i arose and placed bunny in the deep pocket of an army overcoat that hung by the window, where he cuddled down contentedly. ca-line passed out with a lagging step, but in a few moments ran back, and, drawing a box under the window, climbed upon it to peep into the pocket at her pet, who ungratefully growled at being disturbed. she then ran out without a word to me, and i saw her no more. bunny soon attached himself to me. creeping into my pocket, he would always accompany me in my rounds through the wards. the sick and wounded took the greatest delight in his visits. as soon as i entered the door the squirrel would run up on my shoulder; from thence, jumping upon the beds, would proceed to search for the treasures which nearly every patient had saved and hidden for him. his capers were a source of unceasing amusement to his soldier friends,--i cannot describe to you how great. the story of little ca-line's self-sacrifice went the rounds among them. all admired and truly appreciated her heroism and her love for "the poor, sick soldiers." bunny lived happily for a long time. one day, however, as i was passing along the street, he began as usual to run from out my pocket to my shoulder, and back again to nestle in his hiding-place. just then a large dog came by. the frightened squirrel made a vain attempt to reach a tree by the road-side. failing, he was at once seized and instantly killed. my regret was shared by all the soldiers, who long remembered and talked of poor bunny. chapter viii. beauregard. one very cold day in the winter of there came to the third alabama hospital, in richmond, virginia, a sick soldier, belonging to the third alabama regiment. he was shivering, and so hoarse that he could only speak in whispers. instead of going at once to bed, however, he sat down upon a bench by the stove, keeping his blanket drawn closely over his chest. his teeth were chattering, and continued to do so until i ordered him to go to his bed immediately, meanwhile hastening down-stairs to prepare for him a hot drink. upon my return, my patient was in bed, closely covered up,--head and all. as soon as i turned down the bedclothes from his face, i was startled by a furious er-r-r-r bow-wow, wow, wow, which also attracted the attention of every one in the large ward. of course it was impossible longer to conceal the fact that the new patient had brought with him a dog, so he showed me--nestling under his arm--a young newfoundland puppy, looking like nothing so much as a fluffy black ball. his bright eyes gleamed fiercely and he continued to bark in a shrill tone, which could not be allowed to continue, as it excited and disturbed the sick. i am a lover of dogs, and now offered to take charge of this little waif. his master was unwilling to part with him, but there was no alternative, so i carried him off down-stairs, where, installed in comfortable quarters and petted by everybody, the ungrateful little dog seemed to forget the sick master who had cherished him so fondly, and, far from grieving or moping at the separation, grew every day more frolicsome. from the soldier i learned the history of his dog. he said,-- "shortly before i was sent to the hospital our regiment captured a federal camp. among the plunder i found that little fellow curled up in a camp-bed that some yankee had just got out of, and as warm as toast. he seemed to take to me right off. i reckon the yankee had a name for him, but i call him 'beauregard.' the poor fellow has had a hard time since i got him, for rations in the valley are poor and scant, but _i've_ done with less so _he_ could have a bite, and i tell you he has kept me warm a many a night." however, when the soldier was ready to return to camp, beauregard had grown quite too large to be carried in his master's bosom. so he was given to my little son, and remained to claim our care and to become an object of interest to all inmates of the hospital. it became so much a matter of course for me to take the dog with me on my morning rounds through the wards that whenever he was left behind, my patients never failed to miss him, and to inquire, "where's the general to-day?" he was very intelligent, easily learning to trot quietly along down the rows of beds. if he ever grew too frisky, i had only to stop short, pointing to the entrance, when down would drop his tail, and he was off like a shot to the yard. there he awaited my coming, always looking anxiously in my face to see if i was still angry. when i would ask, "are you sorry, beau?" he would whine and come crawling to my feet. as soon as he heard me say "all right," he began to bound and run around in a circle and in other ways to show his joy. among the patients he had many warm friends who used to take great pleasure in saving scraps to feed him with. they also loved to tease him by wrapping some nice morsel in many papers. the parcel was then hidden. beauregard knew just which beds to stop at, and, greatly to the delight of his friends, would put his paws upon the bunks and "nose about" under the mattress or pillows for the bundles there hidden. after many attempts to get through the many papers in which lay a coveted morsel, he would grow impatient and disgusted, and would at last sit down, looking earnestly first at the inmate of the bed, then at the parcel on the floor. then, if he was not helped, he would push the bed with his paw, until at last he succeeded in gaining his wish. early in the spring beau fell into some disgrace, for while romping with my little boy he threw him down and broke his arm. everybody scolded the poor dog, crying shame on him wherever he appeared, until he got a habit of slinking out of sight. before the broken arm was quite well, little wally grow very ill of typhoid fever, so ill that his papa was sent for, for it seemed that he must die. beauregard attached himself very closely to my husband, rarely leaving his side. when his new master returned to camp, i went down to the boat to see him off. the dog followed us. the boat was crowded with soldiers going to reinforce mcgruder, so i did not go on board, but when ready to return discovered that beau was missing. the first letter from my husband announced that the dog had followed his master on the boat, where he must have hidden, for his presence was not discovered until some time after the boat had left the wharf. in camp he became a terrible nuisance. no matter how securely he was tied, the dog always managed to escape and _attend the drill_. here he would sometimes sit down and gravely watch the proceedings, cocking his head first on one side, then on the other, but usually he would rush into the ranks to find his master, getting under the feet of the men, who in consequence lost step and got out of line, of course becoming very angry. the shells frequently exploding in the vicinity became a constant terror to this unfortunate, who knew not how to avoid them. he soon learned to distinguish the shriek of a coming shell, and would race off in one direction, looking fearfully back over his shoulder, until a similar sound in another quarter would so puzzle and terrify him that he would stand still awhile until the noise of an explosion _utterly_ demoralized him, when he would frantically dig up the ground, as if trying to bury himself. i am afraid i must acknowledge that my dog was not strictly honest. in fact, his depredations upon their larders won for him the undying hatred of the colored cooks of various messes, who were always seeking revenge. their dislike culminated one day in a dreadful scalding, inflicted upon the poor dog by the cook of an officers' mess, who poured a whole kettle of boiling water upon his back, causing him weeks of suffering and the loss of part of his beautiful glossy coat. this seemed to have implanted in his mind a profound distrust of negroes, which he never ceased to entertain until the day of his death. after this beauregard was sent up to richmond that i might cure his wound; this i was more easily enabled to do, as my friends among the surgeons kindly advised and assisted me. he was soon quite well, the growing hair nearly concealing his scars. when i left richmond with my little boy, beau accompanied us, and found a permanent home upon the plantation of a relative in alabama. it was here that he first showed his extreme dislike for negroes, which attracted attention and became unmistakable. at first it gave much trouble, but gradually he grew tolerant of the servants upon the "home-place," although he never took kindly even to these. he never forgot that he had been scalded. at any time steam arising from a boiling tea-kettle or pot would send him yelping away. i remember hearing the youngsters say that once when beauregard had followed them miles into the woods, seeming to enjoy the tramp and the hunt, they having decided to have a lunch of broiled birds, heated some water in a camp-kettle to scald them preparatory to picking off the feathers. as soon as the birds were dipped into the water and taken out steaming, the dog set out for home, where they found him, upon their return, hiding under a corn-crib. although, as i said before, beau became used to the servants whom he saw every day upon the home-place, no strange negro dared to come inside the big gate unless accompanied by one of the family. whenever the deep, hoarse bark of beauregard announced the appearance of strangers, it was known that the dog must be chained. not once, but many times, i have seen a load of "fodder" or "garden-truck" driven into the yard and immediately _surrounded_ by this one big dog, who would keep the black driver crouching at the very top of the load with "ashy" face and chattering teeth, while his besieger walked growling around the wagon, occasionally jumping up upon the chance of seizing an unguarded foot. until the dog was securely chained nothing would induce his prisoner to venture down. no chicken-thieves dared to put in an appearance so long as this faithful beast kept watch upon the premises. and for his faithfulness he was doomed to destruction. such a state of security in any place could not long be tolerated. the would-be thieves, exasperated by the impunity with which fine, fat turkeys, geese, ducks, and chickens walked about before their very eyes, and smoke-houses, melon-patches, and wood-piles remained undisturbed, at last poisoned faithful beauregard, whose death left the home-place unprotected, for not one of his successors ever followed his example or proved half as watchful. part iii. after twenty years.[ ] [ ] these articles, originally prepared for _the southern bivouac_ and "south illustrated," are here republished by special request. chapter i. "my boys." _address to the wives and children of confederate veterans._ i have been often and earnestly requested by "my comrades" to address to you a few words explanatory of the tie which binds me to them and them to me. they tell me, among other things, that you "wonder much, and still the wonder grows," that i should presume to call grave and dignified husbands and fathers "my boys." having promised to meet their wishes, i must in advance apologize for the egoism which it is quite impossible to avoid, as my own war record is inseparable from that of my comrades. does it seem strange to you that i call these bronzed and bearded men "my _boys_?" ah, friends, in every time-worn face there lives always for me "the light of other days." memory annihilates the distance between the long-ago and the present. i seem to see them marching, with brave, bright faces and eager feet, to meet the foe. i hear the distant boom of cannon, growing fainter as they press the retreating enemy. and then, alas! many come back to me mutilated, bleeding, dying, yet with ardor unquenched, repressing moans of anguish that they may listen for the shout of victory: wrestling fiercely with the king of terrors, not that they fear to die, but because his chill grasp palsies the arm that would fain strike another blow for the right. i stood among the sick and wounded lying in a hospital in richmond, virginia, while the magnificent army of northern virginia was passing from the scene of their late glorious victory at manassas to meet the invaders under mcclellan, who were marching upon the peninsula. around me lay many sick and wounded men, gathered under the immense roof of a tobacco factory, which covered nearly a whole square. its windows commanded a full view of the legions passing on both sides. the scene i can never forget. as the strains of martial music fell upon the summer air, pale, gaunt forms struggled to their feet, feebly but eagerly donned clothes and accoutrements, and, staggering under their weight, crept to the office of the surgeon in charge, piteously begging that they might "get to go on with the boys." many, too weak to rise, broke into bitter sobs: tears poured from eyes bright with fever or dim with the shadow of death. passing among these, i was startled to see a patient, whom all had supposed to be dying, sitting up in bed. stretching his arms toward me, he cried out, "lady, lady, come here!" he was a boy of sixteen years, one of the glorious third alabama, and he begged so hard to be allowed to see "the boys" that i had his bunk drawn up to an open window, supporting him in my arms so that he _could_ see. when his own regiment passed, he tried with faltering breath to cheer, but, failing, waved his feeble hand, gasping out, "_god knows_, i wish i could be with you, boys, but 'pears like the heavenly master ain't willing." his comrades passed on. the boy was borne back to his place, whence, in a few hours, he passed beyond all pain and disappointment. i need not mention here the magnificent record of the army that passed that day the streets of richmond. the pages of history are ablaze with the glory of it. not less glorious to me are the records written in my heart of heroic fortitude, patient endurance, sublime resignation. alas for my poor, worn, shattered, suffering, dying boys! how their souls were tried, _yet never found wanting!_ the fortunes of war led me from the scenes of my first service to rejoin my husband, who had been ordered to the army of tennessee. on my journey, and while waiting to be assigned to duty, i lingered for a while among the homes of southern soldiers. how can i convey to you the impressions there received? here lay the main-spring of the valor which then and long afterward astonished the world. in the towns and near the front thousands of women daily ministered to the sick and wounded. when a battle ended, these could soon know the fate of loved ones, perhaps were permitted to nurse them, to attend their dying hour, or--inestimable privilege--reclaim the precious casket which had enshrined a gallant soul. but in many a country home women endured, day after day, crucifixion of the soul, yet heroically, patiently, toiled and prayed on. startled by flying rumors, tortured by suspense, weary with unwonted labor, they never dreamed of leaving the post of duty or of neglecting the interests confided to their care. no comforter had they save their god, no resource but unwearied prayer. memory brings back to me a scene which sadly illustrates the exalted courage and faith of these noble women. i was present one night when, at a plantation home, the family and servants were assembled, as usual, for prayers. the aged father led the worship, but, while praying for the absent sons, two of whom had already fallen in battle, he faltered and ceased. instantly the clear, sweet voice of the mother was heard as she prayed fervently, not only for the dear ones at the front, but for the holy cause, for _other_ parents, _other_ sons, and for _strength_ to _submit_ to _god's will_. i have, sitting by the bedside of sick or wounded soldiers, read to them letters from just such homes, breathing lofty courage, full of cheer, although i knew that the hearts of the writers had been almost breaking, the fingers that penned them stiff and trembling with toil hitherto unknown. god bless the women of the south. if from every wreath that ever adorned the brow of a hero the brightest laurels were plucked, all would not form an offering too resplendent to lay at their feet. soon after the battle of shiloh began my service with the army of tennessee. how shall i make you understand, dear friends, how strong, how dear, how imperishable are the ties which bind me to these grand and noble heroes,--the true, brave boys with whom i shared until the bitter end their trials and glory. heroic souls who bore with equal fortitude and transcendent bravery alike the shock of battle, the pangs of "hope deferred," the untold hardships which soon became their daily portion. their bleeding feet dyed alike the snows of georgia and the rocky mountain paths of tennessee. as their ranks were decimated by battle, disease, starvation, death, the hearts that were left swelled higher and higher with holy zeal, sublime courage. night after night, with lagging, unwilling feet, they made the hated retreat. day after day the sun shone on those defiant faces as they presented a still unbroken front and hurled themselves again and again against the invaders, contesting every inch of the land they loved. ah, the horrors of those latter days, when daily, almost hourly, brought to me ghastly wrecks of manhood, when my ears were always filled with the moans of the dying, or irrepressible agonizing shrieks of those who were undergoing the torture of the surgeon's knife without the blessed aid of chloroform, for that was contraband of war. do you wonder, then, that i love to call those comrades of mine "my boys"? whether they served in the army of northern virginia or the army of tennessee, they were all alike my comrades. their precious blood has often dyed my own garments. i have gone down with them to the very gates of death, wrestling with the death angel every step of the way, sometimes only to receive their last sighs as they passed into the valley of the shadow, sometimes permitted to guide their feeble feet once more into the paths of glory. i have shared their rations, plain but plentiful at first, at the last only a mouldy crust and a bit of rusty bacon. i have been upon an ambulance-train freighted with human agony delayed for hours by rumors of an enemy in ambush. i have fed men hungry with the ravening hunger of the wounded with scanty rations of musty corn-bread; have seen them drink eagerly of foetid water, dipped from the road-side ditches. yet they bore it all with supreme patience; fretted and chafed, it is true, but only on account of enforced inactivity. i have packed haversacks with marching rations for forty-eight hours, a single corn-dodger split and with only a thin slice of bacon between the pieces. this was a _confederate sandwich_. and on such food southern soldiers marched incredible distances, fought desperate battles. the world will never cease to wonder at the unfailing devotion, the magnificent courage, the unparalleled achievements of the southern armies. scarcely less admirable is the heroic spirit in which they have accepted defeat; the industry which has hidden the desolation of our land with bountiful harvest, the honesty of purpose which now seeks to restore the constitution framed by our forefathers as it was, the patient yet invincible determination which has driven out tyranny and oppression, and reclaimed for posterity this beautiful southland, rich with historic memories, made sacred and beautiful by the graves of heroes. and these are _my boys_--still--always my boys. from the highest places of the land they turn to give me a comrade's greeting. i glory in the renown of these, but just as dear and precious to me is the warm grasp of the toil-hardened hand and the smile which beams upon me from the rugged face of the very humblest of "the boys who wore the gray." dear friends, this subject is to me inexhaustible; but i may no longer trespass upon your patience. with loving, reverent hands i have lifted the veil of the past. let the transcendent glory streaming through penetrate the mask which time and care and sorrow have woven for the faces of my boys, and show you the brave, unfaltering hearts as i know them. chapter ii. the confederate reunion at dallas. on the morning of august , , a small party of ladies and gentlemen set forth from shreveport to attend the confederate reunion at dallas, texas. the gentlemen of the party were veteran soldiers, and your correspondent claimed like honors. (place this admission to my credit, for, believe me, it is a ruthless sacrifice of womanly vanity to dearer memories.) in congenial companionship the day passed quickly. its close brought us to dallas. and here began at once an emotional experience which might well be called "a tempest of the heart,"--glimpses of glory once real. "forms and scenes of long ago" appeared in such constant succession that it seemed like a resurrection of the dead and buried past. the first object that met our view was a large confederate battle-flag, suspended from a conspicuous building on one of the principal streets, surmounted, surrounded by "star-spangled banners," large and small, but still there, to set our hearts throbbing wildly, to call forth a rain of blinding tears. this was but the beginning. borne swiftly onward to the hotel, we momentarily started forward with streaming eyes and bated breath to gaze upon the phantom legions ever passing. squads of cavalry dashed by, manly, weather-beaten boys in gray, and elegant-looking officers wearing the well-remembered slouched hat with cord and feathers, and full confederate uniforms. infantry and artillery officers and privates thronged the sidewalks, arm in arm, walking in half embrace, or standing with hand grasping hand. those not in uniform wore the badges of their respective commands, and frequently some faded remnant of "the gray." in the largo dry-goods establishment of sauger & brothers an immense show-window was skilfully and beautifully arranged in honor of the occasion. confederate soldiers (life size), so natural and life-like as to startle one, were grouped around a camp-fire anxiously watching a large kettle containing a tempting-looking "mess" of green corn, potatoes, other vegetables, and the rations of pork and beef. blankets neatly rolled and strapped, canteens, haversacks, etc., lay near upon the ground. in the background, a deck of cards and two piles of confederate money had evidently been thrown down and deserted to "watch the pot." we learned that this most realistic arrangement was the work of a "yankee boy," whose father had served in the federal army,--a loving tribute to the people among whom he had come to make his home. arrived at the hotel, where a crowd of people waited in the parlor to be assigned rooms, we witnessed many a touching scene between veterans who met now after twenty years. an anxious face would look in at the door, a manly form would advance irresolutely into the room, furtively scanning the new-comers. suddenly,--"jim, can this be you?" "why, dave, old fel! great god, is this dave?" then as hand met and grasped hand these strong men would often break into sobs which forbade all speech, while every heart of those who looked on thrilled with responsive feeling. from what i learned of the intended evening festivities at the camp-ground (music and dancing under the glare of the electric light), i felt disinclined to be present. all day i had walked hand in hand with memory, turning again and again to clasp her closely and to feel the throbbing of her sad heart upon my own. the dear presence still enthralled me, and i could imagine no counter-charm in the laughing face and airy form of terpsichore. on the following morning, amy and i, escorted by a gallant missouri veteran, set out for the rendezvous, where we found assembled three or four thousand people, among whom hundreds wearing more or less of the gray were conspicuous. the perfect and magnificent arrangements for the comfort and entertainment of guests inspired one with genuine admiration for those who had so well accomplished the grand results everywhere apparent. did one thirst? in a hundred cool, pleasant nooks were placed casks of ice-water, with dippers and gourds of all sizes attached by long chains. if hungry, at "headquarters" requisitions were furnished and duly honored by the commissary, who seemed to have a never-failing supply of delicious barbecued beef and mutton, also generous rations of fresh bread. these were supplemented by elegant refreshments of all kinds, served under shaded tents by ladies, whose entire cordiality made them charming hostesses. bands of music continually enlivened the scene. one of these (gauche brothers, of dallas) was of rare excellence, rendering "bonnie blue flag," "dixie," and an exquisite nocturne, "the soldier's dream" (composed for this occasion by the leader of this band), with so much expression and skill as to elicit great applause. the speaker's stand was beautifully ornamented. hanging on either side of the rostrum was a confederate battle-flag. above them, in the centre, floated a new and very handsome united states banner in graceful undulations. from its blue field not a star was missing. all had been restored, and the bunting waved proudly as if instinct with knowledge of this fact. but, oh, those other flags! sacred emblems of a cause so loved, so nobly defended, yet, alas, lost! shattered and torn by shot and shell, begrimed with the smoke of battle, deeply stained with precious blood; as the summer breeze dallied with their ragged folds, they seemed to stir with a feeble, mournful motion, like the slow throbbing of a breaking heart. pictures illustrating camp-life, battle scenes, etc., ornamented the stand, which was also decorated plentifully with red and white, with a sufficient admixture of blue to make one remember to be loyal to the present. the attempt to depict camp-life, cannon, camp-fires, tents, stacked guns, sentries, etc., was utterly upset by the presence of hundreds of ladies and children, with the inevitable paraphernalia necessary to their comfort. "the front of grim-visaged war" was constantly being smoothed into beauty by baby fingers. men, lured by siren voices, deserted the tented field, and were happy, in entire forgetfulness of duty (so called). soldiers who did _not_ bring ladies enjoyed hugely living in tents and once more "messing" together. many eloquent speakers addressed the crowd. pearls of eloquence were sown broadcast, and brought forth a generous harvest of applause. the number of officers present was surprising. generals, colonels, majors were pointed out to me by the score, and at last i began to wonder whether in the portion of the confederate army here represented there were any "privates," at least i _might_ have so wondered had i not _known_ that, after many of the battles now being recalled with honest pride and merited applause, my own eyes had been too dim with tears to see the glory, my ears had failed to catch the sounds of triumph, because so filled with awful death-groans or the agonizing cries of the wounded. men whose parting breath was an ascription of praise to the god of battles, whose last earthly joy was the knowledge of victory, and others who, shattered and torn and in throes of agony, yet repressed their moans that they might listen for the music of the fount which "springs eternal," whose bright waters (to them) mirrored the cause they loved so well. all honor to those who planned the glorious campaigns of the late war--who dauntlessly led heroic legions. their record is without a parallel in the history of nations. equal honor to the rank and file--whose splendid valor and self-sacrifice made success possible even when further efforts seemed but a "forlorn hope." i believe i have omitted no important detail of the reunion. each day was just like the preceding one. meetings and partings "tried men's souls," and women's hearts were stirred to their depths. at last the end came; afterwards to many painful reaction. still it was passing sweet to meet old friends and comrades, and to find that memory had not proven faithless to her trust. for many a day in the future we shall stand in the light of the surpassing glory which streamed through as the curtain, which has so long obscured the past, was lifted again and again by tender, reverent hands, under the oaks at dallas. _an incident of the dallas reunion._[ ] [ ] written at the time for the shreveport paper by colonel henderson, a true and gallant soldier, who has since died. (the scene here described is to me a "_memory_" passing sweet, and one which i desire to perpetuate. this feeling is far removed from vanity. had the "lost cause" been triumphant, my lips would have been sealed as to my own service. as it is, i glory in having served it, and cherish fondly even the slightest token that "my boys" do not forget me.) "on the last day of the southern soldiers' reunion at dallas, and when sentiments had been read in honor of this and that officer of distinction in the service of the lost cause, a lady occupying a somewhat retired position on the platform handed to general gano a slip of paper on which was traced the following noble sentiment as read by general gano in a clear, distinct voice, and in tones that expressed his entire concurrence. "the sentiment and the name subscribed are sufficient of themselves. we give it as follows: "'the private soldier of the confederate states army. "'he bore in his bosom a heart of oak; he withstood the brunt of battle and sustained the heat and burthen of the day. his blood nourished the laurels which otherwise had never bloomed to grace the brow of lee and jackson. for myself, no blessing has ever crowned my life more highly prized than the god-given privilege i enjoyed during four years of the war, of ministering to the boys who wore the ragged, unornamented gray. "'your devoted friend and comrade, "'mrs. fanny a. beers, "'late of the confederate army.' "to this sentiment came the response of three cheers and a regular rebel yell, repeated and repeated for the space of twenty minutes. "but the most touching feature followed. a number of old confederate soldiers, who had in wounds and sickness received gentle and healing ministrations from the hands of mrs. beers, and learned just then that she was present, in defiance of all order, rushed to the stand and gathered about her. each and every one bore the mark of some wound received in the war, and wore about their person some fragment of confederate uniform--a hat, a coat, or other article--as souvenirs of the days of trials and glory. "like old children they gathered around her, grasping her hand and blessing her and testifying to all the world what a blessing she had been to them. "it was, indeed and truly, the most touching and striking incident of the late reunion of confederate veterans at dallas." chapter iii. camp nichols. the louisiana soldiers' home. i must begin with a digression, for, as thought concentrates itself upon this pleasant subject, one is irresistibly impelled to remember the delightful ride thitherward, and to wonder if any other city in the united states can boast of street-car routes so beautiful. the visitor to "camp nichols," taking on canal street a car of the esplanade and bayou bridge line, is borne smoothly along for miles under cool, green arches of oak-trees, a broad street on either side, bordered by elegant residences and lovely, fragrant gardens. looking back, where the green arcade narrows away in the distance, or forward, to observe how the rough track is made beautiful by the shadows of dancing leaves and boughs,--glancing at the rapidly-succeeding pictures of beauty and comfort on either side, inhaling the mingled perfume of flowers,--one is placed under a spell of enchantment which lasts until, at "bayou bridge," the end of the route is reached. leaving the car, a very short walk along the banks of the bayou brings the visitor to the "camp." upon entering the gate the first thought is, "how pleasant, how peaceful, how homelike." the comfortable-looking house is beautifully shaded by large live-oaks. under these green grass is diversified by neatly-kept walks. midway between the outer gate and the house a small stream is spanned by a rustic bridge. as i stood upon this bridge and saw, upon the pleasant galleries in front of their rooms, the maimed and scarred veterans sitting in groups or apart, tranquilly smoking and chatting or reading, the dying words of our "stonewall" jackson came into my mind,--"let us cross the river and rest in the shade of the trees." to him was given eternal rest. the weary spirit even then stood by the river of death and viewed beyond the trees of paradise. less happy these who remain to witness the downfall of hope. ah, what can be more glorious, yet more deeply sorrowful, than the story of their past. the strength and beauty of their youth and early manhood was freely given to the cause they deemed sacred. it was, alas! lost; and, the tempest of war subsiding, left upon a desolate shore these wrecks. returning after the war to find only ruined homes and shattered fortunes, those who had retained health and strength found them taxed to the utmost. necessity held them in bonds of iron, and the demands of helpless families absorbed them. all the same, manly hearts have been often and painfully stirred by the silent appeals of maimed and suffering comrades, and the faithful few have never ceased to hope and strive for the result now attained in the "soldiers' home." it is pleasant to feel that the first rays of the newly-arisen sun of prosperity have dispelled the darkness wherein these poor fellows have wandered so long, revealing to them the kindly faces of brothers, who, having gone in search of them, will lead them to home and rest. as i said before, the "home" viewed from the bridge, a few hundred yards in front, suggests ideas of comfort which are fully realized upon a closer investigation. the rooms are delightfully situated (opening upon a shaded gallery), perfectly ventilated, and very cool, furnished with iron bedsteads, comfortable and cleanly bedding, wardrobes or bureaus, and washstands. the library and reception-room is a charming nook, embellished with many gifts from loving hands. immediately opposite the entrance is placed an excellent portrait of general francis t. nichols, a hero whom all (louisianians especially) delight to honor. from the bloody battle-fields of northern virginia he brought back a mangled and shattered body, but enough to hold and enshrine a powerful, active brain, and a heart as brave and generous as ever beat in human bosom. he is idolized by his comrades and beloved by us all. by a unanimous vote of the board of directors the home has been called "camp nichols," and from a gracefully-proportioned flag-staff, placed directly in front of the reception-room (the gift of the army of tennessee), floats a banner whereon this honored name was embroidered by the daughters of generals lee and jackson during their recent visit to new orleans. the dining-room is very large, well lighted, and fairly shines with cleanliness. in short, every appointment is excellent, and every effort of managers and officers is directed toward making the disabled veterans feel that they are honored inmates of a home which they have earned and deserved, not recipients of charity. camp nichols may well be called a trysting-place of heroes. here old comrades meet as comrades and friends. in the warm grasp of hands there is no suspicion of patronage. right down in these brave, long-suffering hearts shine glances full of the unforgotten "light of other days," causing eyes dim and clouded by care and sorrow to beam with a responsive brightness. ah, who shall undertake to estimate the value and blessedness of this work! the legislature of louisiana organized this enterprise in , making a yearly appropriation for its support. it is designed for all soldiers of louisiana who have been disabled by wounds received in her service or have become incapacitated by age or disability; is controlled by a board of directors, also created by the state, consisting of the president, three vice-presidents, and recording secretary of the army of northern virginia, and the president, three vice-presidents, and recording secretary of the army of tennessee. the harmonious action of this board is nobly sustained by the members composing both organizations. the president of the army of tennessee, judge walter rogers, is an indefatigable worker, as he was once a brave and faithful soldier. he may with perfect truth be written "as one who loves his fellow-men" (especially his fellow-soldiers). i believe he will, as long as he lives, stand a faithful sentinel upon the sands of time, watching lest the ever-encroaching tide of years may obliterate sacred foot-prints. all arrangements having been nearly completed, the home was opened january , . eight soldiers were at once admitted, and since the number has been increased to fifty. under the rules of the institution no compulsory labor is allowed except that necessary to properly police the quarters. yet all feel so deep an interest in their home that they yield willing assistance whenever asked. they choose such occupations as they are physically able to perform, and take delight in keeping things in order. the home has many friends outside of the confederate organizations, none more zealous and truly kind than the officers and members of the grand army of the republic, "mewer post." these are frequent and welcome visitors to camp nichols, and have shown both generosity and thoughtfulness in their contributions to the comfort of its inmates. the superintendent, captain william bullitt, was selected on account of his soldierly qualities and excellent administrative abilities, and by a unanimous vote of the board elected to fill the position. his record is untarnished and excellent. at the inception of the war, having assisted in raising the first company louisiana guards, he went out as first lieutenant of the same, won by promotion the rank of captain and afterwards of major, which he held at the close of the war. used, therefore, to command, he also brings to his work a thorough love for it, and an amount of intelligence in interpreting, and skill in carrying out arrangements and improvements proposed by the board of directors, which insures success and the satisfaction of all concerned. "god bless our home," and let the light of his countenance shine upon it and bless it. and may god strengthen the kindly hands which have led these weary ones away from thorny pathways "through green pastures and beside still waters." may they never falter nor fail until the all-merciful father shall himself provide the "rod and staff" which shall guide all through the dark valley to rest eternal. chapter iv. the march of time. thoughts suggested while witnessing the ceremonies attending the unveiling of a statue of general albert sydney johnston, erected upon their tomb by the louisiana division, army of tennessee, in new orleans, louisiana, april , .[ ] [ ] the article was first published in "the illustrated south." little more than three years ago there came a day long to be remembered by every man, woman, and child resident in new orleans, and by all strangers then sojourning within her gates. a day when the souls of thousands held but a single thought, when all hearts beat as one, when one impulse, strong, thrilling, irresistible led willing feet to where, upon a pedestal, raised stone by stone by love and self-sacrifice, stood the shrouded figure of general robert e. lee. above hung heavy clouds, alas! too suggestive of the hopes that perished forever at appomattox, but ever and anon the struggling sun broke through, lingering awhile as if to recall the matchless glory which, even in the hour of disaster and defeat, gilded and made immortal the untarnished swords, the stacked arms, then and there surrendered. to me the terrific storm which soon broke, upsetting all arrangements, abolishing all ceremonies, hushing all oratory, seemed to solemnize and mark in a most fitting manner this great occasion. for no tongue of man or angel could have evoked a feeling so strong, a sentiment so lasting, as that written, as it were, by the finger of heaven that day upon the hearts of that awe-stricken multitude. years hence, those who were boys then will remember the lesson there learned. they will tell you of the soldierly figures standing at the foot of the monument, exposed to the pitiless storm, immovable, unshrinking on duty, and these were men who, following where duty led, had won an imperishable record under the immortal lee. they will describe how, in the storm-swept streets outside the enclosure, legions of soldiers, the blue as well as the gray, calmly faced the howling tempest, standing "at rest," awaiting the moment when the form of the great commander should be revealed to their reverent gaze. among these, the veterans of the army of tennessee bore a conspicuous part. in their true, brave hearts, second to none in allegiance to their commander-in-chief, there yet lay enshrined another image, there burned another purpose equally high and holy. hope pointed down the long vista of the future to where lay--a tomb! only a tomb! nay, more--a "bivouac of the dead," where, life's battle fought, the toilsome march ended, weary comrades might gather to their rest. and so far distant, yet always in sight, gleamed their mecca; steadily towards it marched the pilgrims of memory, unfaltering, undismayed, led by a few brave, faithful spirits, through deserts of discouragement, when oases were few and far between, patiently bridging chasms which seemed impassable, until to-day they stand at the goal so hardly won. there lie the veterans who one by one have stolen to the bivouac. "after life's fitful fever they sleep well." above, faithful comrades keep watch and ward. here is a solemn but glorious trysting-place. on the morning of the th of april, twenty-five years ago, a sky as bright and beautiful as that which to-day bends above us, became obscured and darkened by the smoke of battle. of the confederate forces then and there engaged it has been said, "their splendid valor has been rarely equalled, never surpassed, on any field of any war." alas! why must it be that grief and glory always go hand in hand? up through the heavy clouds which hid the face of nature that terrible day sped hundreds of gallant souls, straight to the light wherein was made clear _to them_ the awful providence which even now disquiets our hearts and clouds our earthly vision. among them, one whose sudden taking off filled every breast with gloom, and wrested from the confederacy the fruits of a splendid victory. so many and so grand are the eulogies which have been pronounced upon albert sydney johnston that nothing remains for me to add. who does not remember the sorrow of a nation at his death? who can forget the lava tide of indignation which spread over our land when the "conquered" were forbidden to mourn their fallen hero, when a stricken people were compelled to "lay their hands upon their mouths, their mouths in the dust," when even the mournful voices of the bells were silenced? viewed in the glorious light of to-day, how like a prophecy fulfilled appear the beautiful lines of father ryan,-- "there's a grandeur in graves, there's a glory in gloom, for out of the gloom future brightness is born, as after the night looms the sunrise of morn, and the graves of the dead, with grass overgrown, may yet form the footstool of liberty's throne." years of bitter strife have left sad traces all over this beautiful southland. in lovely valleys, upon every hillside, in the majestic forests, lie, side by side, the gray and the blue. the sun clothes every mound with equal glory, the sky weeps over all alike. standing beside these graves, angry passions die in the hearts of brave men; "one touch of nature" moistens manly eyes, softens obdurate hearts. involuntarily hands meet in a firmer clasp, which expresses respect as well as sympathy. the soldiers on both sides have learned to appreciate and understand each other, so, in spite of those who would fain prolong the strife, the long-oppressed people of the south are free to mourn their dead, and "the graves of the dead, with grass overgrown," indeed "form a footstool for liberty's throne." to-day the veterans who met and fiercely battled at shiloh unite in doing honor to the memory of general johnston and of the men who, with him, won immortality upon that bloody field. to-day imperishable laurels bloom afresh upon the upturned brows of the men who hail with loud acclaim the image of their chieftain placed here to guard forever "war's richest spoil,--the ashes of the dead." it is fitting that, on this day of memory, rich strains of martial music should awaken long-silent echoes in this city of the dead,--fitting that nature should be despoiled of her floral treasures to deck this sacred place which, indeed, is "not so much the _tomb_ of virtue as its shrine." the flowers that yield their beauty and fragrance to grace this scene will fade and die. yon radiant sun will set, but not before it has burned an indelible record upon the young hearts of thousands to whom, ere long, we must trust this precious spot. of the remnant of the once magnificent army of tennessee gathered here it will soon be said,-- "on fame's eternal camping-ground their silent tents are spread." but the figure of their chieftain will be left to tell the story of a patriotic purpose long cherished in faithful hearts, at last accomplished by patient hands. "nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, nor time's remorseless doom, can dim our ray of holy light that gilds this glorious tomb." chapter v. a woman's record.[ ] (from the _southern bivouac_.) [ ] written in by major mcdonald, of louisville, kentucky, then editor _southern bivouac_. this record will be found to substantiate in every particular my own history of the period referred to. being inspired by an ardent zeal or a high sense of duty, not a few noble women during the war arose conspicuous to view. their gentle deeds, though done in humble spheres, yet shone like "a bright light in a low world." fair exemplars they were of patriotic virtue, whose acts of devotion helped much to enshrine in our memories a melancholy past; and they should not be forgotten. in the march number of the _bivouac_ was given a short sketch of a lady who, during the war, tenderly cared for the sick and suffering confederates in a northern prison. it is now proposed to give the record of one who, animated with a romantic love for the cause of the south, left a luxurious home and spent nearly four years in nursing the sick and wounded in confederate hospitals. mrs. fannie a. beers was a native of the north, and the child of fond parents, who gave her every educational advantage, and the means of acquiring all the accomplishments usual in refined circles. when very young she was married to her present husband, and before the war came south to reside at new orleans. by nature ardent and susceptible, she readily adapted herself to the surroundings of her new life, and soon grew to love the people and the land of her adoption. a few years of happiness passed and then came the sectional storm. pull well she knew that it threatened to sunder cherished ties, but it did not move her from the side of her choice. when the struggle came at last, and her home was broken up in new orleans by the absence of her husband in the field, she returned to the parental roof, to beguile the time in the companionship of her mother. but the separation, with the anxiety it brought, became intolerable; besides, from the positiveness of her opinions and the warmth of her zeal, she soon became ill at ease in the land of her birth. so, with her mother's approval, she resolved to face all perils, and to return and share the fortunes of the confederacy. taking her little boy she set out for "dixie," and, after many trials, arrived at richmond, virginia, just after the battle of bull run. here she was kindly cared for by some old acquaintances, among whom was commodore maury, a friend of her family, and who had dedicated his "geography of the sea" to her uncle, george manning, of new york. through his introduction she made many dear friends among the ladies of richmond, some of whom pressed her to come and dwell with them; but she neither needed nor was seeking roof and shelter. if she so wished, she might have found them with her husband's relatives in alabama. what she felt the want of was occupation,--work in behalf of the cause to which, in spite of selfish reasons, she felt impelled to devote herself. in order that she might have this work, and at the same time be where assistance could be rendered her husband and friends at the front, she asked to be appointed a hospital matron. commodore maury for some time protested against such a step, saying that she was too young, and had been too tenderly raised; but she persisted, so he finally yielded, as appears from the following letter: "richmond, august , . "my dear fanny,--you bear the heart of a true and tender woman, in the breast of a noble patriot. i will no longer oppose your wishes, and mean to help you all i can. command me at any and all times. "yours truly, "matthew f. maury." at first she assisted in a private hospital maintained by some richmond ladies, who, by turns, sent in all the food required. permission was applied for to enter the louisiana hospital, but it was refused. in a few weeks she was appointed matron-in-charge of the second alabama hospital, with liberty to receive a limited number of her friends, who might be taken care of there. soon after she entered upon her regular duties the sick and wounded began to pour in, and from this time forward she was constantly employed till within a few weeks of the battle of shiloh. with the departure of her husband's command to tennessee, she was disposed for a like change of field-duty. she now left richmond, and for a few weeks only was occupied with a visit to her husband's relatives. then she resumed her hospital work at gainesville, alabama. her subsequent career is best related in the following letters from surgeons of high rank, and whose official positions gave them abundant opportunities of estimating the work she performed and the strength of the spirit which animated her. the letters were called from their authors in the spring of , nearly twenty years after the close of the war, upon the occasion of a musical and literary entertainment being tendered mrs. beers by her soldier friends in new orleans. so profound was the gratitude for her former services to sick and wounded confederates, that all the military organizations exerted themselves to make it a success, and at the meeting of the members of the "army of tennessee," complimentary resolutions were passed, and the letters read. "new orleans, march , . "judge rogers: "dear sir,--understanding that the members of the 'army of tennessee' have tendered mrs. f.a. beers an entertainment, i feel anxious to aid in securing its success. "i am well qualified to testify to the valuable and disinterested services which this lady rendered in the confederate hospital during the late war. in truth, aside from officers and soldiers who may be now living and still holding in remembrance the kind and skilful nursing which she gave them personally while wounded or sick, i know of only four persons whose positions made them fully cognizant of the heroism, devotion, and self-sacrifice which she brought to the discharge of her duties. these are, first, dr. t.h. mcallister, now of marion, alabama, in whose admirably-conducted hospital she was the only matron during the greater part of the war; second, dr. c.b. gamble, now of baltimore; third, dr. s.h. stout, now of roswell, georgia, medical director of hospitals of the army of tennessee; fourth, the writer. "i know that i can venture to speak in behalf of these gentlemen and for myself in declaring that the skill and efficiency with which she nursed and fed our sick and wounded soldiers, and the coolness and bravery with which she faced danger in discharge of these duties do merit suitable recognition from the survivors of those rapidly-diminishing numbers who fought under the confederate flag. "very respectfully, "s.m. bemiss, m.d., "late assistant medical director and medical director of hospitals, army of tennessee." "marion, alabama, march , . "dr. s. bemiss, new orleans,--having heard an entertainment was to be given in your city on march for the benefit of mrs. fannie a. beers, i feel it to be my duty, as well as pleasure, to add my testimony to her worth and to the part she played in the late war. "during the three years she was with me as a confederate hospital matron, she conducted herself as a high-toned lady in the strictest sense of the term, and to every word i may say of her there are hundreds, yea, thousands, of confederate soldiers scattered all over the south who would cheerfully testify to some facts if opportunity were offered them. "after the battles of shiloh and farmington, and then the evacuation of corinth, i was ordered to establish hospitals (in june or july, ) for the sick and wounded of general bragg's army, at gainesville, alabama. with scarcely any hospital supplies i began preparations for the same, and in answer to a card published in the selma (alabama) papers, asking for supplies and a suitable lady to act as matron, she promptly responded. at first sight her youthful, delicate, refined, and lady-like appearance, showing she had never been accustomed to any hardships of life, caused me to doubt her capacity to fill the position of matron. "she said she desired to do something while her husband was at the front defending our southern homes. i soon found what she lacked in age and experience was made up in patriotism, devotion to the southern cause, constant vigilance, and tenderness in nursing the confederate sick and wounded. i soon learned to appreciate her services and to regard her as indispensable. "she remained with me as hospital matron while i was stationed at gainesville, alabama, ringgold, georgia, newnan, georgia, and port valley, georgia, embracing a period of nearly three years. she was all the time chief matron, sometimes supervising more than one thousand beds filled with sick and wounded, and never did any woman her whole duty better. through heat and cold, night and day, she was incessant in her attentions and watchfulness over the confederate sick and wounded, many times so worn down by fatigue that she was scarcely able to walk, but never faltering in the discharge of her duties. "at one time, while at newnan, georgia, the federal forces under general mccook were advancing on the town, and it became necessary for every available man--post officers, surgeons, convalescents, and nurses--to leave the town and wards in order to repel the invading enemy. i was much affected while hurrying from ward to ward giving general orders about the care of the sick during my absence in the fight, to see and hear the maimed begging mrs. beers to remain with them, and they could well testify to how well she acted her part in remaining with them and caring for their many wants, while the able-bodied men of all grades went to battle for all they held dear. "at the same time, all the citizens and officers' wives sought refuge in some place of safety. after the battle, which resulted in victory to the confederates, and the wounded of both armies were brought to our wards, and the federal prisoners (about one thousand) to the town, her attention and kindness was, if possible, doubly increased, extending help and care as well to the boys in blue as to those in gray. in her missions of mercy she made no distinction. there she was daily seen with her servant going into the prison of the federal soldiers with bandages and baskets of provisions to minister to the wants of such as were slightly wounded or needed some attention. many a federal officer and soldier would doubtless bear willing testimony to these acts of unselfish kindness. "while atlanta was invested and being shelled she, contrary to my advice and urgent remonstrance, took boxes of provisions to her husband and comrades in the trenches when the shot and shell fell almost like hail. while at fort valley her courage and patriotism were put to the severest test in an epidemic of smallpox. "when all who could left, she remained and nursed the confederate soldiers with this loathsome disease. i desire to say she was a voluntary nurse, and did all her work from patriotism alone, until it became necessary for her to remain as a permanent _attaché_ of the hospitals that her name should go upon the pay-rolls. after that she spent her hard earnings in sending boxes to the front and dispensing charity upon worthy objects immediately under her care. "she was with me as voluntary nurse, or matron, for more than three years, and during that time she conducted herself in every respect so as to command the respect and esteem of all with whom she came in contact, from the humblest private to the highest in command, and the citizens of every place where she was stationed gave her a hearty welcome, and invited her into the best of society. "feeling this much was due to one who suffered so many privations for 'dear lost cause,' i send it to you for you to use as you think proper in promoting her good. you know me well, and can vouch for anything i have said. "very respectfully, "wm. t. mcallister, m.d., "late surgeon p.a.c.s." after such testimonials of worth and work, anything more would seem out of place. yet we cannot refrain from mentioning some of the sayings of soldiers who, though forgotten, yet recall her with affection for the tender nursing received at her hands. says one, "she was the moving spirit in the hospital, officially and practically. the first object of her ministrations was to relieve suffering and save life. the next was to fit men for service. when health was restored she would brook no shirking, but with the power of kindly words impelled patients to the field. her zeal sprang from profound convictions of the righteousness of the cause, and with the vehemence of sincerity she wielded a great influence over those who had recovered under her care." another declares that he has seen her "not only bathing the heads of soldiers, but washing their feet." so the evidence accumulates, and it is no wonder she is called by many "the florence nightingale of the south." the end. thompson improved building paper. a substitute for plastering and for wall paper and canvas. in use from the atlantic to the rocky mountains. no experiment, but an established success. sheeting and lining papers, tarred papers, roofing felt, roofing pitch, asphalt, etc. metal shingles in iron and tin, painted and galvanized. best bangor roofing slates, roofing tiles, etc. samples of paper and circulars sent on application. address edward thompson, and poydras street, new orleans, la. the south illustrated. gravier st., new orleans, la. a twenty-page monthly. published under the auspices of leading business men and capitalists of the state. h.h. baker, managing editor. geo. moorman, associate editor. _devoted to the development of the south, particularly louisiana. superbly illustrated._ subscription, $ . per year. every issue replete with information pertaining to the resources of the southern states, their unmatched advantage of climate and soil, adaptation to a wide range of agricultural products, tropical fruits, etc. vast and widely-distributed mineral and wooded wealth, and the late marked impetus on many lines of industrial progress, especially in railroads, iron manufactures, etc. the most effective advertising medium in the south. rates for advertisements and subscription furnished promptly on application at the office, o gravier street. a.k. miller & co., agents for "state," "american," "inman," "cunard," "white star," "red star," "allan," "national," "guion," "hamburg," and "italian" lines of steamers. all classes of passage to and from all places in europe and america, via new orleans, new york, baltimore, and philadelphia. sight drafts on all cities in europe. carondelet street, new orleans, la. the liverpool and london and globe insurance company. fire assets $ , , . total fire liabilities , , . ------------- surplus for policy holders $ , , . assets in united states $ , , . liabilities in united states , , . ------------- surplus in united states $ , , . henry v. ogden, clarence p. low, resident secretary. assistant secretary. losses cashed upon adjustment without discount. gravier street. new orleans. john i. adams. w.h. renaud. j.g. ong. p.a. bonito. john i. adams & co., wholesale grocers and dealers in provisions, wines, and liquors, nos. , , and peters street (formerly new levee), coffee, sugar, molasses, and rice a speciality new orleans f. codman ford, building specialties, and baronne st., new orleans, la. _terra-cotta of every description. stained and decorative glass. fine hard-wood mantels. glazed and encaustic tiles. f.w. devoes & co.'s paints and varnishes._ send for catalogues and estimates. h.p. buckley, no. camp street, new orleans, la., has on hand a fine stock of waltham watches, at low prices. also silverware, jewelry, spectacles. watch and jewelry repairing a specialty. richard m. ong, and magazine st., new orleans, paints, building materials, naval stores, oils. white and red lead, nails, fire brick, mixed and dry colors, lime, sand, window glass, cement, hair, varnishes, glues, plaster paris, brushes, etc. fire clay and fire tiles. burning and machinery oils and axle grease. new orleans national bank (united states depository), corner of camp and. common streets. capital $ , surplus , undivided profits , -------- $ , a. baldwin, president s. katz, vice-president. wm. palfrey, cashier. johnson iron works, julia st., from delta to water, lewis johnson } henry d. stearns } proprietors new orleans. tulane university of louisiana. high school, college, university, law, and medical departments. hon. randall lee gibson, u.s. senator, president of board of administrators. william preston johnson, ll.d., president of university. forty-seven professors and instructors. high school. three classes--preparatory, intermediate, and sub-freshman. four parallel courses. drawing and manual training two hours daily for all classes. college courses.--classical, literary, natural science, mathematical, mechanical, and commercial. university course leads to degrees of master of arts, and further study to degree of doctor of philosophy. law and medical departments thoroughly organized, with efficient faculties and large attendance of students from city and country and adjoining states. h. sophie newcomb memorial college for young women, under charge of the administrators of the university. catalogues containing announcement of all departments may be obtained upon application to wm. o. rogers, secretary tulane university, new orleans, la. a.b. griswold & co., corner canal and royal streets, new orleans, importers of _watches, diamonds, jewelry, and silverware._ jno. t. moore, jr., & co., wholesale grocers and commission merchants, nos. , , and tchoupitoulas street, p.o. box . telephone . between poydras and gravier streets. warehouse, no. natchez street, new orleans, la. _cash advances made._ s. jamison's son, no. carondelet st., new orleans, importer and dealer in english and german portland cements, rosendale and western cements, marble dust, sand, plaster, hair, lime, and fire bricks, fertilizers, fire clay, and tiles, laths, rosin, pitch, and building materials. oils a specialty. correspondence solicited. thos. fawcett & sons, _branch of thos. fawcett & sons, miners and shippers of coal, water street, pittsburgh, pa._, dealers in pittsburgh, anthracite, and cannel coal and coke. office, poydras street, new orleans. yard, on levee, head bobin st. telephone . families, presses, factories, plantations, etc., supplied at lowest market rates. coal in casks for shipment. mrs. t.j. brown, w.w. hawkins, manager, dealer in wall papers, window shades, hollands, cornices, cornice poles, room mouldings, etc., camp street, new orleans. samples mailed on application. john h. murphy, copper, brass, and iron works, manufacturer of sugar machinery, nos. to magazine street, corner girod, new orleans, louisiana. august f. slangerup, superintending engineer. will r. taylor, business manager. walter a. taylor, mechanical engineer and draughtsman. taylor brothers & co. (successors to wm. w. taylor), contracting and manufacturing machinists and engineers will prepare plans, specifications, and estimates, and contract for the manufacture, erection, and repairing of _engines, boilers, bagasse burners, steam and vacuum pumps, sugar mills, vacuum pans, double and triple effects, filter presses, steam trains, and general sugar machinery_, sole builders of taylor's patent steam traps. taylors improved bagasse burners, taylors patent bagasse feeders. manufacturers' agents for guild and garrison's boiler, feed, tank, and vacuum pumps. our shops are new, and equipped with new and improved machinery, enabling us to do first-class work. office and works, constance and st. joseph streets, new orleans. telephone . joseph j. hooper, stationer, no. carondelet st., new orleans. specialties: _printing and blank book manufacturing._ write for quotations; it will cost you only _one cent_ and may save you a dollar. reynolds iron works, manufacturers of the celebrated reynolds's patent cotton presses agricultural implements, machinery, castings of all kinds, etc., cor. delord and fulton sts., new orleans, la. thos. o'connor, jr., manager. louisiana brewing co. of new orleans. brewery and office, jackson and tchoupitoulas sts. telephone, no. . p.w. dielmann, president. j. hassinger, vice-president. frank fehr, superintendent. h. engelhardt, secretary. board of directors. p.w. dielmann. j. hassinger. f. raquet. h. armbruster. albert p. noll. frank fehr. m. vonderbank frank walker. h.j. leovy, jr. frank walker & co., mill supplies, mill builders and contractors, tchoupitoulas st., new orleans. rice mill work a specialty. montgomery u.s. bonded warehouses, fulton and peters, between julia, and st. joseph streets. chas. a. thiel, _proprietor_, main office, fulton street, new orleans. telephone . insurance a . crescent sugar and rice warehouses, commerce and tchoupitoulas, bet. julia and st. joseph sts. yale & bowling, wholesale dry goods and notions , , and magazine st. and common st., new orleans, la. the louisiana national bank, of new orleans. capital $ , . surplus , . undivided profits , . ---------- $ , . r.m. walmsley, a. luria, leon f. janin, president. vice-president. cashier. m. hackett, wholesale and retail grocer, importer, wine and liquor dealer, to melpomene street, _baronne street side of dryades market_, new orleans. jno. p. richardson, wholesale dry goods and notions corner magazine and common. sts., new orleans, la. p.a. barker. barker & pescud, p.f. pescud. river, marine, and life insurance agents, no. carondelet street, new orleans, la., represent following companies, viz.: _assets_. Ã�tna ins. co., hartford , , home ins. co., new york , , hartford fire ins. co., hartford , , springfield fire and marine ins. co., massachusetts , , lion fire ins. co., london , , sun fire office, london , , commercial ins co., california , employers liability (accident), london. , metropolitan plate glass ins. co., n.y., , p.o. box . losses adjusted and paid in new orleans, la. e.c. fenner, carriage repository, bicycles, tricycles, velocipedes, and lawn tennis, baby carriages, harness, whips, robes, and carriage trimmings, and gravier street, new orleans, la. [illustration: carriage] joseph schwartz, nos. , , , and perdido st. the largest carriage and wagon repository and manufactory in the south, and dealer in carriage, wagon, and cane cart materials. agent for the celebrated tennessee and studebaker farm wagons, and coldwater road cart. p.o. box . new orleans. t.h. stauffer. b.f. eshleman. walter r. stauffer. stauffer, eshleman & co., successors to stauffer, mackready & co., importers and dealers in hardware, cutlery, guns, pistols, iron, nails, tin and leaded plates, metals, oils, paints, and cordage. agricultural implements. no. chambers st., new york. nos. to dorsier, and customhouse streets, and canal street, new orleans. c.m. soria, pres. jno s. rainey, vice-pres. f.w. rainey. sec. and treas. standard guano and chemical manufacturing co., successors to sterns fertilizer and chemical manufacturing co. manufacturers of super-phosphates, pure ground bone, animal charcoal, and chemicals. special fertilizers for cotton, sugar, grain, fruit, and vegetables. highest standard guaranteed. _p.o. drawer . union st., new orleans._ ernest mlltenberger, h. gally, scott mcgehee. president. vice-president. secretary. southern insurance company of new orleans, no. camp street. cash capital $ , assets, jan. , , crescent insurance company. new orleans. incorporated as a mutual company in . reorganized as a stock company in . cash capital $ , . _has paid over ten and one-half millions for losses since ._ annual and term policies issued on desirable fire business. w.r. lyman, pres't. joseph bowling, vice-pres't. chas. e. rice, secretary. established . a.j. giuranovich, jeweler and practical diamond setter, royal street, between st. louis and toulouse sts. new orleans, la. nine years with mr. i.c. levi, new orleans, la. three years with mr. verax, paris, france. boots and shoes. e. marqueze & co., manufacturers, boston, mass. southern jobbing house, no. canal street, new orleans, la. e.f. brakenridge, dealer in pine and cypress lands, _no. st. charles street_, new orleans, la. r.j. downey, slate roofer. contracts taken in this and all adjoining states. send for prices and estimates. office, st. charles st., p.o. box . new orleans, la. a. mcdermott, manufacturer of artificial limbs, trusses, and surgical appliances, crutches and elastic hosiery, _ st. charles, between julia and st. joseph streets_, new orleans, la. a. baldwin & co., canal st., new orleans, and and broad st., new york. . , and common street, new orleans, la. importers and dealers in foreign and domestic hardware, cutlery, guns, pistols, barbed fence wire, and agricultural implements. souby art gallery canal street, new orleans, la. crayon, with frame, $ . . pictures on watch dials a specialty. imitation porcelain picture, with. frame, $ . . a good photograph at $ . per dozen. _give us a call. no trouble to show specimens and prices._ correspondence solicited. a.t. terry. e.j. mack terry & mack, men's furnishing goods, _no. carondelet street (near canal)_, new orleans. g.w. dunbar's sons, packers of semi-tropical products, fresh gulf shrimp, potted shrimp, green turtle, preserved figs, orange preserve, figs in cordial, okra, etc. _manufacturers of french cordials and fruit syrups._ office and salesroom, no. tchoupitoulas street, new orleans. a.o. pessou, office, carondelet st., warehouse, and calliope st., new orleans. _corrugated iron, steel wire nails, bricks, sand, lime, cement, plaster, hair, and laths, ready-mixed paints, sewer pipe._ solicits country orders. david lemley copper, tin, and sheet-iron worker, st. charles street, new orleans, la. lemley's patent rain-water cut-off, _the only best._ roofing, guttering, slating, etc., etc. repairs executed with dispatch. berger patent ten-foot gutter announcement for . the complete novels that have already been arranged for to appear in lippincotts monthly magazine for are as follows: "check and counter-check." by brander matthews and george h. jessop (january). "the spell of home." after the german. by mrs. a.l. wister (february). "honored in the breach." by julia magruder (march). "the quick or the dead?" by amÃ�lie rives (april). this series of novels, it will readily be seen, will be of great literary value and interest. miss amélie rives has excited universal admiration by the short stories and poems that she has contributed to current magazines, and a novel from her pen will be eagerly welcomed by a wide circle. edgar saltus, a brilliant young author, whose "mr. incoul's misadventure" was excellent in itself and gave promise of still more brilliant performance in the future, is another rising name. william h. bishop and brander matthews have an established position among contemporary novelists, and the new novels from their pen will be equal to any of their former work. mrs. a.l. wister's adaptations are known to all readers of american fiction. miss julia magruder, whose "across the chasm" and "at anchor" (in lippincott's magazine) were hailed as among the most charming of modern southern novels, is another writer with an audience already created. miss m. eliott seawell is the author of "maid marian," a delightful little extravaganza in the december, , number of lippincott's, and the novel which she has written for this magazine will add another star to the galaxy of southern novelists. in addition, albion w. tourgee will contribute a notable series of stories, illustrating the interesting and exciting phases of the legal profession, under the general title of "with gauge & swallow." each story will be complete in itself, though all will revolve around a common centre of interest. stories, essays, and poems may be expected from amélie rives, edgar fawcett, thomas nelson page, h.h. boyesen, joaquin miller, walt whitman, will carleton, m.g. mcclelland, helen g. cone. mrs. s.m.b. piatt, j.j. piatt, c.l. hildreth, will h. hayne, lucy c. lillie, edith m. thomas, and many others; and autobiographical articles, dealing with interesting phases of their career, from lotta, fanny davenport. h.h. boyesen, edgar saltus, clara barton, belva lockwood, frances e. willard, etc., etc. a number of ideas new to periodical literature will be exploited during the year. for example, the february number will be written entirely by women for women, and will contain a novel by mrs. wister; a novelette by miss amélie rives; poems by mrs. piatt, helen g. cone, edith m. thomas, and ella wheeler-wilcox; autobiographical sketches by belva lockwood, fanny davenport, etc.; and articles of general interest by other famous women of the country, subscription per annum, $ . . single number, cents. j.b. lippincott company, publishers, and market street, philadelphia. fire. river. marine. incorporated april, . reorganized april, . hope insurance company of new orleans, no. gravier street. cash capital $ , . assets , . progressive and liberal. j.a. chalaron, president. maurice stern, vice-president. louis barnett, secretary. none proofreading team. the white linen nurse by eleanor hallowell abbott author of "molly make-believe," "the sick-a-bed lady," etc., etc. to maurice howe richardson who loved romance almost as much as he loved surgery, this little story is affectionately dedicated in token of two persons' unfading memories the white linen nurse chapter i the white linen nurse was so tired that her noble expression ached. incidentally her head ached and her shoulders ached and her lungs ached and the ankle-bones of both feet ached quite excruciatingly. but nothing of her felt permanently incapacitated except her noble expression. like a strip of lip-colored lead suspended from her poor little nose by two tugging wire-gray wrinkles her persistently conscientious sickroom smile seemed to be whanging aimlessly against her front teeth. the sensation certainly was very unpleasant. looking back thus on the three spine-curving, chest-cramping, foot-twinging, ether-scented years of her hospital training, it dawned on the white linen nurse very suddenly that nothing of her ever had felt permanently incapacitated except her noble expression! impulsively she sprang for the prim white mirror that capped her prim white bureau and stood staring up into her own entrancing, bright-colored novia scotian reflection with tense and unwonted interest. except for the unmistakable smirk which fatigue had clawed into her plastic young mouth-lines there was certainly nothing special the matter with what she saw. "perfectly good face!" she attested judicially with no more than common courtesy to her progenitors. "perfectly good and tidy looking face! if only--if only--" her breath caught a trifle. "if only--it didn't look so disgustingly noble and--hygienic--and dollish!" all along the back of her neck little sharp prickly pains began suddenly to sting and burn. "silly--simpering--pink and white puppet!" she scolded squintingly, "i'll teach you how to look like a real girl!" very threateningly she raised herself to her tiptoes and thrust her glowing, corporeal face right up into the moulten, elusive, quick-silver face in the mirror. pink for pink, blue for blue, gold for gold, dollish smirk for dollish smirk, the mirror mocked her seething inner fretfulness. "why--darn you!" she gasped. "why--darn you! why, you looked more human than that when you left the annapolis valley three years ago! there were at least--tears in your face then, and--cinders, and--your mother's best advice, and the worry about the mortgage, and--and--the blush of joe hazeltine's kiss!" furtively with the tip of her index-finger she started to search her imperturbable pink cheek for the spot where joe hazeltine's kiss had formerly flamed. "my hands are all right, anyway!" she acknowledged with infinite relief. triumphantly she raised both strong, stub-fingered, exaggeratedly executive hands to the level of her childish blue eyes and stood surveying the mirrored effect with ineffable satisfaction. "why my hands are--dandy!" she gloated. "why they're perfectly--dandy! why they're wonderful! why they're--." then suddenly and fearfully she gave a shrill little scream. "but they don't go with my silly doll-face!" she cried. "why, they don't! they don't! they go with the senior surgeon's scowling heidelberg eyes! they go with the senior surgeon's grim gray jaw! they go with the--! oh! what shall i do? what shall i do?" dizzily, with her stubby finger-tips prodded deep into every jaded facial muscle that she could compass, she staggered towards the air, and dropping down into the first friendly chair that bumped against her knees, sat staring blankly out across the monotonous city roofs that flanked her open window,--trying very, very hard for the first time in her life, to consider the general-phenomenon-of-being-a-trained-nurse. all around and about her, inexorable as anesthesia, horrid as the hush of tomb or public library, lurked the painfully unmistakable sense of institutional restraint. mournfully to her ear from some remote kitcheny region of pots and pans a browsing spoon tinkled forth from time to time with soft-muffled resonance. up and down every clammy white corridor innumerable young feet, born to prance and stamp, were creeping stealthily to and fro in rubber-heeled whispers. along the somber fire-escape just below her windowsill, like a covey of snubbed doves, six or eight of her classmates were cooing and crooning together with excessive caution concerning the imminent graduation exercises that were to take place at eight o'clock that very evening. beyond her dreariest ken of muffled voices, beyond her dingiest vista of slate and brick, on a far faint hillside, a far faint streak of april green went roaming jocundly skyward. altogether sluggishly, as though her nostrils were plugged with warm velvet, the smell of spring and ether and scorched mutton-chops filtered in and out, in and out, in and out, of her abnormally jaded senses. taken all in all it was not a propitious afternoon for any girl as tired and as pretty as the white linen nurse to be considering the general phenomenon of anything--except april! in the real country, they tell me, where the young spring runs wild and bare as a nymph through every dull brown wood and hay-gray meadow, the blasé farmer-lad will not even lift his eyes from the plow to watch the pinkness of her passing. but here in the prudish brick-minded city where the young spring at her friskiest is nothing more audacious than a sweltering, winter-swathed madcap, who has impishly essayed some fine morning to tiptoe down street in her soft, sloozily, green, silk-stockinged feet, the whole hob-nailed population reels back aghast and agrin before the most innocent flash of the rogue's green-veiled toes. and then, suddenly snatching off its own cumbersome winter foot-habits, goes chasing madly after her, in its own prankish, vari-colored socks. now the white linen nurse's socks were black, and cotton at that, a combination incontestably sedate. and the white linen nurse had waded barefoot through too many posied country pastures to experience any ordinary city thrill over the sight of a single blade of grass pushing scarily through a crack in the pavement, or puny, concrete-strangled maple tree flushing wanly to the smoky sky. indeed for three hustling, square-toed, rubber-heeled city years the white linen nurse had never even stopped to notice whether the season was flavored with frost or thunder. but now, unexplainably, just at the end of it all, sitting innocently there at her own prim little bed-room window, staring innocently out across indomitable roof-tops,--with the crackle of glory and diplomas already ringing in her ears,--she heard, instead, for the first time in her life, the gaily dare-devil voice of the spring, a hoydenish challenge flung back at her, leaf-green, from the crest of a winter-scarred hill. "hello, white linen nurse!" screamed the saucy city spring. "hello, white linen nurse! take off your homely starched collar! or your silly candy-box cap! or any other thing that feels maddeningly artificial! and come out! and be very wild!" like a puppy dog cocking its head towards some strange, unfamiliar sound, the white linen nurse cocked her head towards the lure of the green-crested hill. still wrestling conscientiously with the general-phenomenon-of-being-a-trained-nurse she found her collar suddenly very tight, the tiny cap inexpressibly heavy and vexatious. timidly she removed the collar--and found that the removal did not rest her in the slightest. equally timidly she removed the cap--and found that even that removal did not rest her in the slightest. then very, very slowly, but very, very permeatingly and completely, it dawned on the white linen nurse that never while eyes were blue, and hair gold, and lips red, would she ever find rest again until she had removed her noble expression! with a jerk that started the pulses in her temples throbbing like two toothaches she straightened up in her chair. all along the back of her neck the little blonde curls began to crisp very ticklingly at their roots. still staring worriedly out over the old city's slate-gray head to that inciting prance of green across the farthest horizon she felt her whole being kindle to an indescribable passion of revolt against all hushed places. seething with fatigue, smoldering with ennui, she experienced suddenly a wild, almost incontrollable impulse to sing, to shout, to scream from the housetops, to mock somebody, to defy everybody, to break laws, dishes, heads,--anything in fact that would break with a crash! and then at last, over the hills and far away, with all the outraged world at her heels, to run! and run! and run! and run! and run! and laugh! till her feet raveled out! and her lungs burst! and there was nothing more left of her at all,--ever--ever--any more! discordantly into this rapturously pagan vision of pranks and posies broke one of her room-mates all awhiff with ether, awhirr with starch. instantly with the first creak of the door-handle the white linen nurse was on her feet, breathless, resentful, grotesquely defiant. "get out of here, zillah forsyth!" she cried furiously. "get out of here--quick!--and leave me alone! i want to think!" perfectly serenely the newcomer advanced into the room. with her pale, ivory-tinted cheeks, her great limpid brown eyes, her soft dark hair parted madonna-like across her beautiful brow, her whole face was like some exquisite, composite picture of all the saints of history. her voice also was amazingly tranquil. "oh, fudge!" she drawled. "what's eating you, rae malgregor? i won't either get out! it's my room just as much as it is yours! and helene's just as much as it is ours! and besides," she added more briskly, "it's four o'clock now, and with graduation at eight and the dance afterwards, if we don't get our stuff packed up now, when in thunder shall we get it done?" quite irrelevantly she began to laugh. her laugh was perceptibly shriller than her speaking voice. "say, rae!" she confided. "that minister i nursed through pneumonia last winter wants me to pose as 'sanctity' for a stained-glass window in his new church! isn't he the softie?" "shall--you--do--it?" quizzed rae malgregor a trifle tensely. "shall i do it?" mocked the newcomer. "well, you just watch me! four mornings a week in june--at full week's wages? fresh easter lilies every day? white silk angel-robes? all the high-souls and high-paints kowtowing around me? why it would be more fun than a box of monkeys! sure i'll do it!" expeditiously as she spoke the newcomer reached up for the framed motto over her own ample mirror and yanking it down with one single tug began to busy herself adroitly with a snarl in the picture-cord. like a withe of willow yearning over a brook her slender figure curved to the task. very scintillatingly the afternoon light seemed to brighten suddenly across her lap. _you'll be a long time dead!_ glinted the motto through its sun-dazzled glass. still panting with excitement, still bristling with resentment, rae malgregor stood surveying the intrusion and the intruder. a dozen impertinent speeches were rioting in her mind. twice her mouth opened and shut before she finally achieved the particular opprobrium that completely satisfied her. "bah! you look like a--trained nurse!" she blurted forth at last with hysterical triumph. "so do you!" said the newcomer amiably. with a little gasp of dismay rae malgregor sprang suddenly forward. her eyes were flooded with tears. "why, that's just exactly what's the matter with me!" she cried. "my face is all worn out trying to look like a trained nurse! oh, zillah, how do you know you were meant to be a trained nurse? how does anybody know? oh, zillah! save me! save me!" languorously zillah forsyth looked up from her work, and laughed. her laugh was like the accidental tinkle of sleighbells in mid-summer, vaguely disquieting, a shiver of frost across the face of a lily. "save you from what, you great big overgrown, tow-headed doll-baby?" she questioned blandly. "for heaven's sake, the only thing you need is to go back to whatever toy-shop you came from and get a new head. what in creation's the matter with you lately, anyway? oh, of course, you've had rotten luck this past month, but what of it? that's the trouble with you country girls. you haven't got any stamina." with slow, shuffling-footed astonishment rae malgregor stepped out into the center of the room. "country girls," she repeated blankly. "why, you're a country girl yourself!" "i _am_ not!" snapped zillah forsyth. "i'll have you understand that there are nine thousand people in the town i come from--and not a rube among them. why i tended soda fountain in the swellest drug-store there a whole year before i even thought of taking up nursing. and i wasn't as green--when i was six months old--as you are now!" slowly with a soft-snuggling sigh of contentment she raised her slim white fingers to coax her dusky hair a little looser, a little farther down, a little more madonna-like across her sweet, mild forehead, then snatching out abruptly at a convenient shirt-waist began with extraordinary skill to apply its dangly lace sleeves as a protective bandage for the delicate glass-faced motto still in her lap, placed the completed parcel with inordinate scientific precision in the exact corner of her packing-box, and then went on very diligently, very zealously, to strip the men's photographs from the mirror on her bureau. there were twenty-seven photographs in all, and for each one she had already cut and prepared a small square of perfectly fresh, perfectly immaculate white tissue wrapping-paper. no one so transcendently fastidious, so exquisitely neat, in all her personal habits had ever trained in that particular hospital before. very soberly the doll-faced girl stood watching the men's pleasant paper countenances smooth away one by one into their chaste white veilings, until at last quite without warning she poked an accusing, inquisitive finger directly across zillah forsyth's shoulder. "zillah!" she demanded peremptorily. "all the year i've wanted to know! all the year every other girl in our class has wanted to know! where did you ever get that picture of the senior surgeon? he never gave it to you in the world! he didn't! he didn't! he's not that kind!" deeply into zillah forsyth's pale, ascetic cheek dawned a most amazing dimple. "sort of jarred you girls some, didn't it," she queried, "to see me strutting round with a photo of the senior surgeon?" the little cleft in her chin showed suddenly with almost startling distinctness. "well, seeing it's you," she grinned, "and the year's all over, and there's nobody left that i can worry about it any more, i don't mind telling you in the least that i--bought it out of a photographer's show-case! there! are you satisfied now?" with easy nonchalance she picked up the picture in question and scrutinized it shrewdly. "lord! what a face!" she attested. "nothing but granite! hack him with a knife and he wouldn't bleed but just chip off into pebbles!" with exaggerated contempt she shrugged her supple shoulders. "bah! how i hate a man like that! there's no fun in him!" a little abruptly she turned and thrust the photograph into rae malgregor's hand. "you can have it if you want to," she said. "i'll trade it to you for that lace corset-cover of yours!" like water dripping through a sieve the photograph slid through rae malgregor's frightened fingers. with nervous apology she stooped and picked it up again and held it gingerly by one remotest corner. her eyes were quite wide with horror. "oh, of course i'd like the--picture, well enough," she stammered. "but it wouldn't seem--exactly respectful to--to trade it for a corset-cover." "oh, very well," drawled zillah forsyth. "tear it up then!" expeditiously with frank, non-sentimental fingers rae malgregor tore the tough cardboard across, and again across, and once again across, and threw the conglomerate fragments into the waste-basket. and her expression all the time was no more, no less, than the expression of a person who would infinitely rather execute his own pet dog or cat than risk the possible bungling of an outsider. then like a small child trotting with infinite relief to its own doll-house she trotted over to her bureau, extracted the lace corset-cover, and came back with it in her hand to lean across zillah forsyth's shoulder again and watch the men's faces go slipping off into oblivion. once again, abruptly without warning, she halted the process with a breathless exclamation. "oh, of course this waist is the only one i've got with ribbons in it," she asserted irrelevantly. "but i'm perfectly willing to trade it for that picture!" she pointed out with unmistakably explicit finger-tip. chucklingly zillah forsyth withdrew the special photograph from its half-completed wrappings. "oh! him?" she said. "oh, that's a chap i met on the train last summer. he's a brakeman or something. he's a--" perfectly unreluctantly rae malgregor dropped the fluff of lace and ribbons into zillah's lap and reached out with cheerful voraciousness to annex the young man's picture to her somewhat bleak possessions. "oh, i don't care a rap who he is," she interrupted briskly. "but he's sort of cute-looking, and i've got an empty frame at home just that odd size, and mother's crazy for a new picture to stick up over the kitchen mantelpiece. she gets so tired of seeing nothing but the faces of people she knows all about." sharply zillah forsyth turned and stared up into the younger girl's face, and found no guile to whet her stare against. "well of all the ridiculous--unmitigated greenhorns!" she began. "well--is that all you wanted him for? why, i supposed you wanted to write to him! why, i supposed--" for the first time an expression not altogether dollish darkened across rae malgregor's garishly juvenile blondeness. "maybe i'm not quite as green as you think i am!" she flared up stormily. with this sharp flaring-up every single individual pulse in her body seemed to jerk itself suddenly into conscious activity again like the soft, plushy pound-pound-pound of a whole stocking-footed regiment of pain descending single file upon her for her hysterical undoing. "maybe i've had a good deal more experience than you give me credit for!" she hastened excitedly to explain. "i tell you--i tell you i've been engaged!" she blurted forth with a bitter sort of triumph. with a palpable flicker of interest zillah forsyth looked back across her shoulder. "engaged? how many times?" she asked quite bluntly. as though the whole monogamous groundwork of civilization was threatened by the question, rae malgregor's hands went clutching at her breast. "why, once!" she gasped. "why, once!" convulsively zillah forsyth began to rock herself to and fro. "oh lordy!" she chuckled. "oh lordy, lordy! why i've been engaged four times just this past year!" in a sudden passion of fastidiousness she bent down over the particular photograph in her hand and snatching at a handkerchief began to rub diligently at a small smouch of dust in one corner of the cardboard. something in the effort of rubbing seemed to jerk her small round chin into almost angular prominence. "and before i'm through," she added, at least two notes below her usual alto tones, "and before i'm through--i'm going to get engaged to--every profession that there is on the surface of the globe!" quite helplessly the thin paper skin of the photograph peeled off in company with the smouch of dust. "and when i marry," she ejaculated fiercely, "and when i marry--i'm going to marry a man who will take me to every place that there is--on the surface of the globe! and after that--!" "after what?" interrogated a brand new voice from the doorway. chapter ii it was the other room-mate this time. the only real aristocrat in the whole graduating class, high-browed, high-cheekboned,--eyes like some far-sighted young prophet,--mouth even yet faintly arrogant with the ineradicable consciousness of caste,--a plain, eager, stripped-for-a-long-journey type of face,--this was helene churchill. there was certainly no innocuous bloom of country hills and pastures in this girl's face, nor any seething small-town passion pounding indiscriminately at all the doors of experience. the men and women who had bred helene churchill had been the breeders also of brick and granite cities since the world was new. like one infinitely more accustomed to treading on persian carpets than on painted floors she came forward into the room. "hello, children!" she said casually, and began at once without further parleying to take down the motto that graced her own bureau-top. it was the era when almost everybody in the world had a motto over his bureau. helene churchill's motto was: _inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these ye have done it unto me_. on a scroll of almost priceless parchment the text was illuminated with inimitable florentine skill and color. a little carelessly, after the manner of people quite accustomed to priceless things, she proceeded now to roll the parchment into its smallest possible circumference, humming exclusively to herself all the while an intricate little air from an italian opera. so the three faces foiled each other, sober city girl, pert town girl, bucolic country girl,--a hundred fundamental differences rampant between them, yet each fervid, adolescent young mouth tamed to the same monotonous, drolly exaggerated expression of complacency that characterizes the faces of all people who, in a distinctive uniform, for a reasonably satisfactory living wage, make an actual profession of righteous deeds. indeed among all the thirty or more varieties of noble expression which an indomitable superintendent had finally succeeded in inculcating into her graduating class, no other physiognomies had responded more plastically perhaps than these three to the merciless imprint of the great _hospital machine_ which, in pursuance of its one repetitive design, _discipline_, had coaxed zillah forsyth into the semblance of a lady, snubbed helene churchill into the substance of plain womanhood, and, still uncertain just what to do with rae malgregor's rollicking rural immaturity, had frozen her face temporarily into the smugly dimpled likeness of a fancy french doll rigged out as a nurse for some gilt-edged hospital fair. with characteristic desire to keep up in every way with her more mature, better educated classmates, to do everything, in fact, so fast, so well, that no one should possibly guess that she hadn't yet figured out just why she was doing it at all, rae malgregor now with quickly readjusted cap and collar began to hurl herself into the task of her own packing. from her open bureau drawer, with a sudden impish impulse towards worldly wisdom, she extracted first of all the photograph of the young brakeman. "see, helene! my new beau!" she giggled experimentally. in mild-eyed surprise helene churchill glanced up from her work. "_your_ beau?" she corrected. "why, that's zillah's picture." "well, it's mine now!" snapped rae malgregor with unexpected edginess. "it's mine now all right. zillah said i could have him! zillah said i could--write to him--if i wanted to!" she finished a bit breathlessly. wider and wider helene churchill's eyes dilated. "write to a man--whom you don't know?" she gasped. "why, rae! why, it isn't even--very nice--to have a picture of a man you don't know!" mockingly to the edge of her strong white teeth rae malgregor's tongue crept out in pink derision. "bah!" she taunted. "what's 'nice'? that's the whole matter with you, helene churchill! you never stop to consider whether anything's fun or not; all you care is whether it's 'nice'!" excitedly she turned to meet the cheap little wink from zillah's sainted eyes. "bah! what's 'nice'?" she persisted a little lamely. then suddenly all the pertness within her crumbled into nothingness. "that's--the--whole trouble with you, zillah forsyth!" she stammered. "you never give a hang whether anything's nice or not; all you care is whether it's fun!" quite helplessly she began to wring her hands. "oh, how do i know which one of you girls to follow?" she demanded wildly. "how do i know anything? how does anybody know anything?" like a smoldering fuse the rambling query crept back into the inner recesses of her brain and fired once more the one great question that lay dormant there. impetuously she ran forward and stared into helene churchill's face. "how do you know you were meant to be a trained nurse, helene churchill?" she began all over again. "how does anybody know she was really meant to be one? how can anybody, i mean, be perfectly sure?" like a drowning man clutching out at the proverbial straw, she clutched at the parchment in helene churchill's hand. "i mean--where did you get your motto, helene churchill?" she persisted with increasing irritability. "if--you don't tell me--i'll tear the whole thing to pieces!" with a startled frown helene churchill jerked back out of reach. "what's the matter with you, rae?" she quizzed sharply, and then turning round quite casually to her book-case began to draw from the shelves one by one her beloved marcus aurelius, wordsworth, robert browning. "oh, i did so want to go to china," she confided irrelevantly. "but my family have just written me that they won't stand for it. so i suppose i'll have to go into tenement work here in the city instead." with a visible effort she jerked her mind back again to the feverish question in rae malgregor's eyes. "oh, you want to know where i got my motto?" she asked. a flash of intuition brightened suddenly across her absent-mindedness. "oh!" she smiled, "you mean you want to know--just what the incident was that first made me decide to--devote my life to--to humanity?" "yes!" snapped rae malgregor. a little shyly helene churchill picked up her copy of marcus aurelius and cuddled her cheek against its tender morocco cover. "really?" she questioned with palpable hesitation. "really you want to know? why, why--it's rather a--sacred little story to me. i wouldn't exactly want to have anybody--laugh about it." "i'll laugh if i want to!" attested zillah forsyth forcibly from the other side of the room. like a pugnacious boy, rae malgregor's fluent fingers doubled up into two firm fists. "i'll punch her if she even looks as though she wanted to!" she signaled surreptitiously to helene. shrewdly for an instant the city girl's narrowing eyes challenged and appraised the country girl's desperate sincerity. then quite abruptly she began her little story. "why, it was on an easter sunday--oh, ages and ages ago," she faltered. "why, i couldn't have been more than nine years old at the time." a trifle self-consciously she turned her face away from zillah forsyth's supercilious smile. "and i was coming home from a sunday school festival in my best white muslin dress with a big pot of purple pansies in my hand," she hastened somewhat nervously to explain. "and just at the edge of the gutter there was a dreadful drunken man lying in the mud with a great crowd of cruel people teasing and tormenting him. and, because--because i couldn't think of anything else to do about it, i--i walked right up to the poor old creature,--scared as i could be--and--and i presented him with my pot of purple pansies. and everybody of course began to laugh, to scream, i mean, and shout with amusement. and i, of course, began to cry. and the old drunken man straightened up very oddly for an instant, with his battered hat in one hand and the pot of pansies in the other,--and he raised the pot of pansies very high, as though it had been a glass of rarest wine--and bowed to me as--reverently as though he had been toasting me at my father's table at some very grand dinner. and 'inasmuch!' he said. just that,--'inasmuch!' so that's how i happened to go into nursing!" she finished as abruptly as she had begun. like some wonderful phosphorescent manifestation her whole shining soul seemed to flare forth suddenly through her plain face. with honest perplexity zillah forsyth looked up from her work. "so that's--how you happened to go into nursing?" she quizzed impatiently. her long, straight nose was all puckered tight with interrogation. her dove-like eyes were fairly dilated with slow-dawning astonishment. "you--don't--mean?" she gasped. "you don't mean that--just for that--?" incredulously she jumped to her feet and stood staring blankly into the city girl's strangely illuminated features. "well, if i were a swell--like you!" she scoffed, "it would take a heap sight more than a drunken man munching pansies and rum and bible-texts to--to jolt me out of my limousines and steam yachts and adirondack bungalows!" quite against all intention helene churchill laughed. she did not often laugh. just for an instant her eyes and zillah forsyth's clashed together in the irremediable antagonism of caste,--the plebeian's scornful impatience with the aristocrat, equaled only by the aristocrat's condescending patience with the plebeian. it was no more than right that the aristocrat should recover her self-possession first. "never mind about your understanding. zillah dear," she said softly. "your hair is the most beautiful thing i ever saw in my life!" along zillah forsyth's ivory cheek an incongruous little flush of red began to show. with much more nonchalance than was really necessary she pointed towards her half-packed trunk. "it wasn't--sunday school--i was coming home from--when i got my motto!" she remarked dryly, with a wink at no one in particular. "and, so far as i know," she proceeded with increasing sarcasm, "the man who inspired my noble life was not in any way--particularly addicted to the use of alcoholic beverages!" as though her collar was suddenly too tight she rammed her finger down between her stiff white neck-band and her soft white throat. "he was a--new york doctor!" she hastened somewhat airily to explain. "gee! but he was a swell! and he was spending his summer holiday up in the same maine town where i was tending soda fountain. and he used to drop into the drug-store, nights, after cigars and things. and he used to tell me stories about the drugs and things, sitting up there on the counter swinging his legs and pointing out this and that,--quinine, ipecac, opium, hasheesh,--all the silly patent medicines, every sloppy soothing syrup! lordy! he knew 'em as though they were people! where they come from! where they're going to! yarns about the tropics that would kink the hair along the nape of your neck! jokes about your own town's soup-kettle pharmacology that would make you yell for joy! gee! but the things that man had seen and known! gee! but the things that man could make you see and know! and he had an automobile," she confided proudly. "it was one of those billion dollar french cars. and i lived just round the corner from the drug-store. but we used to ride home by way of--new hampshire!" almost imperceptibly her breath began to quicken. "gee! those nights!" she muttered. "rain or shine, moon or thunder,--tearing down those country roads at forty miles an hour, singing, hollering, whispering! it was him that taught me to do my hair like this--instead of all the cheap rats and pompadours every other kid in town was wearing," she asserted, quite irrelevantly; then stopped with a quick, furtive glance of suspicion towards both her listeners and mouthed her way delicately back to the beginning of her sentence again. "it was _he_ that taught me to do my hair like this," she repeated with the faintest possible suggestion of hauteur. for one reason or another along the exquisitely chaste curve of her cheek a narrow streak of red began to show again. "and he went away very sudden at the last," she finished hurriedly. "it seems he was married all the time." blandly she turned her wonderful face to the caressing light. "and--i hope he goes to hell!" she added perfectly simply. with a little gasp of astonishment, shock, suspicion, distaste, helene churchill reached out an immediate conscientious hand to her. "oh, zillah!" she began. "oh, poor zillah dear! i'm so--sorry! i'm so--" absolutely serenely, through a mask of insolence and ice, zillah forsyth ignored the proffered hand. "i don't know what particular call you've got to be sorry for me, helene churchill," she drawled languidly. "i've got my character, same as you've got yours. and just about nine times as many good looks. and when it comes to nursing--" like an alto song pierced suddenly by one shrill treble note, the girl's immobile face sharpened transiently with a single jagged flash of emotion. "and when it comes to nursing? ha! helene churchill! you can lead your class all you want to with your silk-lined manners and your fuddy-duddy book-talk! but when genteel people like you are moping round all ready to fold your patients' hands on their breasts and murmur 'thy will be done,'--why, that's the time that little 'yours truly' is just beginning to roll up her sleeves and get to work!" with real passion her slender fingers went clutching again at her harsh linen collar. "it isn't you, helene churchill," she taunted, "that's ever been to the superintendent on your bended knees and begged for the rabies cases--and the small-pox! gee! you like nursing because you think it's pious to like it! but i like it--_because i like it!"_ from brow to chin as though fairly stricken with sincerity her whole bland face furrowed startlingly with crude expressiveness. "the smell of ether!" she stammered. "it's like wine to me! the clang of the ambulance gong? i'd rather hear it than fire-engines! i'd crawl on my hands and knees a hundred miles to watch a major operation! i wish there was a war! i'd give my life to see a cholera epidemic!" abruptly as it came the passion faded from her face, leaving every feature tranquil again, demure, exaggeratedly innocent. with saccharine sweetness she turned to rae malgregor. "now, little one," she mocked, "tell us the story of your lovely life. having heard me coyly confess that i went into nursing because i had such a crush on this world,--and helene here brazenly affirm that she went into nursing because she had such a crush on the world to come,--it's up to you now to confide to us just how you happened to take up so noble an endeavor! had you seen some of the young house doctors' beautiful, smiling faces depicted in the hospital catalogue? or was it for the sake of the senior surgeon's grim, gray mug that you jilted your poor plow-boy lover way up in the annapolis valley?" "why, zillah!" gasped the country girl. "why, i think you 're perfectly awful! why, zillah forsyth! don't you ever say a thing like that again! you can joke all you want to about the flirty young internes. they're nothing but fellows. but it isn't--it isn't respectful--for you to talk like that about the senior surgeon. he's too--too terrifying!" she finished in an utter panic of consternation. "oh, now i know it was the senior surgeon that made you jilt your country beau!" taunted zillah forsyth with soft alto sarcasm. "i didn't, either, jilt joe hazeltine!" stormed rae malgregor explosively. backed up against her bureau, eyes flaming, breast heaving, little candy-box cap all tossed askew over her left ear, she stood defying her tormentor. "i didn't, either, jilt joe hazeltine!" she reasserted passionately. "it was joe hazeltine that jilted me! and we 'd been going together since we were kids! and now he's married the dominie's daughter and they've got a kid of their own most as old as he and i were when we first began courting each other. and it's all because i insisted on being a trained nurse," she finished shrilly. with an expression of real shock helene churchill peered up from her lowly seat on the floor. "you mean?" she asked a bit breathlessly. "you mean that he didn't want you to be a trained nurse? you mean that he wasn't big enough,--wasn't fine enough to appreciate the nobility of the profession?" "nobility nothing!" snapped rae malgregor. "it was me scrubbing strange men with alcohol that he couldn't stand for! and i don't know as i exactly blame him," she added huskily. "it certainly is a good deal of a liberty when you stop to think about it." quite incongruously her big, childish, blue eyes narrowed suddenly into two dark, calculating slits. "it's comic," she mused, "how there isn't a man in the world who would stand letting his wife or daughter or sister have a male nurse. but look at the jobs we girls get sent out on! it's very confusing!" with sincere appeal she turned to zillah forsyth. "and yet--and yet," she stammered. "and yet--when everything scary that's in you has once been scared out of you,--why, there's nothing left in you to be scared _with_ any more, is there?" "what? what?" pleaded helene churchill. "say it again! what?" "that's what joe and i quarreled about my first vacation home!" persisted rae malgregor. "it was a traveling salesman's thigh. it was broken bad. somebody had to take care of it. so i did! joe thought it wasn't modest to be so willing." with a perplexed sort of defiance she raised her square little chin. "but you see i was willing!" she said. "i was perfectly willing. just one single solitary year of hospital training had made me perfectly willing. and you can't _un_-willing a willing--even to please your beau, no matter how hard you try!" with a droll admixture of shyness and disdain she tossed her curly blonde head a trifle higher. "shucks!" she attested. "what's a traveling salesman's thigh?" "shucks yourself!" scoffed zillah forsyth. "what's a silly beau or two up in nova scotia to a girl with looks like you? you could have married that typhoid case a dozen times last winter if you'd crooked your little finger! why, the fellow was crazy about you. and he was richer than croesus. what queered it?" she demanded bluntly. "did his mother hate you?" like one fairly cramped with astonishment rae malgregor doubled up very suddenly at the waist-line, and thrusting her neck oddly forward after the manner of a startled crane, stood peering sharply round the corner of the rocking-chair at zillah forsyth. "did his mother hate me?" she gasped. "did--his--mother--hate--me? well, what do you think? with me who never even saw plumbing till i came down here, setting out to explain to her with twenty tiled bathrooms how to be hygienic though rich? did his mother hate me? well, what do you think? with her who bore him, her who _bore_ him, mind you, kept waiting down stairs in the hospital ante-room--half an hour every day--on the raw edge of a rattan chair--waiting--worrying--all old and gray and scared--while little young, perky, pink and white _me_ is upstairs--brushing her own son's hair and washing her own son's face--and altogether getting her own son ready to see his own mother! and then me obliged to turn her out again in ten minutes, flip as you please, for fear she'd stayed too long,--while i stay on the rest of the night? _did his mother hate me!"_ stealthily as an assassin she crept around the corner of the rocking-chair and grabbed zillah forsyth by her astonished linen shoulder. "did his mother hate me?" she persisted mockingly. "did his mother hate me? well rather! is there any woman from here to kamchatka who doesn't hate us? is there any woman from here to kamchatka who doesn't look upon a trained nurse as her natural born enemy? i don't blame 'em!" she added chokingly. "look at the impudent jobs we get sent out on! quarantined upstairs for weeks at a time with their inflammable, diphtheritic bridegrooms--while they sit down stairs--brooding over their wedding teaspoons! hiked off indefinitely to atlantic city with their gouty bachelor uncles! hearing their own innocent little sisters' blood-curdling deathbed deliriums! snatching their own new-born babies away from their breasts and showing them, virgin-handed, how to nurse them better! the impudence of it, i say! the disgusting, confounded impudence! doing things perfectly--flippantly--_right_--for twenty-five dollars a week--and washing--that all the achin' love in the world don't know how to do right--just for love!" furiously she began to jerk her victim's shoulder. "i tell you it's awful, zillah forsyth!" she insisted. "i tell you i just won't stand it!" with muscles like steel wire zillah forsyth scrambled to her feet, and pushed rae malgregor back against the bureau. "for heaven's sake, rae, shut up!" she said. "what in creation's the matter with you to-day? i never saw you act so before!" with real concern she stared into the girl's turbid eyes. "if you feel like that about it, what in thunder did you go into nursing for?" she demanded not unkindly. very slowly helene churchill rose from her lowly seat by her precious book-case and came round and looked at rae malgregor rather oddly. "yes," faltered helene churchill. "what did you go into nursing for?" the faintest possible taint of asperity was in her voice. quite dumbly for an instant rae malgregor's natural timidity stood battling the almost fanatic professional fervor in helene churchill's frankly open face, the raw, scientific passion, of very different caliber, but no less intensity, hidden so craftily behind zillah forsyth's plastic features. then suddenly her own hands went clutching back at the bureau for support, and all the flaming, raging red went ebbing out of her cheeks, leaving her lips with hardly blood enough left to work them. "i went into nursing," she mumbled, "and it's god's own truth,--i went into nursing because--because i thought the uniforms were so cute." furiously, the instant the words were gone from her mouth, she turned and snarled at zillah's hooting laughter. "well, i had to do something!" she attested. the defense was like a flat blade slapping the air. desperately she turned to helene churchill's goading, faintly supercilious smile, and her voice edged suddenly like a twisted sword. "well, the uniforms _are_ cute!" she parried. "they are! they are! i bet you there's more than one girl standing high in the graduating class to-day who never would have stuck out her first year's bossin' and slops and worry and death--if she'd had to stick it out in the unimportant looking clothes she came from home in! even you, helene churchill, with all your pious talk,--the day they put your coachman's son in as new interne and you got called down from the office for failing to stand when mr. young coachman came into the room, you bawled all night,--you did,--and swore you'd chuck your whole job and go home the next day--if it wasn't that you'd just had a life-size photo taken in full nursing costume to send to your brother's chum at yale! so there!" with a gasp of ineffable satisfaction she turned from helene churchill. "sure the uniforms are cute!" she slashed back at zillah forsyth. "that's the whole trouble with 'em. they're so awfully--masqueradishly--cute! sure, i could have got engaged to the typhoid boy. it would have been as easy as robbing a babe! but lots of girls, i notice, get engaged in their uniforms, feeding a patient perfectly scientifically out of his own silver spoon, who don't seem to stay engaged so especially long in their own street clothes, bungling just plain naturally with their own knives and forks! even you, zillah forsyth," she hacked, "even you who trot round like the lord's anointed in your pure white togs, you're just as dutchy looking as anybody else, come to put you in a red hat and a tan coat and a blue skirt!" mechanically she raised her hands to her head as though with some silly thought of keeping the horrid pain in her temples from slipping to her throat, her breast, her feet. "sure the uniforms are cute," she persisted a bit thickly. "sure the typhoid boy was crazy about me! he called me his 'holy chorus girl,' i heard him--raving in his sleep. lord save us! what are we to any man but just that?" she questioned hotly with renewed venom. "parson, actor, young sinner, old saint--i ask you frankly, girls, on your word of honor, was there ever more than one man in ten went through your hands who didn't turn out soft somewhere before you were through with him? mawking about your 'sweet eyes' while you're wrecking your optic nerves trying to decipher the dose on a poison bottle! mooning over your wonderful likeness to the lovely young sister they--never had! trying to kiss your finger tips when you're struggling to brush their teeth! teasin' you to smoke cigarettes with 'em--when they know it would cost you your job!" impishly, without any warning, she crooked her knee and pointed at one homely square-toed shoe in a mincy dancing step. hoydenishly she threw out her arms and tried to gather helene and zillah both into their compass. "oh, you holy chorus girls!" she chuckled with maniacal delight. "everybody, all together, now! kick your little kicks! smile your little smiles! tinkle your little thermometers! steady,--there! one--two--three--one--two--three!" laughingly zillah forsyth slipped from the grasp. "don't you dare 'holy' me!" she threatened. in real irritation helene released herself. "i'm no chorus girl," she said coldly. with a little shrill scream of pain rae malgregor's hands went flying back to her temples. like a person giving orders in a great panic she turned authoritatively to her two room-mates, her fingers all the while boring frenziedly into her temples. "now, girls," she warned, "stand well back! if my head bursts, you know, it's going to burst all to slivers and splinters--like a boiler!" "rae, you're crazy!" hooted zillah. "just plain vulgar--looney," faltered helene. both girls reached out simultaneously to push her aside. somewhere in the dusty, indifferent street a bird's note rang out in one wild, delirious ecstasy of untrammeled springtime. to all intents and purposes the sound might have been the one final signal that rae malgregor's jangled nerves were waiting for. "oh, i _am_ crazy, am i?" she cried with a new, fierce joy. "oh, i _am_ crazy, am i? well, i'll go ask the superintendent and see if i am! oh, surely they wouldn't try and make me graduate if i really was crazy!" madly she bolted for her bureau, and snatching her own motto down, crumpled its face securely against her skirt and started for the door. just what the motto was no one but herself knew. sprawling in paint-brush hieroglyphics on a great flapping sheet of brown wrapping-paper, the sentiment, whatever it was, had been nailed face down to the wall for three tantalizing years. "no you don't!" cried zillah now, as she saw the mystery threatening so meanly to escape her. "no you don't!" cried helene. "you've seen our mottoes--and now we're going to see yours!" almost crazed with new terror rae malgregor went dodging to the right,--to the left,--to the right again,--cleared the rocking-chair,--a scuffle with padded hands,--climbed the trunk,--a race with padded feet,--reached the door-handle at last, yanked the door open, and with lungs and temper fairly bursting with momentum, shot down the hall,--down some stairs,--down some more hall,--down some more stairs, to the superintendent's office where, with her precious motto still clutched securely in one hand, she broke upon that dignitary's startled, near-sighted vision like a young whirl-wind of linen and starch and flapping brown paper. breathlessly, without prelude or preamble, she hurled her grievance into the older woman's grievance-dulled ears. "give me back my own face!" she demanded peremptorily. "give me back my own face, i say! and my own hands! i tell you i want my own hands! helene and zillah say i'm insane! and i want to go home!" chapter iii like a short-necked animal elongated suddenly to the cervical proportions of a giraffe, the superintendent of nurses reared up from her stoop-shouldered desk-work and stared forth in speechless astonishment across the top of her spectacles. exuberantly impertinent, ecstatically self-conscious, rae malgregor repeated her demand. to her parched mouth the very taste of her own babbling impudence refreshed her like the shock and prickle of cracked ice. "i tell you i want my own face again! and my own hands!" she reiterated glibly. "i mean the face with the mortgage in it, and the cinders--and the other human expressions!" she explained. "and the nice grubby country hands that go with that sort of a face!" very accusingly she raised her finger and shook it at the superintendent's perfectly livid countenance. "oh, of course i know i wasn't very much to look at. but at least i matched! what my hands knew, i mean, my face knew! pies or plowing or may-baskets, what my hands knew my face knew! that's the way hands and faces ought to work together! but you? you with all your rules and your bossing and your everlasting 's--sh! s--sh!' you've snubbed all the know-anything out of my face--and made my hands nothing but two disconnected machines--for somebody else to run! and i hate you! you're a monster! you're a ----, everybody hates you!" mutely then she shut her eyes, bowed her head, and waited for the superintendent to smite her dead. the smite she felt quite sure would be a noisy one. first of all, she reasoned it would fracture her skull. naturally then of course it would splinter her spine. later in all probability it would telescope her knee-joints. and never indeed now that she came to think of it had the arches of her feet felt less capable of resisting so terrible an impact. quite unconsciously she groped out a little with one hand to steady herself against the edge of the desk. but the blow when it came was nothing but a cool finger tapping her pulse. "there! there!" crooned the superintendent's voice with a most amazing tolerance. "but i won't 'there--there'!" snapped rae malgregor. her eyes were wide open again now, and extravagantly dilated. the cool fingers on her pulse seemed to tighten a little. "s--sh! s--sh!" admonished the superintendent's mumbling lips. "but i won't 's--sh--s--sh'!" stormed rae malgregor. never before in her three years' hospital training had she seen her arch-enemy, the superintendent, so utterly disarmed of irascible temper and arrogant dignity, and the sight perplexed and maddened her at one and the same moment. "but i won't 's--sh--s--sh'!" desperately she jerked her curly blonde head in the direction of the clock on the wall. "here it's four o'clock now!" she cried. "and in less than four hours you're going to try and make me graduate--and go out into the world--god knows where--and charge innocent people twenty-five dollars a week and washing, likelier than not, mind you, for these hands," she gestured, "that don't co-ordinate at all with this face," she grimaced, "but with the face of one of the house doctors--or the senior surgeon--or even you--who may be way off in kamchatka--when i need him most!" she finished with a confused jumble of accusation and despair. still with unexplainable amiability the superintendent whirled back into place in her pivot-chair and with her left hand which had all this time been rummaging busily in a lower desk drawer proffered rae malgregor a small fold of paper. "here, my dear," she said. "here's a sedative for you. take it at once. it will quiet you perfectly. we all know you've had very hard luck this past month, but you mustn't worry so about the future." the slightest possible tinge of purely professional manner crept back into the older woman's voice. "certainly, miss malgregor, with your judgment--" "with my judgment?" cried rae malgregor. the phrase was like a red rag to her. "with my judgment? great heavens! that's the whole trouble! i haven't got any judgment! i've never been allowed to have any judgment! all i've ever been allowed to have is the judgment of some flirty young medical student--or the house doctor!--or the senior surgeon!--or you!" her eyes were fairly piteous with terror. "don't you see that my face doesn't know anything?" she faltered, "except just to smile and smile and smile and say 'yes, sir--no, sir--yes, sir'?" from curly blonde head to square-toed, commonsense shoes her little body began to quiver suddenly like the advent of a chill. "oh, what am i going to do," she begged, "when i'm way off alone--somewhere--in the mountains--or a tenement--or a palace--and something happens--and there isn't any judgment round to tell me what i ought to do?" abruptly in the doorway as though summoned by some purely casual flicker of the superintendent's thin fingers another nurse appeared. "yes, i rang," said the superintendent. "go and ask the senior surgeon if he can come to me here a moment, immediately." "the senior surgeon?" gasped rae malgregor. "the senior surgeon?" with her hands clutching at her throat she reeled back against the wall for support. like a shore bereft in one second of its tide, like a tree stripped in one second of its leafage, she stood there, utterly stricken of temper or passion or any animating human emotion whatsoever. "oh, now i'm going to be expelled! oh, now i know i'm going to be--expelled!" she moaned listlessly. very vaguely into the farthest radiation of her vision she sensed the approach of a man. gray-haired, gray-bearded, gray-suited, grayly dogmatic as a block of granite, the senior surgeon loomed up at last in the doorway. "i'm in a hurry," he growled. "what's the matter?" precipitously rae malgregor collapsed into the breach. "oh, there's--nothing at all the matter, sir," she stammered. "it's only--it's only that i've just decided that i don't want to be a trained nurse." with a gesture of ill-concealed impatience the superintendent shrugged the absurd speech aside. "dr. faber," she said, "won't you just please assure miss malgregor once more that the little italian boy's death last week was in no conceivable way her fault,--that nobody blames her in the slightest, or holds her in any possible way responsible." "why, what nonsense!" snapped the senior surgeon. "what--!" "and the portuguese woman the week before that," interrupted rae malgregor dully. "stuff and nonsense!" said the senior surgeon. "it's nothing but coincidence! pure coincidence! it might have happened to anybody!" "and she hasn't slept for almost a fortnight." the superintendent confided, "nor touched a drop of food or drink, as far as i can make out, except just black coffee. i've been expecting this break-down for some days." "and-the-young-drug-store-clerk-the-week-before-that," rae malgregor resumed with sing-song monotony. brusquely the senior surgeon stepped forward and taking the girl by her shoulders, jerked her sharply round to the light, and, with firm, authoritative fingers, rolled one of her eyelids deftly back from its inordinately dilated pupil. equally brusquely he turned away again. "nothing but moonshine!" he muttered. "nothing in the world but too much coffee dope taken on an empty stomach,--'empty brain,' i'd better have said! when will you girls ever learn any sense?" with searchlight shrewdness his eyes flashed back for an instant over the haggard gray lines that slashed along the corners of her quivering, childish mouth. a bit temperishly he began to put on his gloves. "next time you set out to have a 'brain-storm,' miss malgregor," he suggested satirically, "try to have it about something more sensible than imagining that anybody is trying to hold you personally responsible for the existence of death in the world. bah!" he ejaculated fiercely. "if you are going to fuss like this over cases hopelessly moribund from the start, what in thunder are you going to do some fine day when out of a perfectly clear and clean sky security itself turns septic and you lose the president of the united states--or a mother of nine children--with a hang-nail?" "but i wasn't fussing, sir!" protested rae malgregor with a timid sort of dignity. "why, it never had occurred to me for a moment that anybody blamed me for--anything!" just from sheer astonishment her hands took a new clutch into the torn flapping corner of the motto that she still clung desperately to even at this moment. "for heaven's sake stop crackling that brown paper!" stormed the senior surgeon. "but i wasn't crackling the brown paper, sir! it's crackling itself," persisted rae malgregor very softly. the great blue eyes that lifted to his were brimming full of misery. "oh, can't i make you understand, sir?" she stammered. appealingly she turned to the superintendent. "oh, can't i make anybody understand? all i was trying to say,--all i was trying to explain, was--that i _don't want to be a trained nurse--after all_!" "why not?" demanded the senior surgeon with a rather noisy click of his glove fasteners. "because--my--face--is--tired," said the girl quite simply. the explosive wrath on the senior surgeon's countenance seemed to be directed suddenly at the superintendent. "is this an afternoon tea?" he asked tartly. "with six major operations this morning and a probable meningitis diagnosis ahead of me this afternoon i think i might be spared the babblings of an hysterical nurse!" casually over his shoulder he nodded at the girl. "you're a fool!" he said, and started for the door. just on the threshold he turned abruptly and looked back. his forehead was furrowed like a corduroy road and the one rampant question in his mind at the moment seemed to be mired hopelessly between his bushy eyebrows. "lord!" he exclaimed a bit flounderingly. "are _you_ the nurse that helped me last week on that fractured skull?" "yes, sir," said rae malgregor. jerkily the senior surgeon retraced his footsteps into the office and stood facing her as though with some really terrible accusation. "and the freak abdominal?" he quizzed sharply. "was it _you_ who threaded that needle for me so blamed slowly--and calmly--and surely, while all the rest of us were jumping up and down and cursing you--for no brighter reason than that we couldn't have threaded it ourselves if we'd had all eternity before us and--all creation bleeding to death?" "y-e-s, sir," said rae malgregor. quite bluntly the senior surgeon reached out and lifted one of her hands to his scowling professional scrutiny. "gad!" he attested. "what a hand! you're a wonder! under proper direction you're a wonder! it was like myself working with twenty fingers and no thumbs! i never saw anything like it!" almost boyishly the embarrassed flush mounted to his cheeks as he jerked away again. "excuse me for not recognizing you," he apologized gruffly. "but you girls all look so much alike!" as though the eloquence of heaven itself had suddenly descended upon a person hitherto hopelessly tongue-tied, rae malgregor lifted an utterly transfigured face to the senior surgeon's grimly astonished gaze. "yes! yes, sir!" she cried joyously. "that's just exactly what the trouble is! that's just exactly what i was trying to express, sir! my face is all worn out trying to 'look alike'! my cheeks are almost sprung with artificial smiles! my eyes are fairly bulging with unshed tears! my nose aches like a toothache trying never to turn up at anything! i'm smothered with the discipline of it! i'm choked with the affectation! i tell you--i just can't breathe through a trained nurse's face any more! i tell you, sir, i'm sick to death of being nothing but a type. i want to look like _myself_! i want to see what life could do to a silly face like mine--if it ever got a chance! when other women are crying, i want the fun of crying! when other women look scared to death, i want the fun of looking scared to death!" hysterically again with shrewish emphasis she began to repeat: "i won't be a nurse! i tell you, i won't! i _won't_!" "pray what brought you so suddenly to this remarkable decision?" scoffed the senior surgeon. "a letter from my father, sir," she confided more quietly. "a letter about some dogs." "dogs?" hooted the senior surgeon. "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. a trifle speculatively for an instant she glanced at the superintendent's face and then back again to the senior surgeon's. "yes, sir," she repeated with increasing confidence. "up in nova scotia my father raises hunting-dogs. oh, no special fancy kind, sir," she hastened in all honesty to explain. "just dogs, you know,--just mixed dogs,--pointers with curly tails,--and shaggy-coated hounds,--and brindled spaniels, and all that sort of thing,--just mongrels, you know, but very clever; and people, sir, come all the way from boston to buy dogs of him, and once a man came way from london to learn the secret of his training." "well, what is the secret of his training?" quizzed the senior surgeon with the sudden eager interest of a sportsman. "i should think it would be pretty hard," he acknowledged, "in a mixed gang like that to decide just which particular dog was suited to what particular game!" "yes, that's just it, sir," beamed the white linen nurse. "a dog, of course, will chase anything that runs,--that's just dog,--but when a dog really begins to _care_ for what he's chasing he--wags! that's hunting! father doesn't calculate, he says, on training a dog on anything he doesn't wag on!" "yes, but what's that got to do with you?" asked the senior surgeon a bit impatiently. with ill-concealed dismay the white linen nurse stood staring blankly at the senior surgeon's gross stupidity. "why, don't you see?" she faltered. "i've been chasing this nursing job three whole years now--and there's no wag to it!" "oh hell!" said the senior surgeon. if he hadn't said "oh hell!" he would have grinned. and it hadn't been a grinning day, and he certainly didn't intend to begin grinning at any such late hour as that in the afternoon. with his dignity once reassured he relaxed then a trifle. "for heaven's sake, what _do_ you want to be?" he asked not unkindly. with an abrupt effort at self-control rae malgregor jerked her head into at least the outer semblance of a person lost in almost fathomless thought. "why i'm sure i don't know, sir," she acknowledged worriedly. "but it would be a great pity, i suppose, to waste all the grand training that's gone into my hands." with sudden conviction her limp shoulders stiffened a trifle. "my oldest sister," she stammered, "bosses the laundry in one of the big hotels in halifax, and my youngest sister teaches school in moncton. but i'm so strong, you know, and i like to move things round so,--and everything,--maybe--i could get a position somewhere as general housework girl." with a roar of amusement as astonishing to himself as to his listeners, the senior surgeon's chin jerked suddenly upward. "you're crazy as a loon!" he confided cordially. "great scott! if you can work up a condition like this on coffee,--what would you do on," he hesitated grimly, "malted milk?" as unheralded as his amusement, gross irritability overtook him again. "will--you--stop--rattling that brown paper?" he thundered at her. innocently as a child she rebuffed the accusation and ignored the temper. "but i'm not rattling it, sir!" she protested. "i'm simply trying to hide what's on the other side of it." "what is on the other side of it?" demanded the senior surgeon bluntly. with unquestioning docility the girl turned the paper around. from behind her desk the austere superintendent twisted her neck most informally to decipher the scrawling hieroglyphics. "_don't--ever--be_--_bumptious_!" she read forth jerkily with a questioning, incredulous sort of emphasis. "don't ever be bumptious?" squinted the senior surgeon perplexedly through his glasses. "yes," said rae malgregor very timidly. "it's my--motto." "your motto?" sniffed the superintendent. "your motto?" chuckled the senior surgeon. "yes, my motto," repeated rae malgregor with the slightest perceptible tinge of resentment. "and it's a perfectly good motto, too! only, of course, it hasn't got any style to it. that's why i didn't want the girls to see it," she confided a bit drearily. then palpably before their eyes they saw her spirit leap into ineffable pride. "my father gave it to me," she announced briskly. "and my father said that, when i came home in june, if i could honestly say that i'd never once been bumptious--all my three years here,--he'd give me a--heifer! and--" "well i guess you've lost your heifer!" said the senior surgeon bluntly. "lost my heifer?" gasped the girl. big-eyed and incredulous she stood for an instant staring back and forth from the superintendent's face to the senior surgeon's. "you mean?" she stammered, "you mean--that i've--been--bumptious--just now? you mean--that after all these years of--meachin' meekness--i've lost--?" plainly even to the senior surgeon and the superintendent the bones in her knees weakened suddenly like knots of tissue paper. no power on earth could have made her break discipline by taking a chair while the senior surgeon stood, so she sank limply down to the floor instead, with two great solemn tears welling slowly through the fingers with which she tried vainly to cover her face. "and the heifer was brown, with one white ear; it was awful cunning," she confided mumblingly. "and it ate from my hand--all warm and sticky, like--loving sandpaper." there was no protest in her voice, nor any whine of complaint, but merely the abject submission to fate of one who from earliest infancy had seen other crops blighted by other frosts. then tremulously with the air of one who, just as a matter of spiritual tidiness, would purge her soul of all sad secrets, she lifted her entrancing, tear-flushed face from her strong, sturdy, utterly unemotional fingers and stared with amazing blueness, amazing blandness into the senior surgeon's scowling scrutiny. "and i'd named her--for you!" she said. "i'd named her--patience--for you!" instantly then she scrambled to her knees to try and assuage by some miraculous apology the horrible shock which she read in the senior surgeon's face. "oh, of course, sir, i know it isn't scientific!" she pleaded desperately. "oh, of course, sir, i know it isn't scientific at all! but up where i live, you know, instead of praying for anybody, we--we name a young animal--for the virtue that that person--seems to need the most. and if you tend the young animal carefully--and train it right--! why--it's just a superstition, of course, but--oh, sir!" she floundered hopelessly, "the virtue you needed most in your business was what i meant! oh, really, sir, i never thought of criticizing your character!" gruffly the senior surgeon laughed. embarrassment was in the laugh, and anger, and a fierce, fiery sort of resentment against both the embarrassment and the anger,--but no possible trace of amusement. impatiently he glanced up at the fast speeding clock. "good lord!" he exclaimed, "i'm an hour late now!" scowling like a pirate he clicked the cover of his watch open and shut for an uncertain instant. then suddenly he laughed again, and there was nothing whatsoever in his laugh this time except just amusement. "see here, miss--bossy tamer," he said. "if the superintendent is willing, go get your hat and coat, and i'll take you out on that meningitis case with me. it's a thirty mile run if it's a block, and i guess if you sit on the front seat it will blow the cobwebs out of your brain--if anything will," he finished not unkindly. like a white hen sensing the approach of some utterly unseen danger the superintendent seemed to bristle suddenly in every direction. "it's a bit--irregular," she protested in her most even tone. "bah! so are some of the most useful of the french verbs!" snapped the senior surgeon. in the midst of authority his voice could be inestimably soft and reassuring, but sometimes on the brink of asserting said authority he had a tone that was distinctly unpleasant. "oh, very well," conceded the superintendent with some waspishness. hazily for an instant rae malgregor stood staring into the superintendent's uncordial face. "i'd--i'd apologize," she faltered, "but i--don't even know what i said. it just blew up!" perfectly coldly and perfectly civilly the superintendent received the overture. "it was quite evident, miss malgregor, that you were not altogether responsible at the moment," she conceded in common justice. heavily then, like a person walking in her sleep the girl trailed out of the room to get her coat and hat. slamming one desk-drawer after another the superintendent drowned the sluggish sound of her retreating footsteps. "there goes my best nurse!" she said grimly. "my very best nurse! oh no, not the most brilliant one, i didn't mean that, but the most reliable! the most nearly perfect human machine that it has ever been my privilege to see turned out,--the one girl that week in, week out, month after month, and year after year, has always done what she's told,--when she was told,--and the exact way she was told,--without questioning anything, without protesting anything, without supplementing anything with some disastrous original conviction of her own--_and look at her now_!" tragically the superintendent rubbed her hand across her worried brow. "coffee, you said it was?" she asked skeptically. "are there any special antidotes for coffee?" with a queer little quirk to his mouth the gruff senior surgeon jerked his glance back from the open window where with the gleam of a slim torn-boyish ankle the frisky young spring went scurrying through the tree-tops. "what's that you asked?" he quizzed sharply. "any antidotes for coffee? yes. dozens of them. but none for spring." "spring?" sniffed the superintendent. a little shiveringly she reached out and gathered a white knitted shawl around her shoulders. "spring? i don't see what spring's got to do with rae malgregor or any other young outlaw in my graduating class. if graduation came in november it would be just the same! they're a set of ingrates, every one of them!" vehemently she turned aside to her card-index of names and slapped the cards through one by one without finding one single soothing exception. "yes, sir, a set of ingrates!" she repeated accusingly. "spend your life trying to teach them what to do and how to do it! cram ideas into those that haven't got any, and yank ideas out of those who have got too many! refine them, toughen them, scold them, coax them, everlastingly drill and discipline them! and then, just as you get them to a place where they move like clock-work, and you actually believe you can trust them, then graduation day comes round, and they think they're all safe,--and every single individual member of the class breaks out and runs a-muck with the one dare-devil deed she's been itching to do every day the past three years! why this very morning i caught the president of the senior class with a breakfast tray in her hands--stealing the cherry out of her patient's grape fruit. and three of the girls reported for duty as bold as brass with their hair frizzed tight as a nigger doll's. and the girl who's going into a convent next week was trying on the laundryman's derby hat as i came up from lunch. and now, now--" the superintendent's voice went suddenly a little hoarse, "and now--here's miss malgregor--intriguing--to get an automobile ride with--_you!_" "eh?" cried the senior surgeon with a jump. "what? is this an insane asylum? is it a nervine?" madly he started for the door. "order a ton of bromides!" he called back over his shoulder. "order a car-load of them! saturate the whole place with them! drown the whole damned place!" half way down the lower hall, all his nerves on edge, all his unwonted boyish impulsiveness quenched noxiously like a candle flame, he met and passed rae malgregor without a sign of recognition. "god! how i hate women!" he kept mumbling to himself as he struggled clumsily all alone into the torn sleeve lining of his thousand dollar mink coat. chapter iv like a train-traveler coming out of a long, smoky, smothery tunnel into the clean-tasting light, the white linen nurse came out of the prudish-smelling hospital into the riotous mud-and-posie promise of the young april afternoon. the god of hysteria had certainly not deserted her! in all the full effervescent reaction of her brain-storm,--fairly bubbling with dimples, fairly foaming with curls,--light-footed, light-hearted, most ecstatically light-headed, she tripped down into the sunshine as though the great, harsh, granite steps that marked her descent were nothing more nor less than a gigantic, old, horny-fingered hand passing her blithely out to some deliciously unknown lilliputian adventure. as she pranced across the soggy april sidewalk to what she supposed was the senior surgeon's perfectly empty automobile she became conscious suddenly that the rear seat of the car was already occupied. out from an unseasonable snuggle of sable furs and flaming red hair a small, peevish face peered forth at her with frank curiosity. "why, hello!" beamed the white linen nurse. "who are you?" with unmistakable hostility the haughty little face retreated into its furs and its red hair. "hush!" commanded a shrill childish voice. "hush, i say! i'm a cripple--and very bad-tempered. don't speak to me!" "oh, my glory!" gasped the white linen nurse. "oh my glory, glory, glory!" without any warning whatsoever she felt suddenly like nothing-at-all, rigged out in an exceedingly shabby old ulster and an excessively homely black slouch hat. in a desperate attempt at tangible tom-boyish nonchalance she tossed her head and thrust her hands down deep into her big ulster pockets. that the bleak hat reflected no decent featherish consciousness of being tossed, that the big threadbare pockets had no bottoms to them, merely completed her startled sense of having been in some way blotted right out of existence. behind her back the senior surgeon's huge fur-coated approach dawned blissfully like the thud of a rescue party. but if the senior surgeon's blunt, wholesome invitation to ride had been perfectly sweet when he prescribed it for her in the superintendent's office, the invitation had certainly soured most amazingly in the succeeding ten minutes. abruptly now, without any greeting, he reached out and opened the rear door of the car, and nodded curtly for her to enter there. instantly across the face of the little crippled girl already ensconced in the tonneau a single flash of light went zig-zagging crookedly from brow to chin,--and was gone again. "hello, fat father!" piped the shrill little voice. "hello,--fat father!" yet so subtly was the phrase mouthed, to save your soul you could not have proved just where the greeting ended and the taunt began. there was nothing subtle however about the way in which the senior surgeon's hand shot out and slammed the tonneau door bang-bang again on its original passenger. his face was crimson with anger. brusquely he pointed to the front seat. "you may sit in there, with me, miss malgregor!" he thundered. "yes, sir," crooned the white linen nurse. meek as an oiled machine she scuttled to her appointed place. once more in smothered giggle and unprotesting acquiescence she sensed the resumption of eternal discipline. already in just this trice of time she felt her rampant young mouth resettle tamely into lines of smug, determinate serenity. already across her idle lap she felt her clasped fingers begin to frost and tingle again like a cheerfully non-concerned bunch of live wires waiting the one authoritative signal to connect somebody,--anybody,--with this world or the next. already the facile tip of her tongue seemed fairly loaded and cocked like a revolver with all the approximate "yes, sirs," "no, sirs," that she thought she should probably need. but the only immediate remarks that the senior surgeon addressed to any one were addressed distinctly to the crank of his automobile. "damn having a chauffeur who gets drunk the one day of the year when you need him most!" he muttered under his breath, as with the same exquisitely sensitive fingers that could have dissected like a caress the nervous system of a humming bird, or re-set unbruisingly the broken wing of a butterfly, he hurled his hundred and eighty pounds of infuriate brute-strength against the calm, chronic, mechanical stubbornness of that auto crank. "damn!" he swore on the upward pull. "damn!" he gasped on the downward push. "damn!" he cursed and sputtered and spluttered. purple with effort, bulging-eyed with strain, reeking with sweat, his frenzied outburst would have terrorized the entire hospital staff. with an odd little twinge of homesickness, the white linen nurse slid cautiously out to the edge of her seat so that she might watch the struggle better. for thus, with dripping foreheads and knotted neck-muscles and breaking backs and rankly tempestuous language, did the untutored men-folk of her own beloved home-land hurl their great strength against bulls and boulders and refractory forest trees. very startlingly as she watched, a brand new thought went zig-zagging through her consciousness. was it possible,--was it even so much as remotely possible--that the great senior surgeon,--the great, wonderful, altogether formidable, altogether unapproachable senior surgeon,--was just a--was just a--? stripped ruthlessly of all his social superiority,--of all his professional halo,--of all his scientific achievement, the senior surgeon stood suddenly forth before her--a mere man--just like other men! _just exactly_ like other men? like the sick drug-clerk? like the new-born millionaire baby? like the doddering old dutch gaffer? the very delicacy of such a thought drove the blood panic-stricken from her face. it was the indelicacy of the thought that brought the blood surging back again to brow, to cheeks, to lips, even to the tips of her ears. glancing up casually from the roar and rumble of his abruptly repentant engine the senior surgeon swore once more under his breath to think that any female sitting perfectly idle and non-concerned in a seven thousand dollar car should have the nerve to flaunt such a furiously strenuous color. bristling with resentment and mink furs he strode around the fender and stumbled with increasing irritation across the white linen nurse's knees to his seat. just for an instant his famous fingers seemed to flash with apparent inconsequence towards one bit of mechanism and another. then like a huge, portentous pill floated on smoothest syrup the car slid down the yawning street into the congested city. altogether monotonously in terms of pain and dirt and drug and disease the city wafted itself in and out of the white linen nurse's well-grooved consciousness. from every filthy street corner sodden age or starved babyhood reached out its fluttering pulse to her. then, suddenly sweet as a draught through a fever-tainted room, the squalid city freshened into jocund, luxuriant suburbs with rollicking tennis courts, and flaming yellow forsythia blossoms, and green velvet lawns prematurely posied with pale exotic hyacinths and great scarlet splotches of lusty tulips. beyond this hectic horticultural outburst the leisurely spring faded out again into april's naturally sallow colors. glossy and black as an endless typewriter ribbon, the narrow, tense state road seemed to wind itself everlastingly in--and in--and in--on some hidden spool of the car's mysterious mechanism. clickety-click-click-clack,--faster than any human mind could think,--faster than any human hand could finger,--hurtling up hazardous hills of thought,--sliding down facile valleys of fancy,--roaring with emphasis,--shrieking with punctuation,--the great car yielded itself perforce to fate's dictation. robbed successively of the city's humanitarian pang, of the suburb's esthetic pleasure, the white linen nurse found herself precipitated suddenly into a mere blur of sight, a mere chaos of sound. in whizzing speed and crashing breeze,--houses--fences--meadows--people--slapped across her eyeballs like pictures on a fan. on and on and on through kaleidoscopic yellows and rushing grays the great car sped, a purely mechanical factor in a purely mechanical landscape. rigid with concentration the senior surgeon stared like a dead man into the intrepid, on-coming road. intermittently from her green, plushy laprobes the little crippled girl struggled to her feet, and sprawling clumsily across whose-ever shoulder suited her best, raised a brazenly innocent voice, deliberately flatted, in a shrill and maddeningly repetitive chant of her own making, to the effect that all the birds were there with yellow feathers instead of hair, and bumble bees crocheted in the trees-- and bumble bees crocheted in the trees-- and all the birds were there-- and--and-- intermittently from the front seat the senior surgeon's wooden face relaxed to the extent of a grim mouth twisting distractedly sideways in one furious bellow. "will--you--stop--your--_noise_--and--go--back--to--your--seat!" nothing else happened at all until at last, out of unbroken stretches of winter-staled stubble, a high, formal hemlock hedge and a neat, pebbled driveway proclaimed the senior surgeon's ultimate destination. cautiously now, with an almost tender skill, the big car circled a tiny, venturesome clump of highway violets and crept through a prancing, leaping fluff of yellow collie dogs to the door of the big stone house. instantly from inestimable resources a liveried serving man appeared to help the surgeon from his car; another, to take the surgeon's coat; another, to carry his bag. lingering for an instant to stretch his muscles and shake his great shoulders, the senior surgeon breathed into his cramped lungs a friendly impulse as well as a scent of budding cherry trees. "you may come in with me, if you want to, miss malgregor." he conceded. "it's an extraordinary case. you will hardly see another one like it." palpably he lowered his already almost indistinguishable voice. "the boy is young," he confided, "about your age, i should guess, a college foot-ball hero, the most superbly perfect specimen of young manhood it has ever been my privilege to behold. it will be a long case. they have two nurses already, but would like another. the work ought not to be hard. now if they should happen to--fancy you!" in speechless expressiveness his eyes swept estimatingly over sun-parlors, stables, garages, italian gardens, rapturous blue-shadowed mountain views--every last intimate detail of the mansion's wonderful equipment. like a drowning man feeling his last floating spar wrenched away from him, the white linen nurse dug her finger-nails frantically into every reachable wrinkle and crevice of the heavily upholstered seat. "oh, but sir, i don't want to go in!" she protested passionately. "i tell you, sir, i'm quite done with all that sort of thing! it would break my heart! it would! oh, sir, this worrying about people for whom you've got no affection,--it's like sledding without any snow! it grits right down on your naked nerves. it--" before the senior surgeon's glowering, incredulous stare her heart began to plunge and pound again, but it plunged and pounded no harder, she realized suddenly, than when in the calm, white hospital precincts she was obliged to pass his terrifying presence in the corridor and murmur an inaudible "good morning" or "good evening." "after all, he's nothing but a man--nothing but a man--nothing but a mere--ordinary--two-legged man," she reasoned over and over to herself. with a really desperate effort she smoothed her frightened face into an expression of utter guilelessness and peace and smiled unflinchingly right into the senior surgeon's rousing anger as she had once seen an animal-trainer smile into the snarl of a crouching tiger. "th--ank you very much!" she said. "but i think i won't go in, sir,--thank you! my--my face is still pretty tired!" "idiot!" snapped the senior surgeon as he turned on his heel and started up the steps. from the green plushy robes on the back seat the white linen nurse could have sworn that she heard a sharply ejaculated, maliciously joyful "ha!" piped out. but when both she and the senior surgeon turned sharply round to make sure, the little crippled girl, in apparently complete absorption, sat amiably extracting tuft after tuft of fur from the thumb of one big sable glove, to the rumbling, sing-song monotone of "he loves me--loves me not--loves me--loves me not." bristling with unutterable contempt for all femininity, the senior surgeon proceeded up the steps between two solemn-faced lackeys. "father!" wailed a feeble little voice. "father!" there was no shrillness in the tone now, nor malice, nor any mischievous thing,--just desolation, the impulsive, panic-stricken desolation of a little child left suddenly alone with a stranger. "father!" the frightened voice ventured forth a tiny bit louder. but the unheeding senior surgeon had already reached the piazza. "fat father!" screamed the little voice. barbed now like a shark-hook the phrase ripped through the senior surgeon's dormant sensibilities. as one fairly yanked out of his thoughts he whirled around in his tracks. "what do you want?" he thundered. helplessly the little girl sat staring from a lackey's ill-concealed grin to her father's smoldering fury. quite palpably she began to swallow with considerable difficulty. then quick as a flash a diminutively crafty smile crooked across one corner of her mouth. "father?" she improvised dulcetly. "father? may--may i--sit--in the white linen nurse's lap?" just for an instant the senior surgeon's narrowing eyes probed mercilessly into the reekingly false little smile. then altogether brutally he shrugged his shoulders. "i don't care where in blazes you sit!" he muttered, and went on into the house. with an air of unalterable finality the massive oak door closed after him. in the resonant click of its latch the great wrought-iron lock seemed to smack its lips with ineffable satisfaction. wringing suddenly round with a whish of starched skirts the white linen nurse knelt up in her seat and grinned at the little crippled girl. "'ha'--yourself!" she said. against all possible expectancy the little crippled girl burst out laughing. the laugh was wild, ecstatic, extravagantly boisterous, yet awkward withal, and indescribably bumpy, like the first flight of a cage-cramped bird. quite abruptly the white linen nurse sat down again, and commenced nervously with the wrist of her chamois glove to polish the slightly tarnished brass lamp at her elbow. equally abruptly after a minute she stopped polishing and looked back at the little crippled girl. "would--you--like--to sit in my lap?" she queried conscientiously. insolent with astonishment the little girl parried the question. "why in blazes--should i want to sit in your lap?" she quizzed harshly. every accent of her voice, every remotest intonation, was like the senior surgeon's at his worst. the suddenly forked eyebrow, the snarling twitch of the upper lip, turned the whole delicate little face into a grotesque but desperately unconscious caricature of the grim-jawed father. as though the father himself had snubbed her for some unimaginable familiarity the white linen nurse winced back in hopeless confusion. just for sheer shock, short-circuited with fatigue, a big tear rolled slowly down one pink cheek. instantly to the edge of her seat the little girl jerked herself forward. "don't cry, pretty!" she whispered. "don't cry! it's my legs. i've got fat iron braces on my legs. and people don't like to hold me!" half the professional smile came flashing back to the white linen nurse's mouth. "oh, i just adore holding people with iron braces on their legs," she affirmed, and, leaning over the back of the seat, proceeded with absolutely perfect mechanical tenderness to gather the poor, puny, surprised little body into her own strong, shapely arms. then dutifully snuggling her shoulder to meet the stubborn little shoulder that refused to snuggle, to it, and dutifully easing her knees to suit the stubborn little knees that refused to be eased, she settled down resignedly in her seat again to await the return of the senior surgeon. "there! there! there!" she began quite instinctively to croon and pat. "don't say 'there! there!'" wailed the little girl peevishly. her body was suddenly stiff as a ram-rod. "don't say 'there! there!' if you've got to make any noise at all, say 'here! here!'" "here! here!" droned the white linen nurse. "here! here! here! here!" on and on and interminably on, "here! here! here! here!" at the end of about the three-hundred-and-forty-seventh "here!" the little girl's body relaxed, and she reached up two fragile fingers to close the white linen nurse's mouth. "there! that will do," she sighed contentedly. "i feel better now. father does tire me so." "father tires--_you_?" gasped the white linen nurse. the giggle that followed the gasp was not in the remotest degree professional. "father tires _you_?" she repeated accusingly. "why, you silly little girl! can't you see it's you that makes father so everlastingly tired?" impulsively with her one free hand she turned the little girl's listless face to the light. "what makes you call your nice father 'fat father'?" she asked with real curiosity. "what makes you? he isn't fat at all. he's just big. why, what ever possesses you to call him 'fat father,' i say? can't you see how mad it makes him?" "why, of course it made him mad!" said the little girl with plainly reviving interest. thrilled with astonishment at the white linen nurse's apparent stupidity she straightened up perkily with inordinately sparkling eyes. "why, of course it makes him mad!" she explained briskly. "that's why i do it! why, my parpa--never even looks at me--unless i make him mad!" "s--sh!" said the white linen nurse. "why, you mustn't ever say a thing like that! why, your marma wouldn't like you to say a thing like that!" jerking bumpily back against the white linen nurse's unprepared shoulder the little girl prodded a pallid finger-tip into the white linen nurse's vivid cheek. "silly--pink and white--nursie!" she chuckled, "don't you know there _isn't_ any marma?" cackling with delight over her own superior knowledge she folded her little arms and began to rock herself convulsively to and fro. "why, stop!" cried the white linen nurse. "now you stop! why, you wicked little creature laughing like that about your poor dead mother! why, just think how bad it would make your poor parpa feel!" with instant sobriety the little girl stopped rocking, and stared perplexedly into the white linen nurse's shocked eyes. her own little face was all wrinkled up with earnestness. "but the parpa--didn't like the marma!" she explained painstakingly. "the parpa--_never_ liked the marma! that's why he doesn't like me! i heard cook telling the ice man once when i wasn't more than ten minutes old!" desperately with one straining hand the white linen nurse stretched her fingers across the little girl's babbling mouth. equally desperately, with the other hand, she sought to divert the little girl's mind by pushing the fur cap back from her frizzly red hair, and loosening her sumptuous coat, and jerking down vainly across two painfully obtrusive white ruffles, the awkwardly short, hideously bright little purple dress. "i think your cap is too hot," she began casually, and then proceeded with increasing vivacity and conviction to the objects that worried her most. "and those--those ruffles," she protested, "they don't look a bit nice being so long!" resentfully she rubbed an edge of the purple dress between her fingers. "and a little girl like you,--with such bright red hair,--oughtn't to wear--purple!" she admonished with real concern. "now whites and blues--and little soft pussy-cat grays--" mumblingly through her finger-muzzled mouth the little girl burst into explanations again. "oh, but when i wear gray," she persisted, "the parpa--never sees me! but when i wear purple he cares,--he cares--most awfully!" she boasted with a bitter sort of triumph. "why when i wear purple and frizz my hair hard enough,--no matter who's there, or anything,--he'll stop right off short in the middle of whatever he's doing--and rear right up so perfectly beautiful and mad and glorious--and holler right out 'for heaven's sake, take that colored sunday supplement away!'" "your father's nervous," suggested the white linen nurse. almost tenderly the little girl reached up and drew the white linen nurse's ear close down to her own snuggling lips. "damned nervous!" she confided laconically. quite against all intention the white linen nurse giggled. floundering to recover her dignity she plunged into a new error. "poor little dev--," she began. "yes," sighed the little girl complacently. "that's just what the parpa calls me." fervidly she clasped her little hands together. "yes, if i can only make him mad enough daytimes," she asserted, "then at night when he thinks i'm all asleep he comes and stands by my cribby-house like a great black shadow-bear and shakes and shakes his most beautiful head and says, 'poor little devil--poor little devil.' oh, if i can only make him mad enough daytimes!" she cried out ecstatically. "why, you naughty little thing!" scolded the white linen nurse with an unmistakable catch in her voice. "why, you--naughty--naughty--little thing!" like the brush of a butterfly's wing the child's hand grazed the white linen nurse's cheek. "i'm a lonely little thing," she confided wistfully. "oh, i'm an awfully lonely little thing!" with really shocking abruptness the old malicious smile came twittering back to her mouth. "but i'll get even with the parpa yet!" she threatened joyously, reaching out with pliant fingers to count the buttons on the white linen nurse's dress. "oh, i'll get even with the parpa yet!" in the midst of the passionate assertion her rigid little mouth relaxed in a most mild and innocent yawn. "oh, of course," she yawned, "on wash days and ironing days and every other work day in the week he has to be away cutting up people 'cause that's his lawful business. but sundays, when he doesn't really need to at all, he goes off to some kind of a green, grassy club--all day long--and plays golf." very palpably her eyelids began to droop. "where was i?" she asked sharply. "oh, yes, 'the green, grassy club.' well, when i die," she faltered, "i'm going to die specially on some sunday when there's a big golf game,--so he'll just naturally have to give it up and stay home and--amuse me--and help arrange the flowers. the parpa's crazy about flowers. so am i," she added broodingly. "i raised almost a geranium once. but the parpa threw it out. it was a good geranium, too. all it did was just to drip the tiniest-teeniest bit over a book and a writing and somebody's brains in a dish. he threw it at a cat. it was a good cat, too. all it did was to--" a little jerkily her drooping head bobbed forward and then back again. her heavy eyes were almost tight shut by this time, and after a moment's silence her lips began moving dumbly like one at silent devotions. "i'm making a little poem, now," she confided at last. "it's about--you and me. it's a sort of a little prayer." very, very softly she began to repeat. now i sit me down to nap all curled up in a nursie's lap, if _she_ should die before i wake-- abruptly she stopped and stared up suspiciously into the white linen nurse's eyes. "ha!" she mocked, "you thought i was going to say 'if i should die before i wake,'--didn't you? _well, i'm not_!" "it would have been more generous," acknowledged the white linen nurse. very stiffly the little girl pursed her lips. "it's plenty generous enough--when it's all done!" she said severely. "and i'll thank you,--miss malgregor,--not to interrupt me again!" with excessive deliberateness she went back to the first line of her poem and began all over again, now i sit me down to nap, all curled up in a nursie's lap, if _she_ should die before i wake, give her--give her ten cents--for jesus' sake! "why that's a--a cunning little prayer," yawned the white linen nurse. most certainly of course she would have smiled if the yawn hadn't caught her first. but now in the middle of the yawn it was a great deal easier to repeat the "very cunning" than to force her lips into any new expression. "very cunning--very cunning," she kept crooning conscientiously. modestly like some other successful authors the little girl flapped her eyelids languidly open and shut for three or four times before she acknowledged the compliment. "oh, cunning as any of 'em," she admitted off-handishly. only once again did she open either mouth or eyes, and this time it was merely one eye and half a mouth. "do my fat iron braces--hurt you?" she mumbled drowsily. "yes, a little," conceded the white linen nurse. "ha! they hurt me--all the time!" gibed the little girl. five minutes later, the child who didn't particularly care about being held, and the girl who didn't particularly care about holding her, were fast asleep in each other's arms,--a naughty, nagging, restive little hornet all hushed up and a-dream in the heart of a pink wild-rose! stalking out of the house in his own due time the senior surgeon reared back aghast at the sight. "well--i'll be hanged!" he muttered. "most everlastingly hanged! wonder what they think this is? a somnolent kindergarten show? talk about fiddling while rome burns!" awkwardly, on the top step, he struggled alone into his cumbersome coat. every tingling nerve in his body, every shuddering sensibility, was racked to its utmost capacity over the distressing scenes he had left behind him in the big house. back in that luxuriant sickroom, youth incarnate lay stripped, root, branch, leaf, bud, blossom, fruit, of all its manhood's promise. back in that erudite library, culture personified, robbed of all its fine philosophy, sat babbling illiterate street-curses into its quivering hands. back in that exquisite pink and gold boudoir, blonded fashion, ravished for once of all its artistry, ran stumbling round and round in interminable circles like a disheveled hag. in shrill crescendos and discordant basses, with heartpiercing jaggedness, with blood-curdling raspishness, each one, boy, father, mother, meddlesome relative, competent or incompetent assistant, indiscriminate servant, filing his separate sorrow into the senior surgeon's tortured ears! with one of those sudden revulsions to materialism which is liable to overwhelm any man who delves too long at a time in the brutally unconventional issues of life and death, the senior surgeon stepped down into the subtle, hyacinth-scented sunshine with every latent human greed in his body clamoring for expression--before it, too, should be hurtled into oblivion. "eat, you fool, and drink, you fool, and be merry,--you fool,--for to-morrow--_even you,--lendicott r. faber--may have to die_!" brawled and re-brawled through his mind like a ribald phonograph tune. at the edge of the bottom step a precipitous lilac branch that must have budded and bloomed in a single hour smote him stingingly across his cheek. "laggard!" taunted the lilac branch. with the first crunching grit of gravel under his feet, something transcendently naked and unashamed that was neither brazen sorrow nor brazen pain thrilled across his startled consciousness. over the rolling, marshy meadow, beyond the succulent willow-hedge that hid the winding river, up from some fluent, slim canoe, out from a chorus of virile young tenor voices, a little passionate love song--divinely tender--most incomparably innocent--came stealing palpitantly forth into that inflammable spring world without a single vestige of accompaniment on it! kiss me, sweet, the spring is here, and love is lord of you and me, there's no bird in brake or brere, but to his little mate sings he, "kiss me, sweet, the spring is here and love is lord of you--and me!" wrenched like a sob out of his own lost youth the senior surgeon's faltering college memories took up the old refrain. as i go singing, to my dear, "kiss me, sweet, the spring is here, and love is lord of you and me!" just for an instant a dozen long-forgotten pictures lanced themselves poignantly into his brain,--dingy, uncontrovertible old recitation rooms where young ideas flashed bright and futile as parade swords,--elm-shaded slopes where lithe young bodies lolled on green velvet grasses to expound their harshest cynicisms! book-history, book-science, book-economics, book-love,--all the paper passion of all the paper poets swaggering imperiously on boyish lips that would have died a thousand bashful deaths before the threatening imminence of a real girl's kiss! magic days, with youth the one glittering, positive treasure on the tree of life--and woman still a mystery! "woman a mystery?" harshly the phrase ripped through the senior surgeon's brain. croakingly in that instant all the grim gray scientific years re-overtook him, swamped him, strangled him. "woman a _mystery_? oh ye gods! and youth? bah! youth,--a mere tinsel tinkle on a rotting christmas tree!" furiously with renewed venom he turned and threw his weight again upon the stubbornly resistant crank of his automobile. vaguely disturbed by the noise and vibration the white linen nurse opened her big, drowsy, blue eyes upon him. "don't--jerk--it--so!" she admonished hazily, "you'll wake the little girl!" "well, what about my convenience, i'd like to know?" snapped the senior surgeon in some astonishment. heavily the white linen nurse's lashes shadowed down again across her sleep-flushed cheeks. "oh, never mind--about--that," she mumbled non-concernedly. "oh, for heaven's sake--wake up there!" bellowed the senior surgeon above the sudden roar of his engine. adroitly for a man of his bulk he ran around the radiator and jumped into his seat. joggled unmercifully into wakefulness, the little girl greeted his return with a generous if distinctly non-tactful demonstration of affection. grabbing the unwitting fingers of his momentarily free hand she tapped them proudly against the white linen nurse's plump pink cheek. "see! i call her 'peach'!" she boasted joyously with all the triumphant air of one who felt assured that mental discrimination such as this could not possibly fail to impress even a person so naturally obtuse as--a father. "don't be foolish!" snarled the senior surgeon. "who? me?" gasped the white linen nurse in a perfect agony of confusion. "yes! you!" snapped the senior surgeon explosively half an hour later after interminable miles of absolute silence--and dingy yellow field-stubble--and bare brown alder bushes. truly out of the ascetic habit of his daily life, "where no rain was," as the bible would put it, it did seem to him distinctly foolish, not to say careless, not to say out and out incendiary, for any girl to go blushing her way like a fire-brand through a world so palpably populated by young men whose heads were tow, and hearts indisputably tinder, rather than tender. "yes! you!" he reasserted vehemently at the end of another silent mile. then plainly begrudging this second inexcusable interruption of his most vital musings concerning spinal meningitis he scowled his way savagely back again into his own grimly established trend of thought. excited by so much perfectly good silence that nobody seemed to be using the little crippled girl ventured gallantly forth once more into the hazardous conversational land of grown-ups. "father?" she experimented cautiously with most commendable discretion. fathoms deep in abstraction the senior surgeon stared unheeding into the whizzing black road. pulses and temperatures and blood-pressures were seething in his mind; and sharp sticks and jagged stones and the general possibilities of a puncture; and murmurs of the heart and râles of the lungs; and a most unaccountable knock-knock-knocking in the engine; and the probable relation of middle-ear disease; and the perfectly positive symptoms of optic neuritis; and a damned funny squeak in the steering gear! "father?" the little girl persisted valiantly. to add to his original concentration the senior surgeon's linen collar began to chafe him maddeningly under his chin. the annoyance added two scowls to his already blackly furrowed face, and at least ten miles an hour to his running time; but nothing whatsoever to his conversational ability. "father!" the little girl whimpered with faltering courage. then panic-stricken, as wiser people have been before her, over the dreadful spookish remoteness of a perfectly normal human being who refuses either to answer or even to notice your wildest efforts at communication, she raised her waspish voice in its shrillest, harshest war-cry. "fat father! _fat father! f-a-t f-a-t-h-e-r!_" she screeched out frenziedly at the top of her lungs. the gun-shot agony of a wounded rabbit was in the cry, the last gurgling gasp of strangulation under a murderer's reeking fingers,--catastrophe unspeakable,--disaster now irrevocable! clamping down his brakes with a wrench that almost tore the insides out of his engine the senior surgeon brought the great car to a staggering standstill. "what is it?" he cried in real terror. "what is it?" limply the little girl stretched down from the white linen nurse's lap till she could nick her toe against the shiniest woodwork in sight. altogether aimlessly her small chin began to burrow deeper and deeper into her big fur collar. "for heaven's sake, what do you want?" demanded the senior surgeon. even yet along his spine the little nerves crinkled with shock and apprehension. "for heaven's sake what do you want?" helplessly the child lifted her turbid eyes to his. with unmistakable appeal her tiny hand went clutching out at one of the big buttons on his coat. desperately for an instant she rummaged through her brain for some remotely adequate answer to this most thunderous question,--and then retreated precipitously as usual to the sacristy of her own imagination. "all the birds _were_ there, father!" she confided guilelessly. "all the birds _were_ there,--with yellow feathers instead of hair! and bumblebees--crocheted in the trees. and--" short of complete annihilation there was no satisfying vengeance whatsoever that the senior surgeon's exploding passion could wreak upon his offspring. complete annihilation being unfeasible at the moment he merely climbed laboriously out of the car, re-cranked the engine, climbed laboriously back into his place and started on his way once more. all the red blustering rage was stripped completely from him. startlingly rigid, startlingly white, his face was like the death-mask of a pirate. pleasantly excited by she-didn't-know-exactly-what, the little girl resumed her beloved falsetto chant, rhythmically all the while with her puny iron-braced legs beating the tune into the white linen nurse's tender flesh. all the birds were there with yellow feathers instead of hair, and bumblebees crocheted in the trees and--and--all the birds were there, with yellow feathers instead of hair, and-- frenziedly as a runaway horse trying to escape from its own pursuing harness and carriage the senior surgeon poured increasing speed into both his own pace and the pace of his tormentor. up hill,--down dale,--screeching through rocky echoes,--swishing through blue-green spruce-lands,--dodging indomitable boulders,--grazing lax, treacherous embankments,--the great car scuttled homeward. huddled behind his steering wheel like a warrior behind his shield, every body-muscle taut with strain, every facial muscle diabolically calm, the senior surgeon met and parried successively each fresh onslaught of yard, rod, mile. then suddenly in the first precipitous descent of a mighty hill the whole earth seemed to drop out from under the car. down-down-down with incredible swiftness and smoothness the great machine went diving towards abysmal space! up-up-up with incredible bumps and bouncings, trees, bushes, stonewalls went rushing to the sky! gasping surprisedly towards the senior surgeon the white linen nurse saw his grim mouth yank round abruptly in her direction as it yanked sometimes in the operating-room with some sharp, incisive order of life or death. instinctively she leaned forward for the message. not over-loud but strangely distinct the words slapped back into her straining ears. "if--it will rest your face any--to look scared--by all means--do so! i've lost control of the machine!" called the senior surgeon sardonically across the roar of the wind. the phrase excited the white linen nurse but it did not remotely frighten her. she was not in the habit of seeing the senior surgeon lose control of any situation. merely intoxicated with speed, delirious with ozone, she snatched up the little girl close, to her breast. "we're flying!" she cried. "we're dropping from a parachute! we're--!" swoopingly like a sled striking glare, level ice the great car swerved from the bottom of the hill into a soft rolling meadow. instantly from every conceivable direction, like foes in ambush, trees, stumps, rocks reared up in threatening defiance. tighter and tighter the white linen nurse crushed the little girl to her breast. louder and louder she called in the little girl's ear. _"scream!"_ she shouted. _"there might be a bump! scream louder than a bump! scream! scream! scream!"_ in that first over-whelming, nerve-numbing, heart-crunching terror of his whole life as the great car tilted up against a stone,--plowed down into the mushy edge of a marsh,--and skidded completely round, _crash-bang--_ into a tree, it was the last sound that the senior surgeon heard,--the sound of a woman and child screeching their lungs out in diabolical exultancy! chapter v when the white linen nurse found anything again she found herself lying perfectly flat on her back in a reasonably comfortable nest of grass and leaves. staring inquisitively up into the sky she thought she noticed a slight black and blue discoloration towards the west, but more than that, much to her relief, the firmament did not seem to be seriously injured. the earth, she feared had not escaped so easily. even way off somewhere near the tip of her fingers the ground was as sore--as sore--as could be--under her touch. impulsively to her dizzy eyes the hot tears started, to think that now, tired as she was, she should have to jump right up in another minute or two and attend to the poor earth. fortunately for any really strenuous emergency that might arise there seemed to be nothing about her own body that hurt at all except a queer, persistent little pain in her cheek. not until the little crippled girl's dirt-smouched face intervened between her own staring eyes and the sky did she realize that the pain in her cheek was a pinch. "wake up! wake up!" scolded the little crippled girl shrilly. "naughty--pink and white nursie! i wanted to hear the bump! you screamed so loud i couldn't hear the bump!" with excessive caution the white linen nurse struggled up at last to a sitting posture, and gazed perplexedly around her. it seemed to be a perfectly pleasant field,--acres and acres of mild old grass tottering palsiedly down to watch some skittish young violets and bluets frolic in and out of a giggling brook. up the field? up the field? hazily the white linen nurse ground her knuckles into her incredulous eyes. up the field, just beyond them, the great empty automobile stood amiably at rest. from the general appearance of the stone-wall at the top of the little grassy slope it was palpably evident that the car had attempted certain vain acrobatic feats before its failing momentum had forced it into the humiliating ranks of the back-sliders. still grinding her knuckles into her eyes the white linen nurse turned back to the little girl. under the torn, twisted sable cap one little eye was hidden completely, but the other eye loomed up rakish and bruised as a prizefighter's. one sable sleeve was wrenched disastrously from its arm-hole, and along the edge of the vivid little purple skirt the ill-favored white ruffles seemed to have raveled out into hopeless yards and yards and yards of hamburg embroidery. a trifle self-consciously the little girl began to gather herself together. "we--we seem to have fallen out of something!" she confided with the air of one who halves a most precious secret. "yes, i know," said the white linen nurse. "but what has become of--your father?" worriedly for an instant the little girl sat scanning the remotest corners of the field. then abruptly with a gasp of real relief she began to explore with cautious fingers the geographical outline of her black eye. "oh, never mind about father," she asserted cheerfully. "i guess--i guess he got mad and went home." "yes--i know," mused the white linen nurse. "but it doesn't seem--probable." "probable?" mocked the little girl most disagreeably. then suddenly her little hand went shooting out towards the stranded automobile. "why, there he is!" she screamed. "under the car! oh, look--look--lookey!" laboriously the white linen nurse scrambled to her knees. desperately she tried to ram her fingers like a clog into the whirling dizziness round her temples. "oh, my god! oh, my god! what's the dose for anybody under a car?" she babbled idiotically. then with a really herculean effort,--both mental and physical, she staggered to her feet, and started for the automobile. but her knees gave out, and wilting down to the grass she tried to crawl along on all-fours, till straining wrists sent her back to her feet again. whenever she tried to walk the little girl walked,--whenever she tried to crawl the little girl crawled. "isn't it fun!" the shrill childish voice piped persistently. "isn't it just like playing ship-wreck!" when they reached the car both woman and child were too utterly exhausted with breathlessness to do anything except just sit down on the ground and--stare. sure enough under that monstrous, immovable looking machine the senior surgeon's body lay rammed face-down deep, deep into the grass. it was the little girl who recovered her breath first. "i think he's dead!" she volunteered sagely. "his legs look--awfully dead--to me!" only excitement was in the statement. it took a second or two for her little mind to make any particularly personal application of such excitement. "i hadn't--exactly--planned--on having him dead!" she began with imperious resentment. a threat of complete emotional collapse zig-zagged suddenly across her face. "i won't have him dead! i won't! i _won't_!" she screamed out stormily. in the amazing silence that ensued the white linen nurse gathered her trembling knees up into the circle of her arms and sat there staring at the senior surgeon's prostrate body, and rocking herself feebly to and fro in a futile effort to collect her scattered senses. "oh, if some one would only tell me what to do,--i know i could do it! oh, i know i could do it! if some one would only tell me what to do!" she kept repeating helplessly. cautiously the little girl crept forward on her hands and knees to the edge of the car and peered speculatively through the great yellow wheel-spokes. "father!" she faltered in almost inaudible gentleness. "father!" she pleaded in perfectly impotent whisper. impetuously the white linen nurse scrambled to her own hands and knees and jostled the little girl aside. "fat father!" screamed the white linen nurse. "fat father! fat father! _fat father!"_ she gibed and taunted with the one call she knew that had never yet failed to rouse him. perceptibly across the senior surgeon's horridly quiet shoulders a little twitch wrinkled and was gone again. "oh, his heart!" gasped the white linen nurse. "i must find his heart!" throwing herself prone upon the cool meadowy ground and frantically reaching out under the running board of the car to her full arm's length she began to rummage awkwardly hither and yon beneath the heavy weight of the man in the desperate hope of feeling a heart-beat. "ouch! you tickle me!" spluttered the senior surgeon weakly. rolling back quickly with fright and relief the white linen nurse burst forth into one maddening cackle of hysterical laughter. "ha! ha! ha!" she giggled. "hi! hi! titter! titter! titter!" perplexedly at first but with increasing abandon the little girl's voice took up the same idiotic refrain. "ha-ha-ha," she choked. and "hi-hi-hi!" and "titter! titter! titter!" with an agonizing jerk of his neck the senior surgeon rooted his mud-gagged mouth a half inch further towards free and spontaneous speech. very laboriously, very painstakingly, he spat out one by one two stones and a wisp of ground pine and a brackish, prickly tickle of stale golden-rod. "blankety-blank-blank--blank!" he announced in due time, "blankety-blank-blank-blank--blank! maybe when you two--blankety-blank--imbeciles have got through your blankety-blank cackling you'll have the--blankety-blank decency to save my--my blankety-blank-blank--blank--_blank-blank_ life!" "ha! ha! ha!" persisted the poor helpless white linen nurse with the tears streaming down her cheeks. "hi! hi! hi!" snickered the poor little girl through her hiccoughs. feeling hopelessly crushed under two tons and a half of car, the senior surgeon closed his eyes for death. no man of his weight, he felt quite sure, could reasonably expect to survive many minutes longer the apoplectic, blood-red rage that pounded in his ear-drums. through his tight-closed eyelids very, very slowly a red glow seemed to permeate. he thought it was the fires of hell. opening his eyes to meet his fate like a man he found himself staring impudently close instead into the white linen nurse's furiously flushed face that lay cuddled on one plump cheek staring impudently close at him. "why--why--get out!" gasped the senior surgeon. very modestly the white linen nurse's face retreated a little further into its blushes. "yes, i know," she protested. "but i'm all through giggling now. i'm sorry--i'm--" in sheer apprehensiveness the senior surgeon's features crinkled wincingly from brow to chin as though struggling vainly to retreat from the appalling proximity of the girl's face. "your--eyelashes--are too long," he complained querulously. "eh?" jerked the white linen nurse's face. "is it your brain that's hurt? oh, sir, do you think it's your brain that's hurt?" "it's my stomach!" snapped the senior surgeon. "i tell you i 'm not hurt,--i'm just--squashed! i'm paralyzed! if i can't get this car off me--" "yes, that's just it," beamed the white linen nurse's face. "that's just what i crawled in here to find out,--how to get the car off you. that's just what i want to find out. i could run for help, of course,--only i couldn't run, 'cause my knees are so wobbly. it would take hours--and the car might start or burn up or something while i was gone. but you don't seem to be caught anywhere on the machinery," she added more brightly, "it only seems to be sitting on you. so if i could only get the car off you! but it's so heavy. i had no idea it would be so heavy. could i take it apart, do you think? is there any one place where i could begin at the beginning and take it all apart?" "take it apart--hell!" groaned the senior surgeon. a little twitch of defiance flickered across the white linen nurse's face. "all the same," she asserted stubbornly, "if some one would only tell me what to do--i know i could do it!" horridly from some unlocatable quarter of the engine an alarming little tremor quickened suddenly and was hushed again. "get out of here--quick!" stormed the senior surgeon's ghastly face. "i won't!" said the white linen nurse's face. "until you tell me--what to do!" brutally for an instant the ingenuous blue eyes and the cynical gray eyes battled each other. "_can_ you do what you're told?" faltered the senior surgeon. "oh, yes," said the white linen nurse. "i mean can you do exactly--what you're told?" gasped the senior surgeon. "can you follow directions, i mean? can you follow them--explicitly? or are you one of those people who listens only to her own judgment?" "oh, but i haven't got any--judgment," protested the white linen nurse. palpably in the senior surgeon's blood-shot eyes the leisurely seeming diagnosis leaped to precipitous conclusions. "then get out of here--quick--for god's sake--and get to work!" he ordered. cautiously the white linen nurse jerked herself back into freedom and crawled around and stared at the senior surgeon through the wheel-spokes again. like one worrying out some intricate mathematical problem his mental strain was pulsing visibly through his closed eyelids. "yes, sir?" prodded the white linen nurse. "keep still!" snapped the senior surgeon. "i've got to think," he said. "i've got to work it out! all in a moment you've got to learn to run the car. all in a moment! it's awful!" "oh, i don't mind, sir," affirmed the white linen nurse serenely. frenziedly the senior surgeon rooted one cheek into the mud again. "you don't--_mind_?" he groaned. "you don't--_mind_? why, you've got to learn--everything! everything--from--the very beginning!" "oh, that's all right, sir," crooned the white linen nurse. ominously from somewhere a horrid sound creaked again. the senior surgeon did not stop to argue any further. "now come here," ordered the senior surgeon. "i'm going to--i'm going to--" startlingly his voice weakened,--trailed off into nothingness,--and rallied suddenly with exaggerated bruskness. "look here now! for heaven's sake use your brains! i'm going to dictate to you--very slowly--one thing at a time--just what to do!" quite astonishingly the white linen nurse sank down on her knees and began to grin at him. "oh, no, sir," she said. "i couldn't do it that way,--not 'one thing at a time.' oh, no indeed, sir! no!" absolute finality was in her voice,--the inviolable stubbornness of the perfectly good-natured person. "you'll do it the way i tell you to!" roared the senior surgeon struggling vainly to ease one shoulder or stretch one knee-joint. "oh, no, sir," beamed the white linen nurse. "not one thing at a time! oh, no, i couldn't do it that way! oh, no, sir, i won't do it that way--one thing at a time," she persisted hurriedly. "why, you might faint away or something might happen--right in the middle of it--right between one direction and another--and i wouldn't know at all--what to turn on or off next--and it might take off one of your legs, you know, or an arm. oh, no,--not one thing at a time!" "good-by--then," croaked the senior surgeon. "i'm as good as dead now." a single shudder went through him,--a last futile effort to stretch himself. "good-by," said the white linen nurse. "good-by, sir.--i'd heaps rather have you die--perfectly whole--like that--of your own accord--than have me run the risk of starting the car full-tilt and chopping you up so--or dragging you off so--that you didn't find it convenient to tell me--how to stop the car." "you're a--a--a--" spluttered the senior surgeon indistinguishably. "crinkle-crackle," went that mysterious, horrid sound from somewhere in the machinery. "oh my god!" surrendered the senior surgeon. "do it your own--damned way! only--only--" his voice cracked raspingly. "steady! steady there!" said the white linen nurse. except for a sudden odd pucker at the end of her nose her expression was still perfectly serene. "now begin at the beginning," she begged. "quick! tell me everything--just the way i must do it! quick--quick--quick!" twice the senior surgeon's lips opened and shut with a vain effort to comply with her request. "but you can't do it," he began all over again. "it isn't possible. you haven't got the mind!" "maybe i haven't," said the white linen nurse. "but i've got the memory. hurry!" "creak," said the funny little something in the machinery. "creak--drip--bubble!" "oh, get in there quick!" surrendered the senior surgeon. "sit down behind the wheel!" he shouted after her flying footsteps. "are you there? for god's sake--are you there? do you see those two little levers where your right hand comes? for god's sake--don't you know what a lever is? quick now! do just what i tell you!" a little jerkily then, but very clearly, very concisely, the senior surgeon called out to the white linen nurse just how every lever, every pedal should be manipulated to start the car! absolutely accurately, absolutely indelibly the white linen nurse visualized each separate detail in her abnormally retentive mind! "but you can't--possibly remember it!" groaned the senior surgeon. "you can't--possibly! and probably the damn car's _bust_ and won't start--anyway--and--!" abruptly the speech ended in a guttural snarl of despair. "don't be a--blight!" screamed the white linen nurse. "i've never forgotten anything yet, sir!" very tensely she straightened up suddenly in her seat. her expression was no longer even remotely pleasant. along her sensitive, fluctuant nostrils the casual crinkle of distaste and suspicion had deepened suddenly into sheer dilating terror. "left foot--press down--hard--left pedal!" she began to sing-song to herself. "no! _right_ foot!--_right_ foot!" corrected the little girl blunderingly from somewhere close in the grass. "inside lever--pull--way--back!" persisted the white linen nurse resolutely as she switched on the current. "no! _outside_ lever! _outside! outside_!" contradicted the little girl. "shut your darned mouth!" screeched the white linen nurse, her hand on the throttle as she tried the self starter. bruised as he was, wretched, desperately endangered there under the car the senior surgeon could almost have grinned at the girl's terse, unconscious mimicry of his own most venomous tones. then with all the forty-eight lusty, ebullient years of his life snatched from his lips like an untasted cup, and one single noxious, death-flavored second urged,--forced,--crammed down his choking throat, he felt the great car quicken and start. "god!" said the senior surgeon. just "god!" the god of mud, he meant! the god of brackish grass! the god of a man lying still hopeful under more than two tons' weight of unaccountable mechanism, with a novice in full command. up in her crimson leather cushions, free-lunged, free-limbed, the white linen nurse heard the smothered cry. clear above the whirr of wheels, the whizz of clogs, the one word sizzled like a red-hot poker across her chattering consciousness. tingling through the grasp of her fingers on the vibrating wheel, stinging through the sole of her foot that hovered over the throbbing clutch, she sensed the agonized appeal. "short lever--spark--long lever--gas!" she persisted resolutely. "it must be right! it must!" jerkily then, and blatantly unskilfully, with riotous puffs and spinning of wheels, the great car started,--faltered,--balked a bit,--then dragged crushingly across the senior surgeon's flattened body, and with a great wanton burst of speed tore down the sloping meadow into the brook--rods away. clamping down the brakes with a wrench and a racket like the smash of a machine-shop the white linen nurse jumped out into the brook, and with one wild terrified glance behind her staggered back up the long grassy slope to the senior surgeon. mechanically through her wooden-feeling lips she forced the greeting that sounded most cheerful to her. "it's not much fun, sir,--running an auto," she gasped. "i don't believe i'd like it!" half propped up on one elbow,--still dizzy with mental chaos, still paralyzed with physical inertia,--the senior surgeon lay staring blankly all around him. indifferently for an instant his stare included the white linen nurse. then glowering suddenly at something way beyond her, his face went perfectly livid. "good god! the--the car's on fire!" he mumbled. "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. "why! didn't you know it, sir?" chapter vi headlong the senior surgeon pitched over on the grass,--his last vestige of self-control stripped from him,--horror unspeakable racking him sobbingly from head to toe. whimperingly the little girl came crawling to him, and settling down close at his feet began with her tiny lace handkerchief to make futile dabs at the mud-stains on his gray silk stockings. "never mind, father," she coaxed, "we'll get you clean sometime." nervously the white linen nurse bethought her of the brook. "oh, wait a minute, sir--and i'll get you a drink of water!" she pleaded. bruskly the senior surgeon's hand jerked out and grabbed at her skirt. "don't leave me!" he begged. "for god's sake--don't leave me!" weakly he struggled up again and sat staring piteously at the blazing car. his unrelinquished clutch on the white linen nurse's skirt brought her sinking softly down beside him like a collapsed balloon. together they sat and watched the gaseous yellow flames shoot up into the sky. "it's pretty, isn't it?" piped the little girl. "eh?" groaned the senior surgeon. "father," persisted the shrill little voice. "father,--do people ever burn up?" "_eh?_" gasped the senior surgeon. brutally the harsh, shuddering sobs began to rack and tear again through his great chest. "there! there!" crooned the white linen nurse, struggling desperately to her knees. "let me get--everybody--a drink of water." again the senior surgeon's unrelinquished clutch on her skirt jerked her back to the place beside him. "i said _not to leave me_!" he snapped out as roughly as he jerked. before the affrighted look in the white linen nurse's face a sheepish, mirthless grin flickered across one corner of his mouth. "lord! but i'm shaken!" he apologized. "me--of all people!" painfully the red blood mounted to his cheeks. "me--of all people!" bluntly he forced the white linen nurse's reluctant gaze to meet his own. "only yesterday," he persisted, "i did a laparotomy on a man who had only one chance in a hundred of pulling through--and i--i scolded him for fighting off his ether cone,--scolded him--i tell you!" "yes, i know," soothed the white linen nurse. "but--" "but _nothing_!" growled the senior surgeon. "the fear of death? bah! all my life i've scoffed at it! _die_? yes, of course,--when you have to,--but with no kick coming! why, i've been wrecked in a typhoon in the gulf of mexico. and i didn't care! and i've lain for nine days more dead than alive in an asiatic cholera camp. and i didn't care! and i've been locked into my office three hours with a raving maniac and a dynamite bomb. and i didn't care! and twice in a pennsylvania mine disaster i've been the first man down the shaft. and i didn't care! and i've been shot, i tell you,--and i've been horse-trampled,--and i've been wolf-bitten. and i've never cared! but to-day--to-day--" piteously all the pride and vigor wilted from his great shoulders, leaving him all huddled up like a woman, with his head on his knees. "but to-day, i've _got mine!_" he acknowledged brokenly. once again the white linen nurse tried to rise. "oh, please, sir, let me get you a--drink of water," she suggested helplessly. "i said _not to leave me!_" jerked the senior surgeon. perplexedly with big staring eyes the little crippled girl glanced up at this strange fatherish person who sounded so suddenly small and scared like herself. jealous instantly of her own prerogatives she dropped her futile labors on the mud-stained silk stockings and scrambled precipitously for the white linen nurse's lap where she nestled down finally after many gyrations, and sat glowering forth at all possible interlopers. "don't leave any of us!" she ordered with a peremptoriness not unmixed with supplication. "surely some one will see the fire and come and get us," conceded the senior surgeon. "yes--surely," mused the white linen nurse. just at that moment she was mostly concerned with adjusting the curve of her shoulder to the curve of the little girl's head. "i could sit more comfortably," she suggested to the senior surgeon, "if you'd let go my skirt." "let go of your skirt? who's touching your skirt?" gasped the senior surgeon incredulously. once again the blood mounted darkly to his face. "i think i'll get up--and walk around a bit," he confided coldly. "do, sir," said the white linen nurse. ouchily with a tweak of pain through his sprained back the senior surgeon sat suddenly down again. "i sha'n't get up till i'm good and ready!" he attested. "i wouldn't, sir," said the white linen nurse. very slowly, very complacently, all the while she kept right on renovating the little girl's personal appearance, smoothing a wrinkled stocking, tucking up obstreperous white ruffles, tugging down parsimonious purple hems, loosening a pinchy hook, tightening a wobbly button. very slowly, very complacently the little girl drowsed off to sleep with her weazened little iron-cased legs stretched stiffly out before her. "poor little legs! poor little legs! poor little legs!" crooned the white linen nurse. "i don't know--as you need to--make a song about it!" winced the senior surgeon. "it's just about the crudest case of complete muscular atrophy that i've ever seen!" blandly the white linen nurse lifted her big blue eyes to his. "it wasn't her 'complete muscular atrophy' that i was thinking about!" she said. "it's her panties that are so unbecoming!" "eh?" jumped the senior surgeon. "poor little legs--poor little legs--poor little legs," resumed the white linen nurse droningly. very slowly, very complacently, all around them april kept right on--being april. very slowly, very complacently, all around them the grass kept on growing, and the trees kept right on budding. very slowly, very complacently, all around them the blue sky kept right on fading into its early evening dove-colors. nothing brisk, nothing breathless, nothing even remotely hurried was there in all the landscape except just the brook,--and the flash of a bird,--and the blaze of the crackling automobile. the white linen nurse's nostrils were smooth and calm with the lovely sappy scent of rabbit-nibbled maple bark and mud-wet arbutus buds. the white linen nurse's mind was full of sumptuous, succulent marsh marigolds, and fluffy white shad-bush blossoms. the senior surgeon's nostrils were all puckered up with the stench of burning varnish. the senior surgeon's mind was full of the horrid thought that he'd forgotten to renew his automobile fire-insurance,--and that he had a sprained back,--and that his rival colleague had told him he didn't know how to run an auto anyway--and that the cook had given notice that morning,--and that he had a sprained back,--and that the moths had gnawed the knees out of his new dress suit,--and that the superintendent of nurses had had the audacity to send him a bunch of pink roses for his birthday,--and that the boiler in the kitchen leaked,--and that he had to go to philadelphia the next day to read a paper on "surgical methods at the battle of waterloo,"--and he hadn't even begun the paper yet,--and that he had a sprained back,--and that the wall-paper on his library hung in shreds and tatters waiting for him to decide between a french fresco effect and an early english paneling,--and that his little daughter was growing up in wanton ugliness under the care of coarse, indifferent hirelings,--and that the laundry robbed him weekly of at least five socks,--and that it would cost him fully seven thousand dollars to replace this car,--and that he had a sprained back! "it's restful, isn't it?" cooed the white linen nurse. "isn't _what_ restful?" glowered the senior surgeon. "sitting down!" said the white linen nurse. contemptuously the senior surgeon's mind ignored the interruption and reverted precipitously to its own immediate problem concerning the gloomy, black-walnut shadowed entrance hall of his great house, and how many yards of imported linoleum at $ . a yard it would take to recarpet the "damned hole,"--and how it would have seemed anyway if--if he hadn't gone home--as usual to the horrid black-walnut shadows that night--but been carried home instead--feet first and--quite dead--dead, mind you, with a red necktie on,--and even the cook was out! and they wouldn't even know where to lay him--but might put him by mistake in that--in that--in his dead wife's dead--bed! altogether unconsciously a little fluttering sigh of ineffable contentment escaped the white linen nurse. "i don't care how long we have to sit here and wait for help," she announced cheerfully, "because to-morrow, of course, i'll have to get up and begin all over again--and go to nova scotia." "go _where_?" lurched the senior surgeon. "i'd thank you kindly, sir, not to jerk my skirt quite so hard!" said the white linen nurse just a trifle stiffly. incredulously once more the senior surgeon withdrew his detaining hand. "i'm not even touching your skirt!" he denied desperately. nothing but denial and reiterated denial seemed to ease his self-esteem for an instant. "why, for heaven's sake, should i want to hold on to your skirt?" he demanded peremptorily. "what the deuce--?" he began blusteringly. "why in--?" then abruptly he stopped and shot an odd, puzzled glance at the white linen nurse, and right there before her startled eyes she saw every vestige of human expression fade out of his face as it faded out sometimes in the operating-room when in the midst of some ghastly, unforeseen emergency that left all his assistants blinking helplessly around them, his whole wonderful scientific mind seemed to break up like some chemical compound into all its meek component parts,--only to reorganize itself suddenly with some amazing explosive action that fairly knocked the breath out of all on-lookers--but was pretty apt to knock the breath into the body of the person most concerned. when the senior surgeon's scientific mind had reorganized itself to meet _this_ emergency he found himself infinitely more surprised at the particular type of explosion that had taken place than any other person could possibly have been. "miss malgregor!" he gasped. "speaking of preferring 'domestic service,' as you call it,--speaking of preferring domestic service to--nursing,--how would you like to consider--to consider a position of--of--well,--call it a--a position of general--heartwork--for a family of two? myself and the little girl here being the 'two,'--as you understand," he added briskly. "why, i think it would be grand!" beamed the white linen nurse. a trifle mockingly the senior surgeon bowed his appreciation. "your frank and immediate--enthusiasm," he murmured, "is more, perhaps, than i had dared to expect." "but it would be grand!" said the white linen nurse. before the odd little smile in the senior surgeon's eyes her white forehead puckered all up with perplexity. then with her mind still thoroughly unawakened, her heart began suddenly to pitch and lurch like a frightened horse whose rider has not even remotely sensed as yet the approach of an unwonted footfall. "what--did--you--say?" she repeated worriedly. "just exactly what was it that you said? i guess--maybe--i didn't understand just exactly what it was that you said." the smile in the senior surgeon's eyes deepened a little. "i asked you," he said, "how you would like to consider a position of 'general heartwork' in a family of two,--myself and the little girl here being the 'two.' 'heartwork' was what i said. yes,--'heartwork,'--not housework!" "_heartwork?_" faltered the white linen nurse. "_ heartwork?_ i don't know what you mean, sir." like two falling rose-petals her eyelids fluttered down across her affrighted eyes. "oh, when i shut my eyes, sir, and just hear your voice, i know of course, sir, that it's some sort of a joke. but when i look right at you--i--don't know--what it is!" "open your eyes and keep them open then till you do find out!" suggested the senior surgeon bluntly. defiantly once again the blue eyes and the gray eyes challenged each other. "'heartwork' was what i said," persisted the senior surgeon. palpably his narrowing eyes shut out all meaning but one definite one. the white linen nurse's face went almost as blanched as her dress. "you're--you're not asking me to--marry you, sir?" she stammered. "i suppose i am!" acknowledged the senior surgeon. "not marry you!" cried the white linen nurse. distress was in her voice,--distaste,--unmitigable shock, as though the high gods themselves had fallen at her feet and splintered off into mere candy fragments. "oh--not _marry_ you, sir?" she kept right on protesting. "not be--_engaged_, you mean? oh, not be _engaged_--and everything?" "well, why not?" snapped the senior surgeon. like a smitten flower the girl's whole body seemed to wilt down into incalculable weariness. "oh--no--no! i couldn't!" she protested. "oh, no,--really!" appealingly she lifted her great blue eyes to his, and the blueness was all blurred with tears. "i've--i've been engaged--once--you know," she explained falteringly. "why--i was engaged, sir, almost as soon as i was born, and i stayed engaged till two years ago. that's almost twenty years. that's a long time, sir. you don't get over it--easy." very, very gravely she began to shake her head. "oh--no--sir! no! thank you--very much--but i--i just simply couldn't begin at the beginning and go all through it again! i haven't got the heart for it! i haven't got the spirit! carvin' your initials on trees and--and gadding round to all the sunday school picnics--" brutally like a boy the senior surgeon threw back his head in one wild hoot of joy. infinitely more cautiously as the agonizing pang in his shoulder lulled down again he proceeded to argue the matter, but the grin in his face was even yet faintly traceable. "frankly, miss malgregor," he affirmed, "i'm infinitely more addicted to carving people than to carving trees. and as to sunday school picnics? well, really now--i hardly believe that you'd find my demands in that direction--excessive!" perplexedly the white linen nurse tried to stare her way through his bantering smile to his real meaning. furiously, as she stared, the red blood came flushing back into her face. "you don't mean for a second that you--that you love me?" she asked incredulously. "no, i don't suppose i do!" acknowledged the senior surgeon with equal bluntness. "but my little kiddie here loves you!" he hastened somewhat nervously to affirm. "oh, i'm almost sure that my little kiddie here--loves you! she needs you anyway! let it go at that! call it that we both--need you!" "what you mean is--" corrected the white linen nurse, "that needing somebody--very badly, you've just suddenly decided that that somebody might as well be me?" "well--if you choose to put it--like that!" said the senior surgeon a bit sulkily. "and if there hadn't been an auto accident?" argued the white linen nurse just out of sheer inquisitiveness, "if there hadn't been just this particular kind of an auto accident--at this particular hour--of this particular day--of this particular month--with marigolds and--everything, you probably never would have realized that you did need anybody?" "maybe not," admitted the senior surgeon. "u--m--m," said the white linen nurse. "and if you'd happened to take one of the other girls to-day--instead of me,--why then i suppose you'd have felt that she was the one you really needed? and if you'd taken the superintendent of nurses--instead of any of us girls--you might even have felt that _she_ was the one you most needed?" with surprising agility for a man with a sprained back the senior surgeon wrenched himself around until he faced her quite squarely. "now see here, miss malgregor!" he growled. "for heaven's sake listen to sense, even if you can't talk it! here am i, a plain professional man--making you a plain professional offer. why in thunder should you try to fuss me all up because my offer isn't couched in all the foolish, romantic, lace-paper sort of flub-dubbery that you think such an offer ought to be couched in? eh?" "fuss you all up, sir?" protested the white linen nurse with real anxiety. "yes--fuss me all up!" snarled the senior surgeon with increasing venom. "i'm no story-writer! i'm not trying to make up what might have happened a year from next february in a chinese junk off the coast of--nova zembla--to a methodist preacher--and a--and a militant suffragette! what i'm trying to size up is--just what's happened to you and me--to-day! for the fact remains that it is to-day! and it is you and i! and there has been an accident! and out of that accident--and everything that's gone with it--i have come out--thinking of something that i never thought of before! and there were marigolds!" he added with unexpected whimsicality. "you see i don't deny--even the marigolds!" "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. "yes what?" jerked the senior surgeon. softly the white linen nurse's chin burrowed down a little closer against the sleeping child's tangled hair. "why--yes--thank you very much--but i never shall love again," she said quite definitely. "love?" gasped the senior surgeon. "why, i'm not asking you to love me!" his face was suddenly crimson. "why, i'd hate it, if you--loved me! why, i'd--" "o--h--h," mumbled the white linen nurse in new embarrassment. then suddenly and surprisingly her chin came tilting bravely up again. "what do you want?" she asked. helplessly the senior surgeon threw out his hands. "my goodness!" he said. "what do you suppose i want? _i want some one to take care of us!_" gently the white linen nurse shifted her shoulder to accommodate the shifting little sleepyhead on her breast. "you can hire some one for that," she suggested with real relief. "i was trying to hire--you!" said the senior surgeon quite tersely. "hire me?" gasped the white linen nurse. "why! why!" adroitly she slipped both hands under the sleeping child and delivered the little frail-fleshed, heavily ironed body into the senior surgeon's astonished arms. "i--i don't want to hold her," he protested. "she--isn't mine!" argued the white linen nurse. "but i can't talk while i'm holding her!" insisted the senior surgeon. "i can't listen--while i'm holding her!" persisted the white linen nurse. freely now, though cross-legged like a turk, she jerked herself forward on the grass and sat probing up into the senior surgeon's face like an excited puppy trying to solve whether the gift in your up-raised hand is a lump of sugar--or a live coal. "you're trying to hire--_me_?" she prompted him nudgingly with her voice. "hire me--for money?" "oh my lord, no!" said the senior surgeon. "there are plenty of people i can hire for money! but they won't stay!" he explained ruefully. "hang it all,--they won't stay!" above his little girl's white, pinched face his own ruddy countenance furrowed suddenly with unspeakable anxiety. "why, just this last year," he complained, "we've had nine different housekeepers--and thirteen nursery governesses!" skilfully as a surgeon, but awkwardly as a father, he bent to re-adjust the weight of the little iron leg-braces. "but i tell you--no one will stay with us!" he finished hotly. "there's--something the matter--with us! i don't seem to have money enough in the world to make anybody--stay with us!" very wryly, very reluctantly, at one corner of his mouth his sense of humor ignited in a feeble grin. "so you see what i'm trying to do to you, miss malgregor, is to--hire you with something that will just--naturally compel you to stay!" if the grin round his mouth strengthened a trifle, so did the anxiety in his eyes. "for heaven's sake, miss malgregor," he pleaded. "here's a man and a house and a child all going to--rack and ruin! if you're really and truly tired of nursing--and are looking for a new job,--what's the matter with tackling us?" "it would be a job!" admitted the white linen nurse demurely. "why, it would be a deuce-of-a-job!" confided the senior surgeon with no demureness whatsoever. chapter vii very soberly, very thoughtfully then, across the tangled, snuggling head of his own and another woman's child, he urged the torments--and the comforts of his home upon this second woman. "what is there about my offer--that you don't like?" he demanded earnestly. "is it the whole idea that offends you? or just the way i put it? 'general heartwork for a family of two?' what is the matter with that? seems a bit cold to you, does it, for a real marriage proposal? or is it that it's just a bit too ardent, perhaps, for a mere plain business proposition?" "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. "yes what?" insisted the senior surgeon. "yes--_sir_," flushed the white linen nurse. very meditatively the senior surgeon reconsidered his phrasing. "'general heartwork for a family of two'? u--m--m." quite abruptly even the tenseness of his manner faded from him, leaving his face astonishingly quiet, astonishingly gentle. "but how else, miss malgregor," he queried, "how else should a widower with a child proffer marriage to a--to a young girl like yourself? even under conditions directly antipodal to ours, such a proposition can never be a purely romantic one. yet even under conditions as cold and business-like as ours, there's got to be some vestige of affection in it,--some vestige at least of the _intelligence_ of affection,--else what gain is there for my little girl and me over the purely mercenary domestic service that has racked us up to this time with its garish faithlessness?" "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. "but even if i had loved you, miss malgregor," explained the senior surgeon gravely, "my offer of marriage to you would not, i fear, have been a very great oratorical success. materialist as i am,--cynic--scientist,--any harsh thing you choose to call me,--marriage in some freak, boyish corner of my mind, still defines itself as being the mutual sharing of a--mutually original experience. certainly whether a first marriage be instigated in love or worldliness,--whether it eventually proves itself bliss, tragedy, or mere sickening ennui, to two people coming mutually virgin to the consummation of that marriage, the thrill of establishing publicly a man-and-woman home together is an emotion that cannot be reduplicated while life lasts." "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. bleakly across the senior surgeon's face something gray that was not years shadowed suddenly and was gone again. "even so, miss malgregor," he argued, "even so--without any glittering romance whatsoever, no woman i believe is very grossly unhappy in any--affectional place--that she knows distinctly to be her _own_ place. it's pretty much up to a man then i think,--though it tear him brain from heart, to explain to a second wife quite definitely just exactly what place it is that he is offering her in his love,--or his friendship,--or his mere desperate need. no woman can ever hope to step successfully into a second-hand home who does not know from her man's own lips the measure of her predecessor. the respect we owe the dead is a selfish thing compared to the mercy we owe the living. in my own case--" unconsciously the white linen nurse's lax shoulders quickened, and the sudden upward tilt of her chin was as frankly interrogative as a french inflection. "yes, sir," she said. "in my own case," said the senior surgeon bluntly, "in my own case, miss malgregor, it is no more than fair to tell you that i--did not love my wife. and my wife did not love me." only the muscular twitch in his throat betrayed the torture that the confession cost him. "the details of that marriage are unnecessary," he continued with equal bluntness. "it is enough perhaps to say that she was the daughter of an eminent surgeon with whom i was exceedingly anxious at that time to be allied, and that our mating, urged along on both sides as it was by strong personal ambitions was one of those so-called 'marriages of convenience' which almost invariably turn out to be marriages of such dire inconvenience to the two people most concerned. for one year we lived together in a chaos of experimental acquaintanceship. for two years we lived together in increasing uncongeniality and distaste. for three years we lived together in open and acknowledged enmity. at the last, i am thankful to remember, that we had one year together again that was at least an--armed truce." darkly the gray shadow and the red flush chased each other once more across the man's haggard face. "i had a theory," he said, "that possibly a child might bridge the chasm between us. my wife refuted the theory, but submitted herself reluctantly to the fact. and when she--in giving birth to--my theory,--the shock, the remorse, the regret, the merciless self-analysis that i underwent at that time almost convinced me that the whole miserable failure of our marriage lay entirely on my own shoulders." like the stress of mid-summer the tears of sweat started suddenly on his forehead. "but i am a fair man, i hope,--even to myself, and the cooler, less-tortured judgment of the subsequent years has practically assured me that, for types as diametrically opposed as ours, such a thing as mutual happiness never could have existed." mechanically he bent down and smoothed a tickly lock of hair away from the little girl's eyelids. "and the child is the living physical image of her," he stammered. "the violent hair,--the ghost-white skin,--the facile mouth,--the arrogant eyes,--staring--staring--maddeningly reproachful, persistently accusing. my own stubborn will,--my own hideous temper,--all my own ill-favored mannerisms--mocked back at me eternally in her mother's--unloved features." mirthless as the grin of a skull, the senior surgeon's mouth twisted up a little at one corner. "maybe i could have borne it better if she'd been a boy," he acknowledged grimly. "but to see all your virile--masculine vices come back at you--so sissified--in _skirts_!" "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. with an unmistakable gasp of relief the senior surgeon expanded his great chest. "there! that's done!" he said tersely. "so much for the past! now for the present! look at us pretty keenly and judge for yourself! a man and a very little girl,--not guaranteed,--not even recommended,--offered merely 'as is' in the honest trade-phrase of the day,--offered frankly in an open package,--accepted frankly,--if at all--'at your own risk.' not for an instant would i try to deceive you about us! look at us closely, i ask, and--decide for yourself! i am forty-eight years old. i am inexcusably bad-tempered,--very quick to anger, and not, i fear, of great mercy. i am moody. i am selfish. i am most distinctly unsocial. but i am not, i believe, stingy,--nor ever intentionally unfair. my child is a cripple,--and equally bad-tempered as myself. no one but a mercenary has ever coped with her. and she shows it. we have lived alone for six years. all of our clothes, and most of our ways, need mending. i am not one to mince matters, miss malgregor, nor has your training, i trust, made you one from whom truths must be veiled. i am a man with all a man's needs,--mental, moral, physical. my child is a child with all a child's needs,--mental, moral, physical. our house of life is full of cobwebs. the rooms of affection have long been closed. there will be a great deal of work to do! and it is not my intention, you see, that you should misunderstand in any conceivable way either the exact nature or the exact amount of work and worry involved. i should not want you to come to me afterwards with a whine, as other workers do, and say 'oh, but i didn't know you would expect me to do _this!_ oh, but i hadn't any idea you would want me to do _that!_ and i certainly don't see why you should expect me to give up my thursday afternoon just because you, yourself, happened to fall down stairs in the morning and break your back!'" across the senior surgeon's face a real smile lightened suddenly. "really, miss malgregor," he affirmed, "i'm afraid there isn't much of anything that you won't be expected to do! and as to your 'thursdays out'? ha! if you have ever yet found a way to temper the wind of your obligations to the shorn lamb of your pleasures, you have discovered something that i myself have never yet succeeded in discovering! and as to 'wages'? yes! i want to talk everything quite frankly! in addition to my average yearly earnings,--which are by no means small,--i have a reasonably large private fortune. within normal limits there is no luxury i think that you cannot hope to have. also, exclusive of the independent income which i would like to settle upon you, i should be very glad to finance for you any reasonable dreams that you may cherish concerning your family in nova scotia. also,--though the offer looks small and unimportant to you now, it is liable to loom pretty large to you later,--also, i will personally guarantee to you--at some time every year, an unfettered, perfectly independent two months' holiday. so the offer stands,--my 'name and fame,'--if those mean anything to you,--financial independence,--an assured 'breathing spell' for at least two months out of twelve,--and at last but not least,--my eternal gratitude! 'general heartwork for a family of two'! _there!_ have i made the task perfectly clear to you? not everything to be done all at once, you know. but immediately where necessity urges it,--gradually as confidence inspires it,--ultimately if affection justifies it,--every womanish thing that needs to be done in a man's and a child's neglected lives? do you understand?" "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. "oh, and there's one thing more," confided the senior surgeon. "it's something, of course, that i ought to have told you the very first thing of all!" nervously he glanced down at the sleeping child, and lowered his voice to a mumbling monotone. "as regards my actual morals you have naturally a right to know that i've led a pretty decent sort of life,--though i probably don't deserve any special credit for that. a man who knows enough to be a doctor isn't particularly apt to lead any other kind. frankly,--as women rate vices i believe i have only one. what--what--i'm trying to tell you--now--is about that one." a little defiantly as to chin, a little appealingly as to eye, he emptied his heart of its last tragic secret. "through all the male line of my family, miss malgregor, dipsomania runs rampant. two of my brothers, my father, my grandfather, my great grandfather before him, have all gone down as the temperance people would say into 'drunkards' graves.' in my own case, i have chosen to compromise with the evil. such a choice, believe me, has not been made carelessly or impulsively, but out of the agony and humiliation of--several less successful methods." hard as a rock, his face grooved into its granite-like furrows again. "naturally, under these existing conditions," he warned her almost threateningly, "i am not peculiarly susceptible to the mawkishly ignorant and sentimental protests of--people whose strongest passions are an appetite for--chocolate candy! for eleven months of the year," he hurried on a bit huskily, "for eleven months of the year,--eleven months,--each day reeking from dawn to dark with the driving, nerve-wracking, heart-wringing work that falls to my profession, i lead an absolutely abstemious life, touching neither wine nor liquor, nor even indeed tea or coffee. in the twelfth month,--june always,--i go way, way up into canada,--way, way off in the woods to a little log camp i own there,--with an indian who has guided me thus for eighteen years. and live like a--wild man for four gorgeous, care-free, trail-tramping, salmon-fighting,--whisky-guzzling weeks. it is what your temperance friends would call a--'spree.' to be quite frank, i suppose it is what--anybody would call a 'spree.' then the first of july,--three or four days past the first of july perhaps,--i come out of the woods--quite tame again. a little emotionally nervous, perhaps,--a little temperishly irritable,--a little unduly sensitive about being greeted as a returned jail-bird,--but most miraculously purged of all morbid craving for liquor, and with every digital muscle as coolly steady as yours, and every conscious mental process clamoring cleanly for its own work again." furtively under his glowering brows he stopped and searched the white linen nurse's imperturbable face. "it's an--established custom, you understand," he rewarned her. "i'm not advocating it, you understand,--i'm not defending it. i'm simply calling your attention to the fact that it is an established custom. if you decide to come to us, i--i couldn't, you know, at forty-eight--begin all over again to--to have some one waiting for me on the top step the first of july to tell me--what a low beast i am--till i go down the steps again--the following june." "no, of course not," conceded the white linen nurse. blandly she lifted her lovely eyes to his. "father's like that!" she confided amiably. "once a year,--just easter sunday only,--he always buys him a brand new suit of clothes and goes to church. and it does something to him,--i don't know exactly what, but easter afternoon he always gets drunk,--oh mad, fighting drunk is what i mean, and goes out and tries to tear up the whole county." worriedly two black thoughts puckered between her eyebrows. "and always," she said, "he makes mother and me go up to halifax beforehand to pick out the suit for him. it's pretty hard sometimes," she said, "to find anything dressy enough for the morning, that's serviceable enough for the afternoon." "eh?" jerked the senior surgeon. then suddenly he began to smile again like a stormy sky from which the last cloud has just been cleared. "well, it's all right then, is it? you'll take us?" he asked brightly. "oh, no!" said the white linen nurse. "oh, no, sir! oh, no indeed, sir!" quite perceptibly she jerked her way backward a little on the grass. "thank you very much!" she persisted courteously. "it's been very interesting! i thank you very much for telling me, but--" "but what?" snapped the senior surgeon. "but it's too quick," said the white linen nurse. "no man could tell like that--just between one eye-wink and another what he wanted about anything,--let alone marrying a perfect stranger." instantly the senior surgeon bridled. "i assure you, my dear young lady," he retorted, "that i am entirely and completely accustomed to deciding between 'one wink and another' just exactly what it is that i want. indeed, i assure you that there are a good many people living to-day who wouldn't be living, if it had taken me even as long as a wink and three-quarters to make up my mind!" "yes, i know, sir," acknowledged the white linen nurse. "yes, of course, sir," she acquiesced with most commendable humility. "but all the same, sir, i couldn't do it!" she persisted with inflexible positiveness. "why, i haven't enough education," she confessed quite shamelessly. "you had enough, i notice, to get into the hospital," drawled the senior surgeon a bit grumpily. "and that's quite as much as most people have, i assure you! 'a high school education or its equivalent,'--that is the hospital requirement, i believe?" he questioned tartly. "'a high school education or its--equivocation' is what we girls call it," confessed the white linen nurse demurely. "but even so, sir," she pleaded, "it isn't just my lack of education! it's my brains! i tell you, sir, i haven't got enough brains to do what you suggest!" "i don't mean at all to belittle your brains," grinned the senior surgeon in spite of himself. "oh, not at all, miss malgregor! but you see it isn't especially brains that i'm looking for! really what i need most," he acknowledged frankly, "is an extra pair of hands to go with the--brains i already possess!" "yes, i know, sir," persisted the white linen nurse. "yes, of course, sir," she conceded. "yes, of course, sir, my hands work--awfully--well--with your face. but all the same," she kindled suddenly, "all the same, sir, i can't! i won't! i tell you sir, i won't! why, i'm not in your world, sir! why, i'm not in your class! why--my folks aren't like your folks! oh, we're just as good as you--of course--but we aren't as nice! oh, we're not nice at all! really and truly we're not!" desperately through her mind she rummaged up and down for some one conclusive fact that would close this torturing argument for all time. "why--my father--eats with his knife," she asserted triumphantly. "would he be apt to eat with mine?" asked the senior surgeon with extravagant gravity. precipitously the white linen nurse jumped to the defense of her father's intrinsic honor. "oh, no!" she denied with some vehemence. "father's never cheeky like that! father's simple sometimes,--plain, i mean. or he might be a bit sharp. but, oh, i'm sure he'd never be--cheeky! oh, no, sir! no!" "oh, very well then," grinned the senior surgeon. "we can consider everything all comfortably settled then i suppose?" "no, we can't!" screamed the white linen nurse. a little awkwardly with cramped limbs she struggled partly upward from the grass and knelt there defying the senior surgeon from her temporarily superior height. "no, we can't!" she reiterated wildly. "i tell you i can't, sir! i won't! i won't! i've been engaged once and it's enough! i tell you, sir, i'm all engaged out!" "what's become of the man you were engaged to?" quizzed the senior surgeon sharply. "why--he's married!" said the white linen nurse. "and they've got a kid!" she added tempestuously. "good! i'm glad of it!" smiled the senior surgeon quite amazingly. "now he surely won't bother us any more." "but i was engaged so long!" protested the white linen nurse. "almost ever since i was born, i said. it's too long. you don't get over it!" "he got over it," remarked the senior surgeon laconically. "y-e-s," admitted the white linen nurse. "but i tell you it doesn't seem decent. not after being engaged--twenty years!" with a little helpless gesture of appeal she threw out her hands. "oh, can't i make you understand, sir?" "why, of course, i understand," said the senior surgeon briskly. "you mean that you and john--" "his name was 'joe,'" corrected the white linen nurse. with astonishing amiability the senior surgeon acknowledged the correction. "you mean," he said, "you mean that you and--joe--have been cradled together so familiarly all your babyhood that on your wedding night you could most naturally have said 'let me see--joe,--it's two pillows that you always have, isn't it? and a double-fold of blanket at the foot?' you mean that you and joe have been washed and scrubbed together so familiarly all your young childhood that you could identify joe's headless body twenty years hence by the kerosene-lamp scar across his back? you mean that you and joe have played house together so familiarly all your young tin-dish days that even your rag dolls called joe 'father'? you mean that since your earliest memory,--until a year or so ago,--life has never once been just you and life, but always you and life and joe? you and spring and joe,--you and summer and joe,--you and autumn and joe,--you and winter and joe,--till every conscious nerve in your body has been so everlastingly joed with joe's joeness that you don't believe there 's any experience left in life powerful enough to eradicate that original impression? eh?" "yes, sir," flushed the white linen nurse. "good! i'm glad of it!" snapped the senior surgeon. "it doesn't make you seem quite so alarmingly innocent and remote for a widower to offer marriage to. good, i say! i'm glad of it!" "even so--i don't want to," said the white linen nurse. "thank you very much, sir! but even so, i don't want to." "would you marry--joe--now if he were suddenly free and wanted you?" asked the senior surgeon bluntly. "oh, my lord, no!" said the white linen nurse. "other men are pretty sure to want you," admonished the senior surgeon. "have you made up your mind--definitely that you'll never marry anybody?" "n--o, not exactly," confessed the white linen nurse. an odd flicker twitched across the senior surgeon's face like a sob in the brain. "what's your first name, miss malgregor?" he asked a bit huskily. "rae," she told him with some surprise. the senior surgeon's eyes narrowed suddenly again. "damn it all, rae," he said, "_i--want you!_" precipitously the white linen nurse scrambled to her feet. "if you don't mind, sir," she cried, "i'll run down to the brook and get myself a drink of water!" impishly like a child, muscularly like a man, the senior surgeon clutched out at the flapping corner of her coat. "no you don't!" he laughed, "till you've given me my definite answer--yes or no!" breathlessly the white linen nurse spun round in her tracks. her breast was heaving with ill-suppressed sobs. her eyes were blurred with tears. "you've no business--to hurry me so!" she protested passionately. "it isn't fair!--it isn't kind!" sluggishly in the senior surgeon's jolted arms the little girl woke from her feverish nap and peered up perplexedly through the gray dusk into her father's face. "where's--my kitty?" she asked hazily. "eh?" jerked the senior surgeon. harshly the little iron leg-braces clanked together. in an instant the white linen nurse was on her knees in the grass. "you don't hold her right, sir!" she expostulated. deftly with little soft, darting touches, interrupted only by rubbing her knuckles into her own tears, she reached out and eased successively the bruise of a buckle or the dragging weight on a little cramped hip. still drowsily, still hazily, with little smacking gasps and gulping swallows, the child worried her way back again into consciousness. "all the birds _were_ there, father," she droned forth feebly from her sweltering mink-fur nest. all the birds _were_ there with yellow feathers instead of--hair, and bumble bees--and bumble bees-- and bumble bees?--and bumble bees--? frenziedly she began to burrow the back of her head into her father's shoulder. "and bumble bees?--and bumble bees--?" "oh, for heaven's sake--'buzzed' in the trees!" interpolated the senior surgeon. rigidly from head to foot the little body in his arms stiffened suddenly. as one who saw the supreme achievement of a life-time swept away by some one careless joggle of an infinitesimal part, the little girl stared up agonizingly into her father's face. "oh, i don't think--'buzzed' was the word!" she began convulsively. "oh, i don't think--!" startlingly through the twilight the senior surgeon felt the white linen nurse's rose-red lips come smack against his ear. "darn you! can't you say 'crocheted' in the trees?" sobbed the white linen nurse. grotesquely for an instant the senior surgeon's eyes and the white linen nurse's eyes glared at each other in frank antagonism. then suddenly the senior surgeon burst out laughing. "oh, very well!" he surrendered. "'crocheted in the trees'!" precipitously the white linen nurse sank back on her heels and began to clap her hands. "oh, now i will! now i will!" she cried exultantly. "will what?" frowned the senior surgeon. abruptly the white linen nurse stopped clapping her hands and began to wring them nervously in her lap instead. "why--will--will!" she confessed demurely. "oh!" jumped the senior surgeon. "_oh!"_ then equally jerkily he began to pucker his eyebrows. "but for heaven's sake--what's the 'crocheted in the trees' got to do with it?" he asked perplexedly. "nothing much," mused the white linen nurse very softly. with sudden alertness she turned her curly blonde head towards the road. "there's somebody coming!" she said. "i hear a team!" overcome by a bashfulness that tried to escape in jocosity, the senior surgeon gave an odd little choking chuckle. "well, i never thought i should marry a--trained nurse!" he acknowledged with somewhat hectic blitheness. impulsively the white linen nurse reached for her watch and lifted it close to her twilight-blinded eyes. a sense of ineffable peace crept suddenly over her. "you won't, sir!" she said amiably. "it's twenty minutes of nine, now. and the graduation was at eight!" chapter viii for any real adventure except dying, june is certainly a most auspicious month. indeed it was on the very first rain-green, rose-red morning of june that the white linen nurse sallied forth upon her extremely hazardous adventure of marrying the senior surgeon and his naughty little crippled daughter. the wedding was at noon in some kind of a gray granite church. and the senior surgeon was there, of course,--and the necessary witnesses. but the little crippled girl never turned up at all, owing--it proved later,--to a more than usually violent wrangle with whomever dressed her, concerning the general advisability of sporting turquoise-colored stockings with her brightest little purple dress. the senior surgeon's stockings, if you really care to know, were gray. and the senior surgeon's suit was gray. and he looked altogether very huge and distinguished,--and no more strikingly unhappy than any bridegroom looks in a gray granite church. and the white linen nurse,--no longer now truly a white linen nurse but just an ordinary, every-day, silk-and-cloth lady of any color she chose, wore something rather coat-y and grand and bluish, and was distractingly pretty of course but most essentially unfamiliar,--and just a tiny bit awkward and bony-wristed looking,--as even an admiral is apt to be on his first day out of uniform. then as soon as the wedding ceremony was over, the bride and groom went to a wonderful green and gold café all built of marble and lined with music, and had a little lunch. what i really mean, of course, is that they had a very large lunch, but didn't eat any of it! then in a taxi-cab, just exactly like any other taxi-cab, the white linen nurse drove home alone to the senior surgeon's great, gloomy house to find her brand new step-daughter still screaming over the turquoise colored stockings. and the senior surgeon in a canadian-bound train, just exactly like any other canadian-bound train, started off alone,--as usual, on his annual june "spree." please don't think for a moment that it was the senior surgeon who was responsible for the general eccentricities of this amazing wedding day. no indeed! the senior surgeon didn't _want_ to be married the first day of june! he _said_ he didn't! he _growled_ he didn't! he _snarled_ he didn't! he _swore_ he didn't! and when he finished saying and growling and snarling and swearing,--and looked up at the white linen nurse for a confirmation of his opinion, the white linen nurse smiled perfectly amiably and said, "yes, sir!" then the senior surgeon gave a great gasp of relief and announced resonantly, "well, it's all settled then? we'll be married some time in july,--after i get home from canada?" and when the white linen nurse kept on smiling perfectly amiably and said, "oh, no, sir! oh, no, thank you, sir! it wouldn't seem exactly legal to me to be married any other month but june!" then the senior surgeon went absolutely dumb with rage that this mere chit of a girl,--and a trained nurse, too,--should dare to thwart his personal and professional convenience. but the white linen nurse just drooped her pretty blonde head and blushed and blushed and blushed and said, "i was only marrying you, sir, to--accommodate you--sir,--and if june doesn't accommodate you--i'd rather go to japan with that monoideic somnambulism case. it's very interesting. and it sails june second." then "oh, hell with the 'monoideic somnambulism case'!" the senior surgeon would protest. really it took the senior surgeon quite a long while to work out the three special arguments that should best protect him, he thought, from the horridly embarrassing idea of being married in june. "but you can't get ready so soon!" he suggested at last with real triumph. "you've no idea how long it takes a girl to get ready to be married! there are so many people she has to tell,--and everything!" "there's never but two that she's got to tell--or bust!" conceded the white linen nurse with perfect candor. "just the woman she loves the most--and the woman she hates the worst. i'll write my mother to-morrow. but i told the superintendent of nurses yesterday." "the deuce you did!" snapped the senior surgeon. almost caressingly the white linen nurse lifted her big blue eyes to his. "yes, sir," she said, "and she looked as sick as a young undertaker. i can't imagine what ailed her." "eh?" choked the senior surgeon. "but the house now," he hastened to contend. "the house now needs a lot of fixing over! it's all run down! it's all--everything! we never in the world could get it into shape by the first of june! for heaven's sake, now that we've got money enough to make it right, let's go slow and make it perfectly right!" a little nervously the white linen nurse began to fumble through the pages of her memorandum book. "i've always had money enough to 'go slow and make things perfectly right,'" she confided a bit wistfully. "never in all my life have i had a pair of boots that weren't guaranteed, or a dress that wouldn't wash, or a hat that wasn't worth at least three re-pressings. what i was hoping for now, sir, was that i was going to have enough money so that i could go fast and make things wrong if i wanted to,--so that i could afford to take chances, i mean. here's this wall-paper now,"--tragically she pointed to some figuring in her note-book--"it's got peacocks on it--life size--in a queen's garden--and i wanted it for the dining-room. maybe it would fade! maybe we'd get tired of it! maybe it would poison us! slam it on one week--and slash it off the next! i wanted it just because i wanted it, sir! i thought maybe--while you were way off in canada--" eagerly the senior surgeon jerked his chair a little nearer to his--fiancée's. "now, my dear girl," he said. "that's just what i want to explain! that's just what i want to explain! just what i want to explain! to--er--explain!" he continued a bit falteringly. "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. very deliberately the senior surgeon removed a fleck of dust from one of his cuffs. "all this talk of yours--about wanting to be married the same day i start off on my--canadian trip!" he contended. "why, it's all damned nonsense!" "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. very conscientiously the senior surgeon began to search for a fleck of dust on his other cuff. "why my--my dear girl," he persisted. "it's absurd! it's outrageous! why people would--would hoot at us! why they'd think--!" "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. "why, my dear girl," sweated the senior surgeon. "even though you and i understand perfectly well the purely formal, business-like conditions of our marriage, we must at least for sheer decency's sake keep up a certain semblance of marital conventionality--before the world! why, if we were married at noon the first day of june--as you suggest,--and i should go right off alone as usual--on my canadian trip--and you should come back alone to the house--why, people would think--would think that i didn't care anything about you!" "but you don't," said the white linen nurse serenely. "why, they'd think," choked the senior surgeon. "they'd think you were trying your--darndest--to get rid of me!" "i am," said the white linen nurse complacently. with a muttered ejaculation the senior surgeon jumped to his feet and stood glaring down at her. quite ingenuously the white linen nurse met and parried the glare. "a gentleman--and a red-haired kiddie--and a great walloping house--all at once! it's too much!" she confided genially. "thank you just the same, but i'd rather take them gradually. first of all, sir, you see, i've got to teach the little kiddie to like me! and then there's a green-tiled paper with floppity sea gulls on it--that i want to try for the bath-room! and--and--" ecstatically she clapped her hands together. "oh, sir! there are such loads and loads of experiments i want to try while you are off on your spree!" "s--h--h!" cried the senior surgeon. his face was suddenly blanched,--his mouth, twitching like the mouth of one stricken with almost insupportable pain. "for god's sake, miss malgregor!" he pleaded, "can't you call it my--canadian trip?" wider and wider the white linen nurse opened her big blue eyes at him. "but it is a 'spree,' sir!" she attested resolutely. "and my father says--" still resolutely her young mouth curved to its original assertion, but from under her heavy-shadowing eyelashes a little blue smile crept softly out. "when my father's got a lame trotting horse, sir, that he's trying to shuck off his hands," she faltered, "he doesn't ever go round mournful-like with his head hanging--telling folks about his wonderful trotter that's just 'the littlest, teeniest, tiniest bit--lame.' oh no! what father does is to call up every one he knows within twenty miles and tell 'em, 'say tom,--bill,--harry,'--or whatever his name is--'what in the deuce do you suppose i've got over here in my barn? a lame horse--that wants to trot! lamer than the deuce, you know! but can do a mile in . .'" faintly the little blue smile quickened again in the white linen nurse's eyes. "and the barn will be full of men in half an hour!" she said. "somehow nobody wants a trotter that's lame! but almost anybody seems willing to risk a lame horse--that's plucky enough to trot!" "what's the 'lame trotting horse' got to do with--me?" snarled the senior surgeon incisively. darkly the white linen nurse's lashes fringed down across her cheeks. "nothing much," she said, "only--" "only what?" demanded the senior surgeon. a little more roughly than he realized he stooped down and took the white linen nurse by her shoulders, and jerked her sharply round to the light. "only _what?_" he insisted peremptorily. almost plaintively she lifted her eyes to his. "only--my father says," she confided obediently, "my father says if you've got a worse foot--for heaven's sake put it forward--and get it over with! "so--i've _got_ to call it a 'spree'!" smiled the white linen nurse. "'cause when i think of marrying a--_surgeon_--that goes off and gets drunk every june--it--it scares me almost to my death! but--" abruptly the red smile faded from her lips, the blue smile from her eyes. "but--when i think of marrying a--june drunk--that's got the grit to pull up absolutely straight as a die and be a _surgeon_--all the other 'leven months in the year--" dartingly she bent down and kissed the senior surgeon's astonished wrist. "oh, then i think you're perfectly _grand_!" she sobbed. awkwardly the senior surgeon pulled away and began to pace the floor. "you're a--good little girl, rae malgregor," he mumbled huskily. "a good little girl. i truly believe you're the kind that will--see me through." poignantly in his eyes humiliation overwhelmed the mist. perversely in its turn resentment overtook the humiliation. "but i won't be married in june!" he reasserted bombastically. "i won't! i won't! i won't! i tell you i positively refuse to have a lot of damn fools speculating about my private affairs! wondering why i didn't take you! wondering why i didn't stay home with you! i tell you i won't! i simply won't!" "yes, sir," stammered the white linen nurse. with a real gasp of relief the senior surgeon stopped his eternal pacing of the floor. "bully for you!" he said. "you mean then we'll be married some time in july after i get back from my--trip?" "oh, no, sir," stammered the white linen nurse. "but great heavens!" shouted the senior surgeon. "yes, sir," the white linen nurse began all over again. dreamily planning out her wedding gown, her lips without the slightest conscious effort on her part were already curving into shape for her alternate "no, sir." "you're an idiot!" snapped the senior surgeon. a little reproachfully the white linen nurse came frowning out of her reverie. "would it do just as well for traveling, do you think?" she asked, with real concern. "eh? what?" said the senior surgeon. "i mean--does japan spot?" queried the white linen nurse. "would it spot a serge, i mean?" "oh, hell with japan!" jerked the senior surgeon. "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. now perhaps you will understand just exactly how it happened that the senior surgeon and the white linen nurse _were_ married on the first day of june, and just exactly how it happened that the senior surgeon went off alone as usual on his canadian trip, and just exactly how it happened that the white linen nurse came home alone to the senior surgeon's great, gloomy house, to find her brand new step-daughter still screaming over the turquoise-colored stockings. everything now is perfectly comfortably explained except the turquoise-colored stockings. nobody could explain the turquoise-colored stockings! but even a little child could explain the ensuing june! oh, june was perfectly wonderful that year! bud, blossom, bird-song, breeze,--rioting headlong through the land. warm days sweet and lush as a green-house vapor! crisp nights faintly metallic like the scent of stars! hurdy-gurdies romping tunefully on every street-corner! even the ash-man flushing frankly pink across his dusty cheek-bones! like two fairies who had sublet a giant's cave the white linen nurse and the little crippled girl turned themselves loose upon the senior surgeon's gloomy old house. it certainly was a gloomy old house, but handsome withal,--square and brown and substantial, and most generously gardened within high brick walls. except for dusting the lilac bushes with the hose, and weeding a few rusty leaves out of the privet hedge, and tacking up three or four scraggly sprays of english ivy, and re-greening one or two bay-tree boxes, there was really nothing much to do to the garden. but the house? oh ye gods! all day long from morning till night,--but most particularly from the back door to the barn, sweating workmen scuttled back and forth till nary a guilty piece of black walnut furniture had escaped. all day long from morning till night,--but most particularly from ceilings to floors, sweltering workmen scurried up and down step-ladders stripping dingy papers from dingier plasterings. when the white linen nurse wasn't busy renovating the big house--or the little step-daughter, she was writing to the senior surgeon. she wrote twice. "dear dr. faber," the first letter said. * * * * * dear dr. faber, how do you do? thank you very much, for saying you didn't care what in thunder i did to the house. it looks _sweet_. i've put white fluttery muslin curtains most everywhere. and you've got a new solid-gold-looking bed in your room. and the kiddie and i have fixed up the most scrumptious light blue suite for ourselves in the ell. pink was wrong for the front hall, but it cost me only $ . to find out. and now that's settled for all time. i am very, very, very, very busy. something strange and new happens every day. yesterday it was three ladies and a plumber. one of the ladies was just selling soap, but i didn't buy any. it was horrid soap. the other two were calling ladies,--a silk one and a velvet one. the silk one tried to be nasty to me. right to my face she told me i was more of a lady than she had dared to hope. and i told her i was sorry for that as you'd had one "lady" and it didn't work. was that all right? but the other lady was nice. and i took her out in the kitchen with me while i was painting the woodwork, and right there in her white kid gloves she laughed and showed me how to mix the paint pearl gray. _she_ was nice. it was your sister-in-law. i like being married, dr. faber. i like it lots better than i thought i would. it's fun being the biggest person in the house. respectfully yours, rae malgregor,--as was. p.s. oh, i hope it wasn't wrong, but in your ulster pocket, when i went to put it away, i found a bottle of something that smelt as though it had been forgotten.--i threw it out. * * * * * it was this letter that drew the only definite message from the itinerant bridegroom. "kindly refrain from rummaging in my ulster pockets," wrote the senior surgeon quite briefly. "the 'thing' you threw out happened to be the cerebellum and medulla of an extremely eminent english theologian!" "even so,--it was sour," telegraphed the white linen nurse in a perfect agony of remorse and humiliation. the telegram took an indian with a birch canoe two days to deliver, and cost the senior surgeon twelve dollars. just impulsively the senior surgeon decided to make no further comments on domestic affairs,--at that particular range. very fortunately for this impulse the white linen nurse's second letter concerned itself almost entirely with matters quite extraneous to the home. "dear dr. faber," the second letter ran. * * * * * dear dr. faber, somehow i don't seem to care so much just now about being the biggest person in the house. something awful has happened. zillah forsyth is dead. really dead, i mean. and she died in great heroism. you remember zillah forsyth, don't you? she was one of my room-mates,--not the gooder one, you know,--not the swell,--that was helene churchill. but zillah? oh you know! zillah was the one you sent out on that fractured elbow case. it was a yale student, you remember? and there was some trouble about kissing,--and she got sent home? and now everybody's crying because zillah _can't_ kiss anybody any more! isn't everything the limit? well, it wasn't a fractured yale student she got sent out on this time. if it had been, she might have been living yet. what they sent her out on this time was a senile dementia,--an old lady more than eighty years old. and they were in a sanitarium or something like that. and there was a fire in the night. and the old lady just up and positively refused to escape. and zillah had to push her and shove her and yank her and carry her--out the window--along the gutters--round the chimneys. and the old lady bit zillah right through the hand,--but zillah wouldn't let go. and the old lady tried to drown zillah under a bursted water tank,--but zillah wouldn't let go. and everybody hollered to zillah to cut loose and save herself,--but zillah wouldn't let go. and a wall fell, and everything, and oh, it was awful,--but zillah never let go. and the old lady that wasn't any good to any one,--not even herself, got saved of course. but zillah? oh, zillah got hurt bad, sir! we saw her at the hospital, helene and i. she sent for us about something. oh, it was awful! not a thing about her that you'd know except just her great solemn eyes mooning out at you through a gob of white cotton, and her red mouth lipping sort of twitchy at the edge of a bandage. oh it was awful! but zillah didn't seem to care so much. there was a new interne there,--a japanese, and i guess she was sort of taken with him. "but my god, zillah," i said, "_your_ life was worth more than that old dame's!" "shut your noise!" says zillah. "it was my job. and there's no kick coming." helene burst right out crying, she did. "shut _your_ noise, too!" says zillah, just as cool as you please. "bah! there's other lives and other chances!" "oh, you do believe that now?" cries helene. "oh, you do believe that now,--what the bible promises you?" that was when zillah shrugged her shoulders so funny,--the little way she had. gee, but her eyes were big! "i don't pretend to know--what--your old bible says," she choked. "it was--the yale feller--who was tellin' me." that's all, dr. faber. it was her shrugging her shoulders so funny that brought on the hemorrhage. oh, we had an awful time, sir, going home in the carriage,--helene and i. we both cried, of course, because zillah was dead, but after we got through crying for that, helene kept right on crying because she couldn't understand why a brave girl like zillah _had_ to be dead. gee! but helene takes things hard. ladies do, i guess. i hope you're having a pleasant spree. oh, i forgot to tell you that one of the wall-paperers is living here at the house with us just now. we use him so much it's truly a good deal more convenient. and he's a real nice young fellow, and he plays the piano finely, and he comes from up my way. and it seemed more neighborly anyway. it's so large in the house at night, just now, and so creaky in the garden. with kindest regards, good-by for now, from rae. p.s. don't tell your guide or _any one!_ but helene sent zillah's mother a check for fifteen hundred dollars. i saw it with my own eyes. and all zillah asked for that day was just a little blue serge suit. it seems she'd promised her kid sister a little blue serge suit for july. and it sort of worried her. helene sent the little blue serge suit too! and a hat! the hat had bluebells on it. do you think when you come home--if i haven't spent too much money on wall-papers--that i could have a blue hat with bluebells on it? excuse me for bothering you--but you forgot to leave me enough money. * * * * * it was some indefinite, pleasant time on thursday, the twenty-fifth of june, that the senior surgeon received this second letter. it was friday the twenty-sixth of june, exactly at dawn, that the senior surgeon started homeward. nobody looks very well in the dawn. certainly the senior surgeon didn't. heavily as a man wading through a bog of dreams, he stumbled out of his cabin into the morning. under his drowsy, brooding eyes appalling shadows circled. behind his sunburn,--deeper than his tan, something sinister and uncanny lurked wanly like the pallor of a soul. yet the senior surgeon had been most blamelessly abed and asleep since griddle-cake time the previous evening. only the mountains and the forest and the lake had been out all night. for seventy miles of canadian wilderness only the mountains and the forest and the lake stood actually convicted of having been out all night. dank and white with its vaporous vigil the listless lake kindled wanly to the new day's breeze. blue with cold a precipitous mountain peak lurched craggedly home through a rift in the fog. drenched with mist, bedraggled with dew, a green-feathered pine tree lay guzzling insatiably at a leaf-brown pool. monotonous as a sob the waiting birch canoe slosh-sloshed against the beach. there was no romantic smell of red roses in this june landscape. just tobacco smoke, and the faint reminiscent fragrance of fried trout, and the mournful, sizzling, pungent consciousness of a camp-fire quenched for a whole year with a tinful of wet coffee grounds. gliding out cautiously into the lake as though the mere splash of a paddle might shatter the whole glassy surface, the indian guide propounded the question that was uppermost in his mind. "cutting your trip a bit short this year,--ain't you, boss?" quizzed the indian guide. out from his muffling mackinaw collar the senior surgeon parried the question with an amazingly novel sense of embarrassment. "oh, i don't know," he answered with studied lightness. "there are one or two things at home that are bothering me a little." "a woman, eh?" said the indian guide laconically. "a woman?" thundered the senior surgeon. "a--woman? oh, ye gods! no! it's wall paper!" then suddenly and unexpectedly in the midst of his passionate refutation the senior surgeon burst out laughing,--boisterously, hilariously like a crazy school-boy. bluntly from an overhanging ledge of rock the echo of his laugh came mocking back at him. down from some unvisioned mountain fastness the echo of that echo came wafting faintly to him. the senior surgeon's laugh was made of teeth and tongue and palate and a purely convulsive physical impulse. but the echo's laugh was a phantasy of mist and dawn and inestimable balsam-scented spaces where little green ferns and little brown beasties and soft-breasted birdlings frolicked eternally in pristine sweetness. seven miles further down the lake, at the beginning of the rapids, the indian guide spoke again. racking the canoe between two rocks,--paddling, panting, pushing, sweating, the indian guide lifted his voice high,--piercing, above the swirling roar of waters. "eh, boss!" shouted the indian guide. "i ain't never heard you laugh before!" neither man spoke again more than once or twice during the long, strenuous hours that were left to them. the indian guide was very busy in his stolid mind trying to figure out just how many rows of potatoes could be planted fruitfully between his front door and his cow-shed. i don't know what the senior surgeon was trying to figure out. it was just four days later from a rolling, musty-cushioned hack that the senior surgeon disembarked at his own front gate. even though a man likes home no better than he likes--tea, few men would deny the soothing effect of home at the end of a long fussy railroad journey. five o'clock, also, of a late june afternoon is a peculiarly wonderful time to be arriving home,--especially if that home has a garden around it so that you are thereby not rushed precipitously upon the house itself, as upon a cup without a saucer, but can toy visually with the whole effect before you quench your thirst with the actual draught. very, very deliberately, with his clumsy rod-case in one hand, and his heavy grip in the other, the senior surgeon started up the long, broad gravel path to the house. for a man walking as slow as he was, his heart was beating most extraordinarily fast. he was not accustomed to heart-palpitation. the symptom worried him a trifle. incidentally also his lungs felt strangely stifled with the scent of june. close at his right an effulgent white and gold syringa bush flaunted its cloying sweetness into his senses. close at his left a riotous bloom of phlox clamored red-blue-purple-lavender-pink into his dazzled vision. multi-colored pansies tiptoed velvet-footed across the grass. in soft murky mystery a flame-tinted smoke tree loomed up here and there like a faintly rouged ghost. over everything, under everything, through everything, lurked a certain strange, novel, vibrating consciousness of _occupancy_. bees in the rose bushes! bobolinks in the trees! a woman's work-basket in the curve of the hammock! a doll's tea set sprawling cheerfully in the middle of the broad gravel path! it was not until the senior surgeon had actually stepped into the tiny cream pitcher that he noticed the presence of the doll's tea set. it was what the senior surgeon said as he stepped out of the cream pitcher that summoned the amazing apparition from a ragged green hole in the privet hedge. startlingly white, startlingly professional,--dress, cap, apron and all,--a miniature white linen nurse sprang suddenly out at him like a tricky dwarf in a moving picture show. just at that particular moment the senior surgeon's nerves were in no condition to wrestle with apparitions. simultaneously as the clumsy rod-case dropped from his hand, the expression of enthusiasm dropped from the face of the miniature white linen nurse. "oh, dear--oh, dear--oh, dear! have _you_ come home?" wailed the familiar, shrill little voice. sheepishly the senior surgeon picked up his rod-case. the noises in his head were crashing like cracked bells. desperately with a boisterous irritability he sought to cover also the lurching pound-pound-pound of his heart. "what in hell are you rigged out like that for?" he demanded stormily. with equal storminess the little girl protested the question. "peach said i could!" she attested passionately. "peach said i could! she did! she did! i tell you i didn't want her to marry us--that day! i was afraid, i was! i cried, i did! i had a convulsion! they thought it was stockings! so peach said if it would make me feel any gooderer, i could be the cruel new step-mother. and she'd be the unloved offspring--with her hair braided all yellow fluffikins down her back!" "where _is_--miss malgregor?" asked the senior surgeon sharply. irrelevantly the little girl sank down on the gravel walk and began to gather up her scattered dishes. "and it's fun to go to bed--now," she confided amiably. "'cause every night i put peach to bed at eight o'clock and she's so naughty always i have to stay with her! and then all of a sudden it's morning--like going through a black room without knowing it!" "i said--where _is_ miss malgregor?" repeated the senior surgeon with increasing sharpness. thriftily the little girl bent down to lap a bubble of cream from the broken pitcher. "oh, she's out in the summer house with the wall paper man," she mumbled indifferently. chapter ix altogether jerkily the senior surgeon started up the walk for his own perfectly formal and respectable brown stone mansion. deep down in his lurching heart he felt a sudden most inordinate desire to reach that brown stone mansion just as quickly as possible. but abruptly even to himself he swerved off instead at the yellow sassafras tree and plunged quite wildly through a mass of broken sods towards the rickety, no-account cedar summer house. startled by the crackle and thud of his approach the two young figures in the summer house jumped precipitously to their feet, and limply untwining their arms from each other's necks stood surveying the senior surgeon in unspeakable consternation,--the white linen nurse and a blue overalled lad most unconscionably mated in radiant youth and agonized confusion. "oh, my lord, sir!" gasped the white linen nurse. "oh, my lord, sir! i wasn't looking for _you_--for another week!" "evidently not!" said the senior surgeon incisively. "this is the second time this evening that i've been led to infer that my home-coming was distinctly inopportune!" very slowly, very methodically, he put down first his precious rod-case and then his grip. his brain seemed fairly foaming with blood and confusion. along the swelling veins of his arms a dozen primitive instincts went surging to his fists. then quite brazenly before his eyes the white linen nurse reached out and took the lad's hand again. "oh, forgive me, dr. faber!" she faltered. "this is my brother!" "your _brother?--what?--eh?_" choked the senior surgeon. bluntly he reached out and crushed the young fellow's fingers in his own. "glad to see you, son!" he muttered with a sickish sort of grin, and turning abruptly, picked up his baggage again and started for the big house. half a step behind him his white linen bride followed softly. at the edge of the piazza he turned for an instant and eyed her a bit quizzically. with her big credulous blue eyes, and her great mop of yellow hair braided childishly down her back, she looked inestimably more juvenile and innocent than his own little shrewd-faced six-year-old whom he had just left domestically ensconced in the middle of the broad gravel path. "for heaven's sake, miss malgregor," he asked. "for heaven's sake--why didn't you tell me that the wall paper man was your--brother?" very contritely the white linen nurse's chin went burrowing down into the soft collar of her dress and as bashfully as a child one finger came stealing up to the edge of her red, red lips. "i was afraid you'd think i was--cheeky--having any of my family come and live with us--so soon," she murmured almost inaudibly. "well, what did you think i'd think you were--if he wasn't your brother?" asked the senior surgeon sardonically. "very--economical, i hoped!" beamed the white linen nurse. "all the same!" snapped the senior surgeon, with an irrelevance surprising even to himself. "all the same do you think it sounds quite right and proper for a child to call her--step-mother--'peach'?" again the white linen nurse's chin went burrowing down into the soft collar of her dress. "i don't suppose it is--usual," she admitted reluctantly. "the children next door, i notice, call theirs--'cross-patch.'" with a gesture of impatience the senior surgeon proceeded up the steps,--yanked open the old-fashioned shuttered door, and burst quite breathlessly and unprepared upon his most amazingly reconstructed house. all in one single second chintzes,--muslins,--pale blonde maples,--riotous canary birds,--stormed revolutionary upon his outraged eyes. reeling back utterly aghast before the sight, he stood there staring dumbly for an instant at what he considered,--and rightly too,--the absolute wreck of his black walnut home. "it looks like--hell!" he muttered feebly. "yes, _isn't_ it sweet?" conceded the white linen nurse with unmistakable joyousness. "and your library--" triumphantly she threw back the door to his grim work-shop. "good god!" stammered the senior surgeon. "you've made it--pink!" rapturously the white linen nurse began to clasp and unclasp her hands. "i knew you'd love it!" she said. half dazed with bewilderment the senior surgeon started to brush an imaginary haze from his eyes but paused mid-way in the gesture and pointed back instead to a dapper little hall-table that seemed to be exhausting its entire blonde strength in holding up a slender green vase with a single pink rose in it. like a caged animal buffeting for escape against each successive bar that incased it, the man's frenzied irritation hurled itself hopefully against this one more chance for explosive exit. "what--have--you--done--with the big--black--escritoire that stood--there?" he demanded accusingly. "escritoire?--escritoire?" worried the white linen nurse. "why--why--i'm afraid i must have mislaid it." "mislaid it?" thundered the senior surgeon. "mislaid it? it weighed three hundred pounds!" "oh, it did?" questioned the white linen nurse with great, blue-eyed interest. still mulling apparently over the fascinating weight of the escritoire she climbed up suddenly into a chair and with the fluffy broom-shaped end of her extraordinarily long braid of hair went angling wildy off into space after an illusive cobweb. faster and faster the senior surgeon's temper began to search for a new point of exit. "what do you suppose the--servants think of you?" he stormed. "running round like that with your hair in a pig-tail like a--kid?" "servants?" cooed the white linen nurse. "servants?" very quietly she jumped down from the chair and came and stood looking up into the senior surgeon's hectic face. "why, there aren't any servants," she explained patiently. "i've dismissed every one of them. we're doing our own work now!" "doing 'our own work'?" gasped the senior surgeon. quite worriedly the white linen nurse stepped back a little. "why, wasn't that right?" she pleaded. "wasn't it right? why, i thought people always did their own work when they were first married!" with sudden apprehensiveness she glanced round over her shoulder at the hall clock, and darting out through a side door, returned almost instantly with a fierce-looking knife. "i'm so late now and everything," she confided. "could you peel the potatoes for me?" "no, i couldn't!" said the senior surgeon shortly. equally shortly he turned on his heel, and reaching out once more for his rod-case and grip went on up the stairs to his own room. one of the pleasantest things about arriving home very late in the afternoon is the excuse it gives you for loafing in your own room while other people are getting supper. no existent domestic sound in the whole twenty-four hours is as soothing at the end of a long journey as the sound of other people getting supper. stretched out full length in a big easy chair by his bed-room window, with his favorite pipe bubbling rhythmically between his gleaming white teeth, the senior surgeon studied his new "solid gold bed" and his new sage green wall-paper and his new dust-colored rug, to the faint, far-away accompaniment of soft thudding feet, and a girl's laugh, and a child's prattle, and the tink-tink-tinkle of glass,--china,--silver,--all scurrying consciously to the service of one man,--and that man,--_himself_. very, very slowly, in that special half hour an inscrutable little smile printed itself experimentally across the right hand corner of the senior surgeon's upper lip. while that smile was still in its infancy he jumped up suddenly and forced his way across the hall to his dead wife's room,--the one ghost-room of his house and his life,--and there with his hand on the turning door knob,--tense with reluctance,--goose-fleshed with strain,--his breath gasped out of him whether or no with the one word--"alice!" and behold! there was no room there! lurching back from the threshold, as from the brink of an elevator well, the senior surgeon found himself staring foolishly into a most sumptuous linen closet, tiered like an aztec cliff with home after home for pleasant prosy blankets, and gaily fringed towels, and cheerful white sheets reeking most conscientiously of cedar and lavender. tiptoeing cautiously into the mystery he sensed at one astonished, grateful glance how the change of a partition, the re-adjustment of a proportion, had purged like a draft of fresh air the stale gloom of an ill-favored memory. yet so inevitable did it suddenly seem for a linen closet to be built right there,--so inevitable did it suddenly seem for the child's meager play-room to be enlarged just there, that to save his soul he could not estimate whether the happy plan had originated in a purely practical brain or a purely compassionate heart. half proud of the brain, half touched by the heart, he passed on exploringly through the new play-room out into the hall again. quite distinctly now through the aperture of the back stairs the kitchen voices came wafting up to him. "oh, dear! oh, dear!" wailed his little girl's peevish voice. "now that--that man's come back again--i suppose we'll have to eat in the dining-room--all the time!" "'that man' happens to be your darling father!" admonished the white linen nurse's laughing voice. "even so," wailed the little girl, "i love you best." "even so," laughed the white linen nurse, "i love _you_ best!" "just the same," cried the little girl shrilly, "just the same--let's put the cream pitcher way up high somewhere--so he can't step in it!" as though from a head tilted suddenly backward the white linen nurse's laugh rang out in joyous abandon. impulsively the senior surgeon started to grin. then equally impulsively the grin soured on his lips. so they thought he was clumsy? eh? resentfully he stared down at his hands,--those wonderfully dexterous,--yes, ambidexterous hands that were the aching envy of all his colleagues. interruptingly as he stared the voice of the young wall paper man rose buoyantly from the lower hallway. "supper's all ready, sir!" called the cordial voice. for some inexplainable reason, at that particular moment, almost nothing in the world could have irritated the senior surgeon more keenly than to be invited to his own supper,--in his own house,--by a stranger. fuming with a new sense of injury and injustice he started heavily down the stairs to the dining-room. standing patiently behind the senior surgeon's chair with a laudable desire to assist his carving in any possible emergency that might occur, the white linen nurse experienced her first direct marital rebuff. "what do you think this is? an autopsy?" demanded the senior surgeon tartly. "for heaven's sake--sit down!" quite meekly the white linen nurse subsided into her place. the meal that ensued could hardly have been called a success though the room was entrancing,--the cloth, snow-white--the silver, radiant,--the guinea chicken beyond reproach. swept and garnished to an alarming degree the young wall paper man presided over the gravy and did his uttermost, innocent country-best to make the senior surgeon feel perfectly at home. conscientiously, as in the presence of a distinguished stranger, the little crippled girl most palpably from time to time repressed her insatiable desire to build a towering pyramid out of all the salt and pepper shakers she could reach. once when the young wall paper man forgot himself to the extent of putting his knife in his mouth, the white linen nurse jarred the whole table with the violence of her warning kick. once when the little crippled girl piped out impulsively, "say, peach,--what was the name of that bantam your father used to fight against the minister's bantam?" the white linen nurse choked piteously over her food. twice some one spoke about this year's weather. twice some one volunteered an illuminating remark about last year's weather. except for these four diversions restraint indescribable hung like a horrid pall over the feast. next to feeling unwelcome in your friend's house, nothing certainly is more wretchedly disconcerting than to feel unwelcome in your own house! grimly the senior surgeon longed to grab up all the knives within reach and ram them successively into his own mouth just to prove to the young wall paper man what a--what a devil of a good fellow he was himself! grimly the senior surgeon longed to tell the white linen nurse about the pet bantam of his own boyhood days--that he bet a dollar could lick any bantam her father ever dreamed of owning! grimly the senior surgeon longed to talk dolls,--dishes,--kittens,--yes, even cream pitchers, to his little daughter, to talk anything in fact--to _any one_,--to talk--sing--shout _anything_--that should make him, at least for the time being, one at heart, one at head, one at table, with this astonishingly offish bunch of youngsters! but grimly instead,--out of his frazzled nerves,--out of his innate spiritual bashfulness, he merely roared forth, "where are the potatoes?" "potatoes?" gasped the white linen nurse. "potatoes? oh, potatoes?" she finished more blithely. "why, yes, of course! don't you remember--you didn't have time to peel them for me? i was so disappointed!" "you were so disappointed?" snapped the senior surgeon. "you?--you?" janglingly the little crippled girl knelt right up in her chair and shook her tiny fist right in her father's face. "now, lendicott paber!" she screamed. "don't you start in--sassing--my darling little peach!" "_peach?_" snorted the senior surgeon. with almost supernatural calm he put down his knife and fork and eyed his offspring with an expression of absolutely inflexible purpose. "don't you--ever," he warned her, "ever--ever--let me hear you call--this woman 'peach' again!" a trifle faint-heartedly the little crippled girl reached up and straightened her absurdly diminutive little white cap, and pursed her little mouth as nearly as possible into an expression of ineffable peace. "why--lendicott faber!" she persisted heroically. "_lendicott?_" jumped the senior surgeon. "what are _you_--'lendicotting' _me_ for?" hilariously with her own knife and fork the little crippled girl began to beat upon the table. "why, you dear silly!" she cried. "why, if i'm the new marma, i've got to call you 'lendicott'! and peach has got to call you 'fat father'!" frenziedly the senior surgeon pushed back his chair, and jumped to his feet. the expression on his face was neither smile nor frown, nor war nor peace, nor any other human expression that had ever puckered there before. "god!" he said. "this gives me the _willies_!" and strode tempestuously from the room. out in his own work-shop fortunately,--whatever the grotesque new pinkness,--whatever the grotesque new perkiness--his great free walking-spaces had not been interfered with. slamming his door triumphantly behind him, he resumed once more the monotonous pace-pace-pace that had characterized for eighteen years his first night's return to--the obligations of civilization. sharply around the corner of his old battered desk the little path started,--wanly along the edge of his dingy book-shelves the little path furrowed,--wistfully at the deep bay-window where his favorite lilac bush budded whitely for his departure, and rusted brownly for his return, the little path faltered,--and went on again,--on and on and on,--into the alcove where his instruments glistened,--up to the fireplace where his college trophy-cups tarnished! listlessly the senior surgeon re-commenced his yearly vigil. up and down,--up and down,--round and round,--on and on and on,--through interminable dusks to unattainable dawns,--a glutted, bacchanalian soul sweating its own way back to sanctity and leanness! nerves always were in that vigil,--raw, rattling nerves clamoring vociferously to be repacked in their sedatives. thirst also was in that vigil,--no mere whimpering tickle of the palate, but a drought of the tissues,--a consuming fire of the bones! hurt pride was also there, and festering humiliation! but more rasping, this particular night, than nerves, more poignant than thirst, more dangerously excitative even than remorse, hunger rioted in him,--hunger, the one worst enemy of the senior surgeon's cause,--the simple, silly, no-account,--gnawing,--drink-provocative hunger of an empty stomach. and 'one other hunger was also there,--a sudden fierce new lust for life and living,--a passion bare of love yet pure of wantonness,--a passion primitive,--protective,--inexorably proprietary,--engendered strangely in that one mad, suspicious moment at the edge of the summer house when every outraged male instinct in him had leaped to prove that--love or no love--the woman was--_his_. up and down,--up and down,--round and round,--eight o'clock found the senior surgeon still pacing. at half past eight the young wall paper man came to say good-by to him. "as long as sister won't be alone any more, i guess i'll be moving on," beamed the wall paper man. "there's a dance at home saturday night. and i've got a girl of my own!" he confided genially. "come again," urged the senior surgeon. "come again when you can stay longer!" with one honest prayer in stock, and at least two purely automatic social speeches of this sort, no man needs to flounder altogether hopelessly for words in any ordinary emergency of life. thus with no more mental interruption than the two-minute break in time, the senior surgeon then resumed his bitter-thoughted pacing. at nine o'clock, however,--patroling his long rangy book-shelves, he sensed with a very different feeling through his heavy oak door, the soft whirring swish of skirts and the breathy twitter of muffled voices. faintly to his acute ears came the sound of his little daughter's temperish protest, "i won't! i won't!" and the white linen nurse's fervid pleading, "oh, you must,--you must!" and the little girl's mumbled ultimatum, "well, i won't unless _you_ do!" irascibly he crossed the room and yanked the door open abruptly upon their surprise and confusion. his nerves were very sore. "what in thunder do you want?" he snarled. nervously for an instant the white linen nurse tugged at the little girl's hand. nervously for an instant the little girl tugged at the white linen nurse's hand. then with a swallow like a sob the white linen nurse lifted her glowing face to his. "k--kiss us good night!" said the white linen nurse. telescopically all in that startling second, vision after vision beat down like blows upon the senior surgeon's senses! the pink, pink flush of the girl! the lure of her! the amazing sweetness! the physical docility! oh ye gods,--the docility! every trend of her birth,--of her youth,--of her training,--forcing her now--if he chose it--to unquestioning submission to his will and his judgment! faster and faster the temptation surged through his pulses! the path from her lips to her ear was such a little path,--the plea so quick to make, so short,--"i want you _now!_" "k--kiss us good night!" urged the big girl's unsuspecting lips. "kiss us good night!" mocked the little girl's tremulous echo. then explosively with the noblest rudeness of his life, "no, i _won't!_" said the senior surgeon, and slammed the door in their faces. falteringly up the stairs he heard the two ascending,--speechless with surprise, perhaps,--stunned by his roughness,--still hand in hand, probably,--still climbing slowly bed-ward,--the soft, smooth, patient footfall of the white linen nurse and the jerky, laborious clang-clang-clang of a little dragging iron-braced leg. up and down,--round and round,--on and on and on,--the senior surgeon resumed his pacing. under his eyes great shadows darkened. along the corners of his mouth the lines furrowed like gray scars. up and down,--round and round,--on and on and on--and on! at ten o'clock, sitting bolt upright in her bed with her worried eyes straining bluely out across the little girl's somnolent form into unfathomable darkness, the white linen nurse in the throb of her own heart began to keep pace with that faint, horrid thud-thud-thud in the room below. was he passing the book-case now? had he reached the bay-window? was he dawdling over those glistening scalpels? would his nerves remember the flask in that upper desk drawer? up and down,--round and round,--on and on,--the harrowing sound continued. resolutely at last she scrambled out of her snug nest, and hurrying into her great warm, pussy-gray wrapper began at once very practically, very unemotionally, with matches and alcohol and a shiny glass jar to prepare a huge steaming cup of malted milk. beef-steak was infinitely better, she knew, or eggs, of course, but if she should venture forth to the kitchen for real substantiate the senior surgeon, she felt quite positive, would almost certainly hear her and stop her. so very stealthily thus like the proverbial assassin she crept down the front stairs with the innocent malted milk cup in her hand, and then with her knuckles just on the verge of rapping against the grimly inhospitable door, went suddenly paralyzed with uncertainty whether to advance or retreat. once again through the sombre inert wainscoting, exactly as if a soul had creaked, the senior surgeon sensed the threatening, intrusive presence of an unseen personality. once again he strode across the room and jerked the door open with terrifying anger and resentment. as though frozen there on his threshold by her own little bare feet,--as though strangled there in his doorway by her own great mop of golden hair,--stolid and dumb as a pink-cheeked graven image the white linen nurse thrust the cup out awkwardly at him. absolutely without comment, as though she trotted on purely professional business and the case involved was of mutual concern to them both, the senior surgeon took the cup from her hand and closed the door again in her face. at eleven o'clock she came again,--just as pink,--just as blue,--just as gray,--just as golden. and the cup of malted milk she brought with her was just as huge,--just as hot,--just as steaming,--only this time she had smuggled two raw eggs into it. once more the senior surgeon took the cup without comment and shut the door in her face. at twelve o'clock she came again. the senior surgeon was unusually loquacious this time. "have you any more malted milk?" he asked tersely. "oh, yes, sir!" beamed the white linen nurse. "go and get it!" said the senior surgeon. obediently the white linen nurse pattered up the stairs and returned with the half depleted bottle. frankly interested she recrossed the threshold of the room and delivered her glass treasure into the hands of the senior surgeon as he stood by his desk. raising herself to her tiptoes she noted with eminent satisfaction that the three big cups on the other side of the desk had all been drained to their dregs. then very bluntly before her eyes the senior surgeon took the malted milk bottle and poured its remaining contents out quite wantonly into his waste basket. then equally bluntly he took the white linen nurse by the shoulders and marched her out of the room. "for god's sake!" he said, "get out of this room! and stay out!" _bang_! the big door slammed behind her. like a snarling fang the lock bit into its catch. "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. even just to herself--all alone there in the big black hall, she was perfectly polite. "y-e-s, sir," she repeated softly. with a slightly sardonic grin on his face the senior surgeon resumed his pacing. up and down,--round and round,--on and on and on! at one o'clock in the dull, clammy chill of earliest morning he stopped long enough to light his hearthfire. at two o'clock he stopped again to pile on a trifle more wood. at three o'clock he dallied for an instant to close a window. the new day seemed strangely cold. at four o'clock, dawn the wonder,--the miracle,--the long despaired of,--quickened wanly across the east. then suddenly,--more like a phosphorescent breeze than a glow, the pale, pale yellow sunshine came wafting through the green gloom of the garden. the vigil was over! stumbling out into the shadowy hall to greet the new day and the new beginning, the senior surgeon almost tripped and fell over the white linen nurse sitting all huddled up and drowsy-eyed in a little gray heap on his outer threshold. the sensation of stepping upon a human body is not a pleasant one. it smote the senior surgeon nauseously through the nerves of his stomach. "what are you doing here?" he fairly screamed at her. "just keeping you company, sir," yawned the white linen nurse. before her hand could reach her mouth again another great childish yawn overwhelmed her. "just--watching with you, sir," she finished more or less inarticulately. "watching with--me?" snarled the senior surgeon resentfully. "why--should--you--watch--with--me?" like the frightened flash of a bird the heavy lashes went swooping down across the pink cheeks and lifted as suddenly again. "because you're my--_man!_" yawned the white linen nurse. almost roughly the senior surgeon reached down and pulled the white linen nurse to her feet. "god!" said the senior surgeon. in his strained, husky voice the word sounded like an oath. grotesquely a little smile went scudding zig-zag across his haggard face. with an impulse absolutely alien to him he reached out abruptly again and raised the white linen nurse's hand to his lips. "_'good_ god' was what i meant--miss malgregor!" he grinned a bit sheepishly. quite bruskly then he turned and looked at his watch. "i'd like my breakfast just as soon now as you can possibly get it!" he ordered peremptorily,--in his own morbid pathological emergency no more stopping to consider the white linen nurse's purely normal fatigue, than he in any pathological emergency of hers would have stopped to consider his own comfort,--safety,--or even perhaps, life! joyously then like a prisoner just turned loose, he went swinging up the stairs to recreate himself with a smoke and a shave and a great, splashing, cold shower-bath. only one thing seemed to really trouble him now. at the top of the stairs he stopped for an instant and cocked his head a bit worriedly towards the drawing-room where from some slow-brightening alcove bird-carol after bird-carol went fluting shrilly up into the morning. "is that--those blasted canaries?" he asked briefly. very companionably the white linen nurse cocked her own towsled head on one side and listened with him for half a moment. "only four of them are blasted canaries," she corrected very gently. "the fifth one is a paroquet that i got at a mark-down because it was a widowed bird and wouldn't mate again." "eh?" jerked the senior surgeon. "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse and started for the kitchen. no one but the senior surgeon himself breakfasted in state at five o'clock that morning. snug and safe in her crib upstairs the little crippled girl slumbered peacefully on through the general disturbance. and as for the white linen nurse herself,--what with chilling and rechilling melons,--and broiling and unbroiling steaks,--and making and remaking coffee,--and hunting frantically for a different-sized water glass,--or a prettier colored plate, there was no time for anything except an occasional hurried surreptitious nibble half way between the stove and the table. yet in all that raucous early morning hour together neither man nor girl suffered towards the other the slightest personal sense of contrition or resentment, for each mind was trained equally fairly,--whether reacting on its own case or another's--to differentiate pretty readily between mean nerves and a--mean spirit. only once in fact across the intervening chasm of crankiness did the senior surgeon hurl a smile that was even remotely self-conscious or conciliatory. glancing up suddenly from a particularly sharp and disagreeable speech, he noted the white linen nurse's red lips mumbling softly one to the other. "are you specially--religious,--miss malgregor?" he grinned quite abruptly. "no, not specially, sir," said the white linen nurse. "why, sir?" "oh, it 's only--" grinned the senior surgeon dourly, "it's only that every time i'm especially ugly to you, i see your lips moving as though in 'silent prayer' as they call it--and i was just wondering--if there was any special formula you used with me--that kept you so--everlastingly--damned serene. is there?" "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. "what is it?" demanded the senior surgeon quite bluntly. "do i have to tell?" gasped the white linen nurse. a little tremulously in her hand the empty cup she was carrying rattled against its saucer. "do i have to tell?" she repeated pleadingly. a delirious little thrill of power went fluttering through the senior surgeon's heart. "yes, you have to tell me!" he announced quite seriously. in absolute submission to his demand, though with very palpable reluctance, the white linen nurse came forward to the table, put down the cup and saucer, and began to finger a trifle nervously at the cloth. "oh, i'm sure i didn't mean any harm, sir," she stammered. "but all i say is,--honest and truly all i say is,--'bah! he's nothing but a man--nothing but a man--nothing but a man!' over and over and over,--just that, sir!" uproariously the senior surgeon pushed back his chair, and jumped to his feet. "i guess after all i'll have to let the little kid call you--'peach'--one day a week!" he acknowledged jocosely. with infinite seriousness then he tossed back his great splendid head,--shook himself free apparently from all unhappy memories,--and started for his work-room,--a great gorgeously vital, extraordinarily talented, gray-haired _boy_ lusting joyously for his own work and play again--after a month's distressing illness! from the edge of the hall he turned round and made a really boyish grimace at her. "now if i only had the horns or the cloven hoof--that you think i have," he called, "what an easy time i'd make of it, raking over all the letters and ads. that are stacked up on my desk!" "yes, sir," said the white linen nurse. only once did he come back into the kitchen or dining-room for anything. it was at seven o'clock. and the white linen nurse was still washing dishes. as radiant as a gray-haired god he towered up in the doorway. the boyish rejuvenation in him was even more startling than before. "i'm feeling so much like a fighting cock this morning," he said, "i think i'll tackle that paper on surgical diseases of the pancreas that i have to read at baltimore next month!" a little startlingly the gray lines furrowed into his cheeks again. "for heaven's sake--see that i'm not disturbed by anything!" he admonished her warningly. it must have been almost eight o'clock when the ear-splitting scream from upstairs sent the white linen nurse plunging out panic-stricken into the hall. "oh, peach! peach!" yelled the little girl's frenzied voice. "come quick and see--what fat father's doing _now_--out on the piazza!" jerkily the white linen nurse swerved off through the french door that opened directly on the piazza. had the senior surgeon hung himself, she tortured, in some wild, temporary aberration of the "morning after"? but staunchly and reassuringly from the further end of the _piazza_ the senior surgeon's broad back belied her horrid terror. quite prosily and in apparently perfect health he was standing close to the railing of the piazza. on a table directly beside him rested four empty bird cages. just at that particular moment he was inordinately busy releasing the last canary from the fifth cage. both hands were smouched with ink and behind his left ear a fountain pen dallied daringly. at the very first sound of the white linen nurse's step the senior surgeon turned and faced her with a sheepish sort of defiance. "well, now, i imagine," he said, "well, now, i imagine i've really made you--mad!" "no, not mad, sir," faltered the white linen nurse. "no, not mad, sir,--but very far from well." coaxingly with a perfectly futile hand she tried to lure one astonished yellow songster back from a swaying yellow bush. "why, they'll die, sir!" she protested. "savage cats will get them!" "it's a choice of their lives--or mine!" said the senior surgeon tersely. "yes, sir," droned the white linen nurse. quite snappishly the senior surgeon turned upon her. "for heaven's sake--do you think--canary birds are more valuable than i am?" he demanded stentoriously. most disconcertingly before his glowering eyes a great, sad, round tear rolled suddenly down the white linen nurse's flushed cheek. "n--o,--not more valuable," conceded the white linen nurse. "but more--c-cunning." up to the roots of the senior surgeon's hair a flush of real contrition spread hotly. "why--rae!" he stammered. "why, what a beast i am! why--! why!" in sincere perplexity he began to rack his brains for some adequate excuse,--some adequate explanation. "why, i'm sure i didn't mean to make you feel badly," he persisted. "only i've lived alone so long that i suppose i've just naturally drifted into the way of having a thing if i wanted it and--throwing it away if i didn't! and canary birds, now? well--really--" he began to glower all over again. "oh, thunder!" he finished abruptly, "i guess i'll go on down to the hospital where i belong!" a little wistfully the white linen nurse stepped forward. "the hospital?" she said. "oh,--the hospital? do you think that perhaps you could come home a little bit earlier than usual--to-night--and--and help me catch--just one of the canaries?" "what?" gasped the senior surgeon. incredulously with a very inky finger he pointed at his own breast. "what? i?" he demanded. "i? come home--early--from the hospital to help--you--catch a canary?" disgustedly without further comment he turned and stalked back again into the house. the disgust was still in his walk as he left the house an hour later. watching his exit down the long gravel path the little crippled girl commented audibly on the matter. "peach! peach!" called the little crippled girl. "what makes fat father walk so--surprised?" people at the hospital also commented upon him. "gee!" giggled the new nurses. "we bet he 's a tartar! but isn't his hair cute? and say--" gossiped the new nurses, "is it really true that that malgregor girl was pinned down perfectly helpless under the car and he wouldn't let her out till she'd promised to marry him? isn't it _awful?_ isn't it _romantic_?" "why! dr. faber 's back!" fluttered the senior nurses. "isn't he wonderful? isn't he beautiful? but, oh, say," they worried, "what do you suppose rae ever finds to talk with him about? would she ever dare talk _things_ to him,--just plain every-day _things_,--hats, and going to the theater, and what to have for breakfast?--breakfast?" they gasped. "why, yes, of course!" they reasoned more sanely. "steak? eggs? even oatmeal? why, people had to eat--no matter how wonderful they were! but evenings?" they speculated more darkly. "but evenings?" in the whole range of human experience--was it even so much as remotely imaginable that--evenings--the senior surgeon and--rae malgregor--sat in the hammock and held hands? "oh, gee!" blanched the senior nurses. "good-morning, dr. faber!" greeted the superintendent of nurses from behind her austere office desk. "good-morning, miss hartzen!" said the senior surgeon. "have you had a pleasant trip?" quizzed the superintendent of nurses. "exceptionally so, thank you!" said the senior surgeon. "and--mrs. faber,--is she well?" persisted the superintendent of nurses conscientiously. "mrs. faber?" gasped the senior surgeon. "mrs. faber? oh, yes! why, of course! yes, indeed--she's extraordinarily well! i never saw her better!" "she must have been--very lonely without you--this past month?" rasped the superintendent of nurses--perfectly politely. "yes--she was," flushed the senior surgeon. "she--she suffered--keenly!" "and you, too?" drawled the superintendent of nurses. "it must have been very hard for you." "yes, it was!" sweated the senior surgeon. "i suffered keenly, too!" distractedly he glanced back at the open door. an extraordinarily large number of nurses, internes, orderlies, seemed to be having errands up and down the corridor that allowed them a peculiarly generous length of neck to stretch into the superintendent's office. "great heavens!" snapped the senior surgeon. "what 's the matter with everybody this morning?" tempestuously he started for the door. "hurry up my cases, please, miss hartzen!" he ordered. "send them to the operating room! and let me get to work!" at eleven o'clock, absolutely calm, absolutely cool,--pure as a girl in his fresh, white operating clothes--cleaner,--skin, hair, teeth, hands,--than any girl who ever walked the face of the earth, in a white tiled room as surgically clean as himself, with three or four small, glistening instruments still boiling, steaming hot--and half a dozen breathless assistants almost as immaculate as himself, with his gown, cap and mask adjusted, his gloves finally on, and the faintest possible little grin twitching oddly at the corner of his mouth, he "went in" as they say, to a new born baby's tortured, twisted spine--and took out--fifty years perhaps of hunched-back pain and shame and morbid passions flourishing banefully in the dark shades of a disordered life. at half-past twelve he did an appendix operation on the only son of his best friend. at one o'clock he did another appendix operation. whom it was on didn't matter. it couldn't have been worse on--any one. at half-past one no one remembered to feed him. at two, in another man's operation, he saw the richest merchant in the city go wafted out into eternity on the fumes of ether taken for the lancing of a stye. at three o'clock, passing the open door of one of the public waiting-rooms, an italian peasant woman rushed out and spat in his face because her tubercular daughter had just died at the sanitarium where the senior surgeon's money had sent her. only in this one wild, defiling moment did the lust for alcohol surge up in him again, surge clamorously, brutally, absolutely mercilessly, as though in all the known cleansants of the world only interminable raw whisky was hot enough to cauterize a polluted consciousness. at half past three, as soon as he could change his clothes again, he re-broke and re-set an acrobat's priceless leg. at five o'clock, more to rest himself than anything else, he went up to the autopsy amphitheater to look over an exhibit of enlarged hearts, whose troubles were permanently over. at six o'clock just as he was leaving the great building with all its harrowing sights, sounds, and smells, a peremptory telephone call from one of the younger surgeons of the city summoned him back into the stuffy office again. "dr. faber?" "yes." "this is merkley!" "yes." "can you come immediately and help me with that fractured skull case i was telling you about this morning? we'll have to trepan right away!" "trepan nothing!" grunted the senior surgeon. "i've got to go home early to-night--and help catch a canary." "catch a--what?" gasped the younger surgeon. "a canary!" grinned the senior surgeon mirthlessly. "a--_what?_" roared the younger man. "oh, shut up, you damned fool! of course i'll come!" said the senior surgeon. there was no "boy" left in the senior surgeon when he reached home that night. gray with road-travel, haggard with strain and fatigue, it was long, long after the rosy sunset time,--long, long after the yellow supper light, that he came dragging up through the sweet-scented dusk of the garden and threw himself down without greeting of any sort on the top step of the piazza where the white linen nurse's skirts glowed palely through the gloom. "well, i put a canary bird back into its cage for you!" he confided laconically. "it was a little chap's soul. it sure would have gotten away before morning." "who was the man that tried to turn it loose--_this_ time?" asked the white linen nurse. "i didn't say that anybody did!" growled the senior surgeon. "oh," said the white linen nurse. "oh." quite palpably a little shiver of flesh and starch went rustling through her. "i've had a wonderful day, too!" she confided softly. "i've cleaned the attic and darned nine pairs of your stockings and bought a sewing-machine--and started to make you a white silk negligee shirt for a surprise!" "eh?" jerked the senior surgeon. the jerk seemed to liberate suddenly the faint vibration of dishes and the sound of ice knocking lusciously against a glass. "oh, have you had any supper, sir?" asked the white linen nurse. with a prodigious sigh the senior surgeon threw his head back against the piazza railing and stretched his legs a little further out along the piazza floor. "supper?" he groaned. "no! nor dinner! nor breakfast! nor any other--blankety-blank meal as far back as i can remember!" janglingly in his voice, fatigue, hunger, nerves, crashed together like the slammed notes of a piano. "but i wouldn't--move--now," he snarled, "if all the blankety-blank-blank foods in christendom--were piled blankety-blank-blank high--on all the blankety-blank-blank tables--in this whole blankety-blank-blank house!" ecstatically the white linen nurse clapped her hands. "oh, that's just exactly what i hoped you'd say!" she cried. "'cause the supper's--right here!" "here?" snapped the senior surgeon. tempestuously he began all over again. "i--tell--you--i--wouldn't--lift--my--little finger--if all the blankety-blank-blank-blank--" "oh, goody then!" said the white linen nurse. "'cause now i can feed you! i sort of miss fussing with the canary birds," she added wistfully. "feed me?" roared the senior surgeon. again something started a lump of ice tinkling faintly in a thin glass. "feed me?" he began all over again. yet with a fragrant strawberry half as big as a peach held out suddenly under his nose, just from sheer, irresistible instinct he bit out at it--and nipped the white linen nurse's finger instead. "ouch--sir!" said the white linen nurse. mumblingly down from an upstairs window, as from a face flatted smouchingly against a wire screen, a peremptory summons issued. "peach!--peach!" called an angry little voice. "if you don't come to bed--now--i'll--i'll say my curses instead of my prayers!" a trifle nervously the white linen nurse scrambled to her feet. "maybe i'd--better go?" she said. "maybe--you had!" said the senior surgeon quite definitely. at the edge of the threshold the white linen nurse turned for an instant. "good-night, dr. faber!" she whispered. "good-night, rae malgregor--faber!" said the senior surgeon. "good-night--_what?_" gasped the white linen nurse. "good-night, rae malgregor--faber," repeated the senior surgeon. clutching at her skirts as though a mouse were after her, the white linen nurse went scuttling up the stairs. very late--on into the night--the senior surgeon lay there on his piazza floor staring out into his garden. very companionably from time to time, like a tame firefly, a little bright spark hovered and glowed for an instant above the bowl of his pipe. puff-puff-puff, doze-doze-doze, throb-throb-throb,--on and on and on and on--into the sweet-scented night. chapter x so the days passed. and the nights. and more days. and more nights. july--august,--on and on and on. strenuous, nerve-racking, heart-breaking surgical days--broken maritally only by the pleasant, soft-worded greeting at the gate, or the practical, homely appeal of good food cooked with heart as well as hands, or the tingling, inciting masculine consciousness of there being a woman's--blush in the house! strenuous, house-working, child-nursing, home-making, domestic days--broken maritally only by the jaded, harsh word at the gate, the explosive criticism of food, the deadening, depressing, feminine consciousness of there being a man's--vicious temper in the house! now and again in one big automobile or another the white linen nurse and the senior surgeon rode out together, always and forever with the little crippled girl sitting between them,--the other woman's little crippled girl. now and again in the late summer afternoons the white linen nurse and the senior surgeon strolled together through the rainbow-colored garden, always and forever with the little crippled girl,--the other woman's little crippled girl, tagging close behind them with her little sad, clanking leg. now and again in the long sweet summer evenings the white linen nurse and the senior surgeon sat on the clematis-shadowed porch together, always and forever with the little crippled girl,--the other woman's little crippled girl, mocking them querulously from some vague upper window. now and again across the mutually ghost-haunted chasm that separated them flashed the incontrovertible signal of sex and sense, as once when a new interne, grossly bungling, stepped to the hospital window with a colleague to watch the senior surgeon's car roll away as usual with its two feminine passengers. "what makes the chief so stingy with that big handsome girl of his?" queried the new interne a bit resentfully. "he won't ever bring her into the hospital!--won't ever ask any of us young chaps out to his house! and some of us come mighty near to being eligible, too!--who's he saving her for, anyway?--a saint?--a miracle-worker?--a millionaire medicine man?--they don't exist, you know!" "i'm saving her for myself!" snapped the senior surgeon most disconcertingly from the doorway. "she--she happens to be my wife, not my daughter,--thank you!" when the senior surgeon went home that night he carried a big bunch of magazines and a box of candy as large as his head tucked courtingly under his arm. now and again across the chasm that separated them flashed the incontrovertible signal of mutual trust and appreciation, as when once, after a particularly violent vocal outburst on the senior surgeon's part, he sobered down very suddenly and said: "rae malgregor,--do you realize that in all the weeks we've been together you've never once nagged me about my swearing? not a word,--not a single word!" "i'm not very used to--words," smiled the white linen nurse hopefully. "all i know how to nag with is--is raw eggs! if we could only get those nerves of yours padded just once, sir! the swearing would get well of itself." in august the senior surgeon suggested sincerely that the house was much too big for the white linen nurse to run all alone, but conceded equally sincerely, under the white linen nurse's vehement protest, that servants, particularly new servants did creak considerably round a house, and that maybe "just for the present" at least, until he finished his very nervous paper on brain tumors perhaps it would be better to stay "just by ourselves." in september the white linen nurse wanted very much to go home to nova scotia to her sister's wedding but the senior surgeon was trying a very complicated and worrisome new brace on the little girl's leg and it didn't seem quite kind to go. in october she planned her trip all over again. she was going to take the little crippled girl with her this time. but with their trunks already packed and waiting in the hall, the senior surgeon came home from the hospital with a septic finger--and it didn't seem quite best to leave him. "well, how do you like being married _now?_" asked the senior surgeon a bit ironically in his work-room that night, after the white linen nurse had stood for an hour with evil-smelling washes, and interminable bandages trying to fix that finger the precise, particular way that he thought it ought to be fixed. "well--how do you like--being married _now?_" he insisted trenchantly. "oh, i like it all right, sir!" said the white linen nurse. a little bit wanly this time she smiled her pluck up into the senior surgeon's questioning face. "oh, i like it all right, sir! oh, of course, sir," she confided thoughtfully--"oh, of course, sir--it isn't quite as fancy as being engaged--or quite as free and easy as being--single. but still--" she admitted with desperate honesty--"but still there's a sort of--a sort of a combination importance and--and comfort about it, sir, like a--like a velvet suit--the second year, sir." "is that--all?" quizzed the senior surgeon bluntly. "that's all--so far, sir," said the white linen nurse. in november the white linen nurse caught a bit of cold that pulled her down a little. but the senior surgeon didn't notice it specially among all the virulent ills he lived and worked with from day to day. and then when the cold disappeared, indian summer came like a reeking sweat after a chill! and the house _was_ big! and the little crippled girl _was_ pretty difficult to manage now and then! and the senior surgeon, no matter how hard he tried not to, did succeed somehow in creating more or less of a disturbance--at least every other day or two! and then suddenly, one balmy gold and crimson indian summer morning, standing out on the piazza trying to hear what the little crippled girl was calling from the window and what the senior surgeon was calling from the gate, the white linen nurse fell right down in her tracks, brutally, bulkily, like a worn-out horse, and lay as she fell, a huddled white heap across the gray piazza. "oh, father! come quick! come quick! peach has deaded herself!" yelled the little girl's frantic voice. just with his foot on the step of his car the senior surgeon heard the cry and came speeding back up the long walk. already there before him the little girl knelt raining passionate, agonized kisses on her beloved playmate's ghastly white face. "leave her alone!" thundered the senior surgeon. "leave her alone, i say!" bruskly he pushed the little girl aside and knelt to cradle his own ear against the white linen nurse's heart. "oh, it's all right," he growled, and gathered the white linen nurse right up in his arms--she was startlingly lighter than he had supposed--and carried her up the stairs and put her to bed like a child in the great sumptuous guest-room, in a great sumptuous nest of all the best linens and blankets, with the little crippled girl superintending the task with many hysterical suggestions and sharp staccato interruptions. for once in his life the senior surgeon did not stop to quarrel with his daughter. rallying limply from her swoon the white linen nurse stared out with hazy perplexity at last from her dimpling white pillows to see the senior surgeon standing amazingly at the guest-room bureau with a glass and a medicine-dropper in his hand, and the little crippled girl hanging apparently by her narrow peaked chin across the foot-board of the bed. gazing down worriedly at the lace-ruffled sleeve of her night-dress the white linen nurse made her first public speech to the--world at large. "who--put--me--to--bed?" whispered the white linen nurse. ecstatically the little crippled girl began to pound her fists on the foot-board of the bed. "father did!" she cried in unmistakable triumph. "all the little hooks! all the little buttons!--_wasn't_ it cunning?" the senior surgeon would hardly have been human if he hadn't glanced back suddenly over his shoulder at the white linen nurse's precipitously changing color. quite irrepressibly, as he saw the red, red blood come surging home again into her cheeks, a little short chuckling laugh escaped him. "i guess you'll live--now," he remarked dryly. then because a senior surgeon can't stay home on the mere impulse of the moment from a great rushing hospital, just because one member of his household happens to faint perfectly innocently in the morning, he hurried on to his work again. and saved a little boy, and lost a little girl, and mended a fractured thigh, and eased a gun-shot wound, and came dashing home at noon in one of his thousand-dollar hours to feel the white linen nurse's pulse and broil her a bit of tenderloin steak with his own thousand-dollar hands,--and then went dashing off again to do one major operation or another, telephoned home once or twice during the afternoon to make sure that everything was all right, and finding that the white linen nurse was comfortably up and about again, went sprinting off fifty miles somewhere on a meningitis consultation, and came dragging home at last, somewhere near midnight, to a big black house brightened only by a single light in the kitchen where the white linen nurse went tiptoeing softly from stove to pantry in deft preparation of an appetizing supper for him. quite roughly again without smile or appreciation the senior surgeon took her by the shoulders and turned her out of the kitchen, and started her up the stairs. "are you an--idiot?" he said. "are you an--imbecile?" he came back and called up the stairs to her just as she was disappearing from the upper landing. then up and down, round and round, on and on and on, the senior surgeon began suddenly to pace again. only, for some unexplainable reason to the white linen nurse upstairs, his work-room didn't seem quite large enough for his pacing this night along the broad piazza she heard his footsteps creak. far, far into the morning, lying warm and snug in her own little bed, she heard his footsteps crackling through the wet-leafed garden paths. yet the senior surgeon didn't look an atom jaded or forlorn when he came down to breakfast the next morning. he had on a brand new gray suit that fitted his big, powerful shoulders to perfection, and the glad glow of his shower-bath was still reddening faintly in his cheeks as he swung around the corner of the table and dropped down into his place with an odd little grin on his lips directed intermittently towards the white linen nurse and the little crippled girl who already waited him there at either end of the table. "oh, father, isn't it lovely to have my darling--darling peach all well again!" beamed the little crippled girl with unusual friendliness. "speaking of your--'darling peach,'" said the senior surgeon quite abruptly. "speaking of your 'darling peach,'--i'm going to--take her away with me to-day--for a week or so." "eh?" jumped the little crippled girl. "what? what, sir?" stammered the white linen nurse. quite prosily the senior surgeon began to butter a piece of toast. but the little twinkle around his eyes belied in some way the utter prosiness of the act. "for a little trip," he confided amiably. "a little holiday!" a trifle excitedly the white linen nurse laid down her knife and fork and stared at him, blue-eyed and wondering as a child. "a holiday?" she gasped. "to a--beach, you mean? would there be a--a roller-coaster? i've never seen a roller-coaster!" "eh?" laughed the senior surgeon. "oh, i'm going, too! i'm going, too!" piped the little crippled girl. most jerkily the senior surgeon pushed back his chair from the table and swallowed half a cup of coffee at one single gulp. "going _three_, you mean?" he glowered at his little daughter. "going _three_?" his comment that ensued was distinctly rough as far as diction was concerned, but the facial expression of ineffable peace that accompanied it would have made almost any phrase sound like a benediction. "not by a--damned sight!" beamed the senior surgeon. "this little trip is just for peach and me!" "but--sir?" fluttered the white linen nurse. her face was suddenly pinker than any rose that ever bloomed. with an impulse absolutely novel to him the senior surgeon turned and swung his little daughter very gently to his shoulder. "your aunt agnes is coming to stay with _you_--in just about ten minutes!" he affirmed. "that's--what's going to happen to _you!_ and maybe there'll be a pony--a white pony." "but peach is so--pleasant!" wailed the little crippled girl. "peach is so pleasant!" she began to scream and kick. "so it seems!" growled the senior surgeon. "and she's--dying of it!" tearfully the little girl wriggled down to the ground, and hobbled around and thrust her finger-tip into the white linen nurse's blushiest cheek. "i don't want--peach--to--die," she admitted worriedly. "but i don't want anybody to take her away!" "the pony is--very white," urged the senior surgeon with a diplomacy quite alien to him. abruptly the little girl turned and faced him. "what color is aunt agnes?" she asked vehemently. "aunt agnes is--pretty white, too," attested the senior surgeon. with the faintest possible tinge of superciliousness the little girl lifted her sharp chin a trifle higher. "if it's just a perfectly plain white pony," she said, "i'd rather have peach. but if it's a white pony with black blots on it, and if it can pull a little cart, and if i can whip it with a little switch, and if it will eat sugar-lumps out of my hand,--and if its name is--is--'beautiful pretty-thing'--" "its name has always been--'beautiful pretty-thing,' i'm quite sure!" insisted the senior surgeon. inadvertently as he spoke he reached out and put a hand very lightly on the white linen nurse's shoulder. instantly into the little girl's suspicious face flushed a furiously uncontrollable flame of jealousy and resentment. madly she turned upon her father. "you're a liar!" she screamed. "there _is_ no white pony! you're a robber! you're a--a--drunk! you shan't have my darling peach!" and threw herself frenziedly into the white linen nurse's lap. impatiently the senior surgeon disentangled the little clinging arms, and raising the white linen nurse to her feet pushed her emphatically towards the hall. "go to my work-room," he said. "quickly! i want to talk with you!" a moment later he joined her there, and shut and locked the door behind him. the previous night's loss of sleep showed plainly in his face now, and the hospital strain of the day before, and of the day before that, and of the day before _that_. heavily, moodily, he crossed the room and threw himself down in his desk chair with the white linen nurse still standing before him as though she were nothing but a--white linen nurse. all the splendor was suddenly gone from him, all the radiance, all the exultant purpose. "well, rae malgregor," he grinned mirthlessly. "the little kid is right, though i certainly don't know where she got her information. i _am_ a liar. the pony's name is not yet 'beautiful pretty-thing'! i _am_ a--drunk. i was drunk most of june! i _am_ a robber! i have taken you out of your youth--and the love-chances of your youth,--and shut you up here in this great, gloomy old house of mine--to be my slave--and my child's slave--and--" "pouf!" said the white linen nurse. "it would seem--silly--now, sir,--to marry a boy!" "and i've been a beast to you!" persisted the senior surgeon. "from the very first day you belonged to me i've been a--beast to you,--venting brutally on your youth, on your sweetness, on your patience,--all the work, the worry, the wear and tear, the abnormal strain and stress of my disordered days--and years,--and i've let my little girl vent also on you all the pang and pain of _her_ disordered days! and because in this great, gloomy, rackety house it seemed suddenly like a miracle from heaven to have service that was soft-footed, gentle-handed, pleasant-hearted, i've let you shoulder all the hideous drudgery,--the care,--one horrid homely task after another piling up-up-up--till you dropped in your tracks yesterday--still smiling!" "but i got a good deal out of it, even so, sir!" protested the white linen nurse. "see, sir!" she smiled. "i've got real lines in my face--now--like other women! i'm not a doll any more! i'm not a--" "yes!" groaned the senior surgeon. "and i might just as kindly have carved those lines with my knife! but i was going to make it all up to you to-day!" he hurried. "i swear i was! even in one short little week i could have done it! you wouldn't have known me! i was going to take you away,--just you and me! i would have been a saint! i swear i would! i would have given you such a great, wonderful, child-hearted holiday--as you never dreamed of in all your unselfish life! a holiday all _you--you--you!_ you could have--dug in the sand if you'd wanted to! gad! i'd have dug in the sand--if you'd wanted me to! and now it's all gone from me, all the will, all the sheer positive self-assurance that i could have carried the thing through--absolutely selflessly. that little girl's sneering taunt? the ghost of her mother--in that taunt? god! when anybody knocks you just in your decency it doesn't harm you specially! but when they knock you in your wanting-to-be-decent it--it undermines you somewhere. i don't know exactly how! i'm nothing but a man again--now, just a plain, every day, greedy, covetous, physical man--on the edge of a holiday, the first clean holiday in twenty years,--that he no longer dares to take!" a little swayingly the white linen nurse shifted her standing weight from one foot to the other. "i'm sorry, sir!" said the white linen nurse. "i'd like to have seen a roller-coaster, sir!" just for an instant a gleam of laughter went brightening across the senior surgeon's brooding face, and was gone again. "rae malgregor, come here!" he ordered quite sharply. very softly, very glidingly, like the footfall of a person who has never known heels, the white linen nurse came forward swiftly and sliding in cautiously between the senior surgeon and his desk, stood there with her back braced against the desk, her fingers straying idly up and down the edges of the desk, staring up into his face all readiness, all attention, like a soldier waiting further orders. so near was she that he could almost hear the velvet heart-throb of her,--the little fluttering swallow,--yet by some strange, persistent aloofness of her, some determinate virginity, not a fold of her gown, not an edge, not a thread, seemed to even so much as graze his knee, seemed to even so much as shadow his hand,--lest it short-circuit thereby the seething currents of their variant emotions. with extraordinary intentness for a moment the senior surgeon sat staring into the girl's eyes, the blue, blue eyes too full of childish questioning yet to flinch with either consciousness or embarrassment. "after all, rae malgregor," he smiled at last, faintly--"after all, rae malgregor,--heaven knows when i shall ever get--another holiday!" "yes, sir?" said the white linen nurse. with apparent irrelevance he reached for his ivory paper-cutter and began bending it dangerously between his adept fingers. "how long have you been with me, rae malgregor?" he asked quite abruptly. "four months--actually with you, sir," said the white linen nurse. "do you happen to remember the exact phrasing of my--proposal of marriage to you?" he asked shrewdly. "oh, yes, sir!" said the white linen nurse. "you called it 'general heartwork for a family of two'!" a little grimly before her steady gaze the senior surgeon's own eyes fell, and rallied again almost instantly with a gaze as even and direct as hers. "well," he smiled. "through the whole four months i seem to have kept my part of the contract all right--and held you merely as a--drudge in my home. have you then decided, once and for all time,--whether you are going to stay on with us--or whether you will 'give notice' as other drudges have done?" with a little backward droop of one shoulder the white linen nurse began to finger nervously at the desk behind her, and turning half way round as though to estimate what damage she was doing, exposed thus merely the profile of her pink face, of her white throat, to the senior surgeon's questioning eyes. "i shall never--give notice, sir!" fluttered the white throat. "are you perfectly sure?" insisted the senior surgeon. the pink in the white linen nurse's profiled cheek deepened a little. "perfectly sure, sir!" attested the carmine lips. like the crack of a pistol the senior surgeon snapped the ivory paper cutter in two. "all right then!" he said. "rae malgregor, look at me! don't take your eyes from mine, i say! rae malgregor, if i should decide in my own mind, here and now, that it was best for you--as well as for me--that you should come away with me now--for this week,--not as my guest as i had planned,--but as my wife,--even if you were not quite ready for it in your heart,--even if you were not yet remotely ready for it,--would you come because i told you to come?" heavily under her white, white eyelids, heavily under her black, black lashes, the girl's eyes struggled up to meet his own. "yes, sir," whispered the white linen nurse. abruptly the senior surgeon pushed back his chair from the desk, and stood up. the important decision once made, no further finessing of words seemed either necessary or dignified to him. "go and pack your suit-case quickly then!" he ordered. "i want to get away from here within half an hour!" but before the girl had half crossed the room he called to her suddenly, his whole bearing and manner miraculously changed, and his face in that moment as haggard as if a whole lifetime's struggle was packed into it. "rae malgregor," he drawled mockingly. "this thing shall be--barter way through to the end,--with the credit always on your side of the account. in exchange for the gift--of yourself--your--wonderful self--and the trust that goes with it, i will give you,--god help me,--the ugliest thing in my life. and god knows i have broken faith with myself once or twice but--never have i broken my word to another! from now on,--in token of your trust in me,--for whatever the bitter gift is worth to you,--as long as you stay with me,--my junes shall be yours--to do with--as you please!" "what, sir?" gasped the white linen nurse. "_what_, sir?" softly, almost stealthily, she was half way back across the room to him, when she stopped suddenly and threw out her arms with a gesture of appeal and defiance. "all the same, sir!" she cried passionately, "all the same, sir,--the place is too hard for the small pay i get! oh, i will do what i promised!" she attested with increasing passion. "i will never leave you! and i will mother your little girl! and i will servant your big house! and i will go with you wherever you say! and i will be to you whatever you wish! and i will never flinch from any hardship you impose on me--nor whine over any pain,--on and on and on--all my days--all my years--till i drop in my tracks again and--die--as you say 'still smiling'! all the same!" she reiterated wildly, "the place is too hard! it always was too hard! it always will be too hard--for such small pay!" "for such small pay?" gasped the senior surgeon. around his heart a horrid clammy chill began to settle. sickeningly through his brain a dozen recent financial transactions began to rehearse themselves. "you mean, miss malgregor," he said a bit brokenly. "you mean--that i--haven't been generous enough with you?" "yes, sir," faltered the white linen nurse. all the storm and passion died suddenly from her, leaving her just a frightened girl again, flushing pink-white, pink-white, pink-white, before the senior surgeon's scathing stare. one step, two steps, three, she advanced towards him. "oh, i mean, sir," she whispered, "oh, i mean, sir,--that i'm just an ordinary, ignorant country girl and you--are further above me than the moon from the sea! i couldn't expect you to--love me, sir! i couldn't even dream of your loving me! _but i do think you might like me just a little bit with your heart!_" "what?" flushed the senior surgeon. "_what?_" whacketty-bang against the window pane sounded the little crippled girl's knuckled fists! darkly against the window pane squashed the little crippled girl's staring face. "father!" screamed the shrill voice. "father! there's a white lady here with two black ladies washing the breakfast dishes! is it aunt agnes?" with a totally unexpected laugh, with a totally unexpected desire to laugh, the senior surgeon strode across the room and unlocked his door. even then his lips against the white linen nurse's ear made just a whisper, not a kiss. "god bless you!--_hurry!_" he said. "and let's get out of here before any telephone message catches me!" then almost calmly he walked out on the piazza, and greeted his sister-in-law. "hello, agnes!" he said. "hello, yourself!" smiled his sister-in-law. "how's everything?" he enquired politely. "how's everything with you?" parried his sister-in-law. idly for a few moments the senior surgeon threw out stray crumbs of thought to feed the conversation, while smilingly all the while from her luxuriant east indian chair his sister-in-law sat studying the general situation. the senior surgeon's sister-in-law was always studying something. last year it was archaeology,--the year before, basketry,--this year it happened to be eugenics, or something funny like that,--next year again it might be book-binding. "so you and your pink and white shepherdess are going off on a little trip together?" she queried banteringly. "the girl's a darling, lendicott! i haven't had as much sport in a long time as i had that afternoon last june when i came in my best calling-clothes and--helped her paint the kitchen woodwork! and i had come prepared to be a bit nasty, lendicott! in all honesty, lendicott, i might just as well 'fess up that i had come prepared to be just a little bit nasty!" "she seems to have a way," smiled the senior surgeon, "she seems to have a way of disarming people's unpleasant intentions." a trifle quizzically for an instant the woman turned her face to the senior surgeon's. it was a worldly face, a cold-featured, absolutely worldly face, with a surprisingly humorous mouth that warmed her nature just about as cheer fully, and just about as effectually, as one open fireplace warms a whole house. nevertheless one often achieved much comfort by keeping close to "aunt agnes's" humorous mouth, for aunt agnes knew a thing or two,--aunt agnes did,--and the things that she made a point of knowing were conscientiously amiable. "why, lendicott faber," she rallied him now. "why, you're as nervous as a school-boy! why, i believe--i believe that you're going courting!" more opportunely than any man could have dared to hope, the white linen nurse appeared suddenly on the scene in her little blue serge wedding-suit with her traveling-case in her hand. with a gasp of relief the senior surgeon took her case and his own and went on down the path to his car and his chauffeur leaving the two women temporarily alone. when he returned to the piazza the woman-of-the-world and the girl-not-at-all-of-the-world were bidding each other a really affectionate good-by, and the woman's face looked suddenly just a little bit old but the girl's cheeks were most inordinately blooming. in unmistakable friendliness his sister-in-law extended her hand to him. "good-by, lendicott, old man!" she said. "and good luck to you!" a little slyly out of her shrewd gray eyes, she glanced up sideways at him. "you've got the devil's own temper, lendicott dear," she teased, "and two or three other vices probably, and if rumor speaks the truth you've run a-muck more than once in your life,--but there's one thing i will say for you,--though it prove you a dear stupid: you never were over-quick to suspect that any woman could possibly be in love with you!" "to what woman do you particularly refer?" mocked the senior surgeon impatiently. quite brazenly to her own heart which never yet apparently had stirred the laces that enshrined it, his sister-in-law pointed with persistent banter. "maybe i refer to--myself," she laughed, "and maybe to the only--other lady present!" "oh!" gasped the white linen nurse. "you do me much honor, agnes," bowed the senior surgeon. quite resolutely he held his gaze from following the white linen nurse's quickly averted face. a little oddly for an instant the older woman's glance hung on his. "more honor perhaps than you think, lendicott faber!" she said, and kept right on smiling. "eh?" jerked the senior surgeon. restively he turned to the white linen nurse. very flushingly on the steps the white linen nurse knelt arguing with the little crippled girl. "your father and i are--going away," she pleaded. "won't you--please--kiss us good-by?" "i've only got one kiss," sulked the little crippled girl. "give it to your--father!" pleaded the white linen nurse. amazingly all in a second the ugliness vanished from the little face. dartlingly like a bird the child swooped down and planted one large round kiss on the senior surgeon's astonished boot. "beautiful father!" she cried, "i kiss your feet!" abruptly the senior surgeon plunged from the step and started down the walk. his cheek-bones were quite crimson. two or three rods behind him the white linen nurse followed falteringly. once she stopped to pick up a tiny stick or a stone. and once she dallied to straighten out a snarled spray of red and brown woodbine. missing the sound or the shadow of her the senior surgeon turned suddenly to wait. so startled was she by his intentness, so flustered, so affrighted, that just for an instant the senior surgeon thought that she was going to wheel in her tracks and bolt madly back to the house. then quite unexpectedly she gave an odd, muffled little cry, and ran swiftly to him like a child, and slipped her bare hand trustingly into his. and they went on together to the car. with his foot already half lifted to the step the senior surgeon turned abruptly around and lifted his hat and stood staring back bareheaded for some unexplainable reason at the two silent figures on the piazza. "rae," he said perplexedly, "rae, i don't seem to know just why--but somehow i'd like to have you kiss your hand to aunt agnes!" obediently the white linen nurse withdrew her fingers from his and wafted two kisses, one to "aunt agnes" and one to the little crippled girl. then the white linen nurse and the senior surgeon climbed up into the tonneau of the car where they had never, never sat alone before, and the senior surgeon gave a curt order to his man and the big car started off again into--interminable spaces. mutely without a word, without a glance passing between them the senior surgeon held out his hand to her once more, as though the absence of her hand in his was suddenly a lonesomeness not to be endured again while life lasted. whizz--whizz--whizz--whirr--whirr--whirr the ribbony road began to roll up again on that hidden spool under the car. when the chauffeur's mind seemed sufficiently absorbed in speed and sound the senior surgeon bent down a little mockingly and mumbled his lips inarticulately at the white linen nurse. "see!" he laughed. "i've got a text, too, to keep my courage up! of course you look like an angel!" he teased closer and closer to her flaming face. "but all the time to myself--to reassure myself--i just keep saying--' bah! she 's nothing but a woman--nothing but a woman--nothing but a woman'!" within the senior surgeon's warm, firm grasp the white linen nurse's calm hand quickened suddenly like a bud forced precipitously into full bloom. "oh, don't--talk, sir," she whispered. "oh, don't talk, sir! just--listen!" "listen? listen to what?" laughed the senior surgeon. from under the heavy lashes that shadowed the flaming cheeks the soul of the girl who was to be his peered up at the soul of the man who was to be hers,--_and saluted what she saw!_ "oh, my heart, sir!" whispered the white linen nurse. "oh, my heart! my heart! my _heart_!" the end nurse elisia by george manville fenn published by cassell publishing company, new york. this edition dated . nurse elisia, by george manville fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ nurse elisia, by george manville fenn. chapter one. the elthornes. crick! "there: just as i expected. the old story. hard and indigestible as lead." "i'm very sorry papa, dear." "sorry! what's the good of being sorry? you know how i suffer from indigestion, and yet you persist in giving me eggs like that for my breakfast." mr ralph elthorne, of hightoft, in the county of lincolnshire, threw down the knife with which he had given a savage chop at the side of an egg, as if to cut off the top at a blow, pushed away his plate so that the silver egg-cup fell over sidewise, finishing the breaking of the egg, and letting a thick stream of rich yellow yolk begin to flow, while the irritable gentleman made a snatch at the toast-rack, and uttered an angry ejaculation. "will you take tea or coffee, papa, dear?" said the sweet, rather delicate looking girl seated at the head of the table; but there was no reply, and after exchanging glances with the lady, a good-looking, sun-tanned young fellow on her right said: "let me send you some of this, father," and he "made an offer" at the hot water dish before him with a glistening spoon. "eh? what is it, al?" "kidneys, sir." "bah! no, i've got leather enough here. look at this. does that idiotic woman in the kitchen call this dry toast? look at it. only fit to make soles for shooting boots." "rather caky," said the young man, with his mouth full. "not bad kidneys; nice and hot." "well, isabel, how long am i to wait for that cup of coffee? no, i'll take tea." the girl, who had poured out two cupfuls tentatively, started up from her chair, and took the cup of tea round to the other end of the table, placed it beside the rather fierce looking elderly man, bent down and kissed his forehead, and hurried back to her place. "we never did have but one servant who could make the toast properly," continued the head of the family. "how is she, isabel? when is she coming back?" "very soon, i hope, papa. neil mentions maria in his letter this morning." "eh? neil written to you?" "yes, papa." "humph!" ejaculated mr elthorne, making a dig at a pat of butter as it floated in water in the cooler, splashing some of the water over the cloth, and harpooning the said pat so insecurely that it dropped off his knife before it reached his plate. "i think it would be more creditable to neil if he wrote a little more often to his father." alison elthorne exchanged glances with his sister, and his lips moved as if he were speaking words which isabel interpreted to mean, "got out of bed wrong way." the breakfast went on. mr elthorne placed a pair of spring folding glasses on his well-cut aquiline nose, and took up and frowned at a letter. "when's neil coming down?" "he did not say, papa. he writes that poor maria causes him a great deal of anxiety." "poor maria? i think she ought to be very glad and grateful. it is wonderful what is done for the poor in this country. here is this girl, taken up to london free of expense, placed in a magnificent institution, and receives the attention of such an eminent man as--hah, not a bad cup of tea,"--a long breath drawn after a hearty draught--"as sir denton hayle, without counting that of neil. is your aunt coming down to breakfast, or is she not?" "she will be down soon, papa. she--she rather overslept herself." "rubbish! idleness! pure idleness! she knows how i hate to see an empty chair at the table. professes to keep house, and is never in her place at proper time. keep house, indeed! eggs like leaden bullets; toasts and kidneys like leather; tea half cold and not fit to drink; and--" "now, papa, dear, you said just now that it was not a bad cup of tea." "eh? did i? humph--a _lapsus linguae_," said mr elthorne with a grim smile, for his breakfast was softening down his asperities. "alison, ring that bell." the young man rose slowly and straddled to the fireplace after the fashion of men who are a good deal in the saddle, rang, and came back to the table. "been in the stables this morning, al?" "yes." "how did the don look?" "oh, right enough, but i don't like him any better, sir." "prejudice, al, prejudice. because i let someone else choose him instead of you. wants an older man to judge a horse." "dare say it does, sir. but i would not have given a hundred pounds for the don--nor yet thirty," added the young man _sotto voce_. "bah! prejudice, boy. sound wind and limb; well bred." "granted, sir. he is all that you say, but he has a temper. you wanted a quieter animal--a nice weight-bearing, steady cob." "indeed!" said mr elthorne, sarcastically, "or a donkey. i'm growing so old and feeble." "you rang, sir," said the quiet, staid looking butler. "yes; send one of the maids up to ask mrs barnett--humph! never mind." the butler held open the door for a rather stout, florid looking, middle-aged lady to enter, which she did in a hurried, bustling way, pressing her _pince-nez_ on to her nose. "good-morning!" she exclaimed. "i am so sorry, ralph. i hope i have not kept you waiting." "oh, dear, no," began mr elthorne. "oh, hang it all, anne, do mind," he continued, as there was a click caused by the encountering of two pairs of spectacles, as the lady kissed him, and then bustled on to salute alison with a similar kiss to that bestowed upon his father. "morning, my dear. good-morning once more, isabel, my dear." "and how are you now you have come?" said mr elthorne gruffly. "oh, not at all well, ralph, dear," sighed the lady, as she settled herself in her chair and spread her snowy napkin across her knees. "what have you there, alison, dear? yes, i'll take one. coffee, please, isabel dear. it's very chilly this morning." "very," said mr elthorne sarcastically. "you should have a fire in your bedroom." "well, really, ralph, i think i will. it is so cold getting up." she sneezed sharply. there was a faint click, and a tiny splash in her cup. "oh, dear me, look at that!" cried the lady. "isabel, my dear, will you pass me the sugar tongs. thanks." alison burst into a fit of laughter as his aunt began solemnly to fish in her coffee cup for _her pince-nez_. "you shouldn't laugh, my dear." "enough to make a donkey laugh," said mr elthorne grimly. "did you mean that term for me, sir?" said alison sharply. "no, al, no," said his father coolly. "if it had been meant for you i should have called you an ass." "thank you," said the young man. "quite welcome, al. you are one sometimes." alison frowned, but his annoyance passed off as he saw success attend his aunt's diving apparatus, for she made a successful plunge, brought out the dripping glasses, and began placidly to wipe them upon her napkin. "the springs of these glasses do get so terribly weak," she said, and then paused to raise her head, throw it back, and gaze plaintively up at a corner of the ceiling. "er--er--er--er--" "what's the matter, auntie?" said alison mockingly. "tchischew!--er--tischew!" she sneezed. "oh, dear me, what a cold i have caught!" "be careful, then, not to put on damp spectacles, or you may make it worse," said mr elthorne, smiling. "you don't think so, do you, ralph?" "no, auntie; papa's making fun of you." "you shouldn't, ralph; it really is too bad, and before the children, too. but i'm afraid i'm going to have a very bad cold. i wish neil would make haste and come down." "what for?" said mr elthorne. "he seems to understand my constitution better than anyone i have ever been to." "bah!" ejaculated her brother. "he is only an apprentice to his trade. mark my words: he'll poison you one of these days by making experiments upon you." "really, my dear, you shouldn't. i'm sure neil has too much respect for his aunt to be so wicked," said the lady, going on with her breakfast very composedly. "i hope he will soon cure maria, though, and send her back. i do miss her sadly." "humph!" grumbled mr elthorne; "that's why you were so late, i suppose." "no, ralph. alison, my dear, give me a bit of that toast that is soaked in gravy; thank you, my dear. i do not say that; i know i am late this morning, but i do miss her very much. but i thought you people were going out riding." "so we are," said alison. aunt anne turned to her niece. "oh, i can soon put on my riding habit, auntie. a little more sugar?" "well, yes, just a very little more, my dear; thank you. ralph, i hope you will be careful over that new horse." "why?" said mr elthorne, sharply; and aunt anne prattled on. "because alison was saying he thought it had a bad temper, and i always do feel so nervous about horses that kick and bite." "perhaps you'd like me to be tied on." "now, ralph, you are making fun of me," said the lady placidly. "of course i should not." "or have the groom with me to hold a leading-rein?" "nonsense, ralph, dear; that would be absurd; but if the horse bites, i should like you to make it wear that leather thing over its nose." "what?" roared mr elthorne. "the crib-biter's muzzle, father!" cried alison, roaring with laughter; and the head of the house uttered a fierce growl. "i do not see anything to laugh at, alison," said the lady reprovingly. "i may not understand much about horses, but i have heard that their bite is very dangerous." "don't you go near him," said mr elthorne sneeringly. "al!" "yes, father." "is sir cheltnam coming over this morning?" isabel looked conscious, and glanced uneasily at the speaker. "said he should," replied alison. "then you'd better mind what you are about." "i always do," said the young man sourly. "don't speak to me in that tone, sir." "now, ralph, dear!--alison!" cried aunt anne, turning from one to the other as she hastily interposed, to play the part of mediator. "you should not speak so abruptly to papa. but i'm sure he did not mean to be disrespectful, ralph." "you mind your own business, madam; i can manage my children," growled mr elthorne. "a puppy! do you think i'm blind? sir cheltnam was cutting in before you all the time we were out last, and i could see that dana was encouraging him out of pique. she as good as owned to it afterward to me." "i don't suppose burwood would like it if he knew you called him a puppy." "i did not, sir--i called you one." "don't--pray don't be angry, ralph," said aunt anne softly. "i told you to mind your own business, madam," said her brother shortly. "if you'd do that, and look after the housekeeping, i should not have my digestion ruined with gutta percha kidneys and leathery toast. now, look here, alison, as this topic has cropped up, please understand me. i don't like to speak so plainly about such delicate matters, but one must be clear when the future careers of young people are in question." "oh, dear me," muttered alison. "more coffee, isabel," he added aloud, while his father pushed away his plate, took off his glasses, and began to swing them round by the string. "if that cord breaks, ralph, those glasses will break something," said aunt anne, and mr elthorne uttered an impatient snort. "now, look here, alison. i suppose you fully understand that i have a reason in encouraging the visits here of those two girls?" "yes, father, i suppose so." "humph--that's right; but don't be so indifferent. dana is an exceedingly pretty, clever girl; a splendid horsewoman; of good birth; and she and saxa have capital portions. one of them will have morton, of course; in all probability dana, for saxa, when she marries your brother, will go to live in town. now, i should like to know what more a young fellow of your age could wish for--the money you will get from me, morton court, dana's portion, and a pretty, clever wife." "i think you might have put the lady first, ralph," said aunt anne. "mrs barnett, will you be good enough to finish your breakfast, and let me speak," said mr elthorne cuttingly. "then, by-and-by, you will be on the bench, and, before long, have a third of your aunt's money, for she cannot live long if she eats so much." "my dear ralph," cried the lady. "can you make any better plans, sir? if so, pray let me hear them, there is no coercion--i merely ask you all to do well, and be happy." "oh, no, i have no plans. i like dana very well. she's a jolly enough girl." "then that's settled, sir; only just bear it in mind, and don't let burwood be stuffing her head full of nonsensical ideas. some girls would be attracted at once by the prospect of becoming `my lady,' but dana is too shrewd." "almost a pity that the girls have no brother," said alison carelessly. "why, sir?" said his father sharply. "because then he could have married little isabel, and completed the combination," said alison, looking meaningly at his sister. "don't be an ass, boy. hallo! who's this?" cried mr elthorne, turning sharply in his chair as a bell rang. "only beck, father. i asked him to come with us." mr elthorne turned upon his son mute with anger and annoyance; hence he did not notice the bright look and increase of colour in his daughter's face. "you asked him to come over--this morning?" "yes, father. poor beggar, he only has a few more days before he sails for china, and i thought it would be neighbourly. old beck is always very nice to me." "oh, very well," said mr elthorne abruptly; and isabel uttered a low sigh of relief as she busied herself over her aunt's cup, suddenly displaying great anxiety that the placid looking lady should have some more coffee. "better ask him in to breakfast, al," said mr elthorne. "yes; i was going to," said alison, rising and leaving the room, to return in a few minutes with a frank, manly looking young fellow of seven or eight and twenty, whose face was of a rich, warm brown up to the centre of his forehead, and there became white up to his curly chestnut hair, which was a little darker than his crisp, closely cut beard. "ah, beck, come over for a ride with us?" said mr elthorne. "how is the vicar?" "quite well, sir." "and mrs beck?" "oh, yes, sir. alison was good enough to ask me to join your party." he shook hands with the ladies, and there was rather a conscious look between isabel and the visitor as their hands joined--one which did not escape the head of the family. "sit down, beck, sit down," he said, cordially enough, all the same. "oh, i have breakfasted, sir." "yes; we're late," said mr elthorne, with a look at aunt anne. "that means it is my fault, mr beck," said the lady; "but never mind, my dear, sit down and have some more. sailors always have good appetites." "oh, well, just a drop of coffee," said the young man, for isabel had quickly filled a cup, and was holding it out to him. "thanks, miss elthorne; but really i did not mean--" "you are on the vicar's cob?" said mr elthorne quickly, as he noted his daughter's heightened colour, and the young man's hesitation and evident pleasure. "try some of this game pie, beck," cried alison, pushing over a plate. "aunt anne finished the kidneys." "ally, my dear." "oh, thanks," said the visitor, taking the plate as he settled himself at the table. "cob, sir? oh, no; a friend sent me over one of his horses. i have had it these three days." a curious look of trouble crossed isabel's countenance, and she sat watching the speaker as he went on: "that's the worst of being ashore. everyone is so kind. i am always spoiled, and it takes me a month to get over it when i get back to my ship." "and when do you go?" said mr elthorne. "this day fortnight, sir." "for six months, isn't it?" "there is no certainty, sir, i'm sorry to say. we may be ordered on to japan afterward." "isabel, my dear, i am sure mr beck will excuse you." "eh? oh, yes, certainly," said the visitor with his lips, but with a denial of the words in his eyes. "go and put on your riding habit, my dear. aunt anne will pour out the coffee." "yes, papa," said the girl; and she rose, and, after exchanging glances with their visitor, left the room. "oh, yes, i'll pour out the coffee," said aunt anne, changing her seat. "you are very fond of riding, mr beck, are you not?" "well, ye-es," said the young man, laughing, and with an apologetic look at his host and friend; "i like it very much, but i always seem such a poor horseman among all these hard riders, and feel as if i ought to congratulate myself when i get back safe." "oh, well," said mr elthorne condescendingly, "you would have the laugh at us if you got us to sea. did you see anything of sir cheltnam?" "no; i came by the lower road." "here he is--they are, i ought to say," cried alison, jumping up and going to the window. "eh?" ejaculated mr elthorne, rising too, and joining his son at the window to watch a party of three coming across the park at a hard gallop--the party consisting of two ladies and a gentleman, with one of the ladies leading, well back in her saddle, evidently quite at her ease. "humph," muttered mr elthorne; and then in a low voice to his son: "of course. if you had had any brains you would have ridden out to meet them, and not left them to another escort." "oh, i shall be with them all day, sir, and--ah saxa, you foolish girl," he cried excitedly, of course with his words perfectly inaudible to the member of the group whom he was addressing. "the horse will rush that fence as sure as i'm here. oh, hang all wire and hurdles!" "what's the matter?" cried beck, starting from the table as alison opened the french window and stepped out. "my word, how those two girls can ride." "like amazons, sir," said mr elthorne proudly, as he watched the party, now coming over the closely cropped turf at quite a racing pace; and his voice was full of the excitement he felt. "will she see it, al, my boy? yes, she rises--cleared it like a swallow. bravo! with such a lead the others are safe to--" "well done! well over!" cried alison, from outside, as he began clapping his hands. "capital! bravo!" cried mr elthorne, following his son's example, as he now stepped outside to meet the party who were rapidly coming up after skimming over the hurdle which formed part of the ring fence of the estate. "all safe over, mrs barnett," said the vicar's son, returning to the table. "then they don't deserve to be, mr beck," said the lady. "i do not approve of girls being so horribly masculine. if our isabel were like that, i should feel as if i had not done my duty to her since her poor mother died." "but she is not like that," said the visitor, after a quick glance at the open window. "no, my dear, not a bit. i hate to see young ladies such tomboys. but there--poor girls!--no mother--no father." "and no aunt anne to guide them," interpolated the visitor. "thank you, my dear. it's very nice of you to say so. i'm afraid i'm not clever, but i do try to act a mother's part to dear isabel. i don't know, though, what i shall do when neil and alison marry those two. they don't like me a bit, and, between ourselves, i really don't like them." "morning, daddy," came in a loud, breathless voice from the outside. "what do you think of that?" "morning," came in another voice; and the word was repeated again in the deep tones of a man, and supplemented by the snortings of horses. "morning, my dears. capital! but very imprudent. i will not have you trying to break that pretty little neck--nor you neither, dana. burwood, you should not have encouraged them." "i? that's good, mr elthorne. they both took the bit in their teeth, and all i could do was to follow." "oh, stuff and nonsense!" cried the second voice. "what a fuss about a canter. come, you folks, are you ready?" "how's aunt anne?" "good gracious me! is the girl mad?" cried that lady, as there was the crunching of gravel, the window was darkened, a horse's hoofs sounded loudly on the step, and the head and neck of a beautiful animal were thrust right into the room, with the bright, merry face of a girl close behind, as its owner stooped to avoid the top of the window and peered in. "hallo! there you are. good-morning! we've had such a gallop. where's isabel? hallo, sailor, how are you?" "my dear child, don't--pray don't," cried aunt anne. "you'll be having some accident. suppose that horse put his foot through the glass." "good job for the glazier. here tom beck, give biddy some lumps of sugar." "bless the child!" cried aunt anne. "oh, here's isabel. mr beck, take the sugar basin, and back that dreadful animal out." the young sailor obeyed her to the letter, as isabel entered to look on laughingly, while the other touched the skittish mare upon which she was seated, so that it might join in crunching up the sweet pieces of sugar with which they were fed in turn. "morning, parson," said the new arrival with the deep-toned voice, to tom beck, as the young lieutenant went on sugaring the two steeds. "thought you were off to sea again." "did you?" said beck, meeting his eyes with a lump of sugar in his hand, and with rather a stern, fixed look, from which the new arrival turned with a half laugh. "yes; you sailors are here to-day and gone to-morrow." "exactly," said beck; "but this is to-day and not to-morrow." "mr beck--take care!" it was isabel who cried out in alarm, but her warning was too late, for the handsome mare which dana lydon rode had stretched out its neck and taken the lump of sugar the young lieutenant was holding; and as he turned sharply, it was at the sudden grip, for the greater part of his hand was held between the horse's teeth. "great heavens!" cried mr elthorne. "wait a moment, i'll make her leave go," cried dana, raising her whip to strike the animal between the ears. "stop!" cried beck sharply, as he caught the mare's bit with his left hand, standing firmly the while, but with his face drawn with pain. "if you do that she'll crush the bones." isabel uttered a faint sob, and turned white, while sir cheltnam sprang from his horse and stepped close to her. "don't be frightened," he whispered, giving additional pain now to the young sailor in the shape of that which was mental. isabel paid no heed to him or his words, but stood gazing wildly at the brave young fellow whose hand was gripped as if in a vice by the powerful jaws, but who, beyond knitting his brows and turning pale, made no sign. "here, alison," cried mr elthorne, "take the other side of the mare's muzzle. she'll crush his hand." "no, no," said the young man, quickly. "she'll let go soon. be quiet, all of you, or you'll startle her." the young man's words were full of the authoritative tone of one accustomed to command in emergencies; but his voice shook a little at the last, for he was oppressed by a deadly feeling of sickness which he fought hard to resist, while the group closed round him, and there was a low buzz of excitement through which came the trampling of other horses, as the grooms led them round from the stable yard. tom beck felt that he could hold out no longer. he had tried and manfully to combat the physical pain at a time when the mental was agonising, for he had seen the young baronet approach isabel and whisper to her, and he had felt that any increase of the terrible grip would mean a horrible mutilation, and the utter blasting of his career and his hopes. despair was combining with the sensation of faintness; and with the scene around him growing dim and the excited voices beginning to sound muffled and strange, nature was rapidly conquering the education of a brave man who had been schooled to face danger unmoved; he turned his eyes wildly to where isabel stood. but that look moved her to spring forward, lay her hand on the mare's muzzle, and falter out vainly a few caressing words. worse than vainly, for the mare lowered her head, and increased the sufferer's agony. "don't," he whispered hoarsely. "dana, i shall have to shoot her," cried mr elthorne hoarsely. alison pressed forward, and passed his arm about his friend's waist, for he saw that he was ready to fall, and the morning's comedy was on the point of becoming tragic, when a loud neigh came from one of the horses being led around to the front, and beck's hand fell from the mare's jaws, for she threw up her head and uttered a whinnying answer to the challenge of mr elthorne's new hunter, the don. "ah!" it was more a groan than a sigh of relief from all around, while, tightening her rein, dana cut the mare across the ears with all her might; and as the graceful animal bounded forward, she kept on lashing it furiously, making it curvet and plunge and snort, as it excited the other horses near. "don't! don't! dana," cried her sister. "she'll throw you." "a vicious beast!--a vicious beast!" panted the girl, as she still plied her whip till mr elthorne caught her arm. beck stood, half supported by alison, watching isabel being assisted into the breakfast-room by her aunt and sir cheltnam, till she disappeared, when he reeled slightly, but made an effort to recover himself. "much hurt, old man?" "no," he said hoarsely; "a nasty grip. tell that girl not to beat the mare. it was not wise." "now, how is he?" cried mr elthorne, coming back. "help him in. send one of the grooms for the doctor." "no, no, sir," said beck, with a faint laugh, as he held up the hand deeply indented by the mare's teeth. "it's nothing to mind. shan't be a one-armed greenwich pensioner this time." "oh, my dear boy! my dear boy!" cried an excited voice, and aunt anne came rushing out of the window with a cup and saucer. "here, drink this." "anne! don't be so foolish," cried her brother. "he doesn't want tea." "but there's brandy in it, ralph," protested the lady. "drink it, my dear; it will do you good." "thanks," said beck, raising his injured hand to take the cup, but letting it fall again. "not this time," he said with a laugh, and taking the cup with his left he drained it. "that's better, mrs barnett," he said. "there, i'm very sorry, mr elthorne, i've made quite an upset." "and i'm very glad, my boy," replied his host. "what a horrible mishap!" "how is he?" cried dana, cantering up with her sister. "oh, it's nothing--nothing at all." "that's right," cried saxa. "oh, it will soon go off. not so bad as a spill by a five-bar." "get a liqueur," said dana. "i say; it has made you look white. worse disasters at sea, eh?" "much," said beck, quietly; and then to himself, "oh, how i do hate a horsey woman." "i say," cried saxa; "this isn't going to spoil our ride, is it, daddy?" "oh, no, i hope not; but i will stay, my dears," said mr elthorne. "what! and not try your new horse! i should like to have the saddle shifted, and put him through his paces myself," said saxa, looking at the noble hunter held by a groom. "no, no, my dear, not to-day," said mr elthorne hastily. "alison will go with you, girls, and--oh, there's burwood. ask how isabel is. say it's all right now, and the horses are waiting. she turned faint, i suppose. beck, come in; you had better see the doctor." "nonsense, my dear sir. i'm all right. it isn't my bridle hand. i shall not want a whip." "oh, no," said sir cheltnam; "your mount wants no whip. shall you venture?" "of course," said beck, walking toward where a helper held his horse, just as isabel came out, looking very pale. "well, he has got some pluck in him, al," said sir cheltnam, "even if he is a parson's son." "poor fellow! yes," replied alison. "moral," said sir cheltnam laughingly, to the lydon girls, "never give lumps of sugar to a skittish mare." ten minutes later the little party were mounted and moved off, leaving aunt anne waving her lace handkerchief from the steps. chapter two. nurse elisia. the roar of the big road sounded plainly, but it was far enough off for it to be subdued into a mellow hum, suggestive to the country sufferer lying in the narrow bed with its clean linen and neat blue checked hangings by the open window, of bees swarming, and a threshing machine at work in the farm beyond the park. and yet it was london, for the windows were coated with a sooty layer outside, and the sun shone as if nature were afraid its beams would be too strong for londoners' eyes, to which it came as in an eclipse through smoked glass, and a murky haze full of germs and motes was interposed between the dwellers in the city and the blue sky above. the ward was long and clean, and every bed was occupied. the air was fairly fresh and pleasant, though dashed with the odour of antiseptics. but there was none of the faint medicinal effluvia of the sick wards, for this was surgical--the special empire of the celebrated sir denton hayle, well known in his profession as the most skillful and daring operator this generation has seen. there were those who shrugged their shoulders and said he had murdered many a patient, and it was true that a percentage--thanks to his skill, a very small percentage--of his sufferers had died; but, on the other hand, he could point to those whom he had saved from an apparently inevitable early death, brought on by one of the evils of poor human nature which had heretofore set medical and surgical skill at defiance. maria bellows, in other respects a stout, hearty, country lass, had been one of these sufferers, and the provincial doctors called in to hightoft by aunt anne to see the upper housemaid, had shaken their heads and said there was only one thing that would save her, and that was to go up to the great east central hospital and place herself in the hands of sir denton hayle. then, during one of his visits home, aunt anne insisted upon neil elthorne seeing the woman. mr elthorne said it was absurd, but he was quiet afterward when he heard that his son had also declared that the only thing that could save the patient's life was for her to come up to the hospital in town. furthermore, he said that he would speak to the illustrious chief under whom he studied, and see that every arrangement was made for her reception. maria went up, and now lay by the open window thinking of the country, of how long it would be before the doctors made her well again and sent her back to her situation. then she wondered how miss isabel was, and mr alison, and how soon there would be weddings at the house. for it was an open secret among the servants at hightoft that "master's" sons were to marry the misses lydon, and that miss isabel would become lady burwood. "i shall be glad to get back," she said at last with a sigh. "i always thought london was a gay place, but--ugh!--it is dull." "dull lying here, my poor girl," said a sweet voice, and she turned sharply and uttered a cry of pain with the effort. in an instant busy hands were about her, changing her position and wiping the agony-engendered perspiration from her brow before assisting her to drink a little water. "i am sorry i startled you." maria looked half angrily in the beautiful face bent over her, with its clearly cut, aristocratic features and large eyes, which gazed searchingly into her own. for it was a countenance that attracted attention with its saddened, pitying look, heightened by the smooth white cap and stiffened quaint linen "bib and tucker," as our mothers termed the old puritan-like costume, the whole being strongly suggestive of the portrait of some lady of the pilgrim father days. "you came so quiet, you quite frightened me," said the woman. "your nerves are over-strung," was the reply. "i ought to have known better." there was something so sweet and soothing in the deep musical tones of the soft voice that it had its effect upon the patient directly, and she lay back with a sigh. "it don't matter, nurse," she said, "but do make haste and get me well." "indeed, we are trying very hard. but you are mending fast. sir denton will be here soon to see you again." "yes," said the woman, with her brow growing rugged and a petulance of manner, "to hurt me again, horrid. he'll kill me before he has done." "you do not think so, maria," said the nurse gently, as she laid her cool white hand upon the patient's brow. "he is as tender and gentle as a woman, and he takes great interest in your case." "but, i say, they won't take me into the theatre again, will they? oh, i say, what a shame to call that horrid place a theatre!" "no; that is all over now, and you have nothing to do now but get well and go back to the country." "but it takes so long, and it was so horrid with all those doctors and people, and the chloroform, and stuff, and--" "do you not think it would be better," said the nurse gently, "if, instead of looking at what has passed in that spirit, you were to try and remember it only with gratitude, and think that a month back you were in a very dangerous state, while now you are rapidly getting well?" "i don't know," said the woman querulously. "it's very horrid lying here listening to other people complaining and saying how bad they are, and no one near who knows you." "come, come," said the nurse gently, "you are hot and tired. i have brought you some flowers and fruit. there!" she placed a bunch of roses in the patient's hand, and placed a bunch of large grapes before her on the bed. "thanky," said the woman, ungraciously, as she sniffed at the flowers. "but they're not very fresh." "no," said the nurse, smiling; "but you must recollect that they had to be cut in the country and sent up by rail. try a few of the grapes." she held up a little tray, and the patient picked one or two grapes off the bunch with an indifferent air. "not much of grapes," she said. "you should see them in the vineries at hightoft. much nicer than these poor tasteless things." "i am sorry they're not better, maria," said the nurse with a pitying smile. "they were the best i could get. you must remember we are in london." "oh, yes; it isn't your fault, nurse. you can't help it." "eat a few more." "no; i don't want 'em. i say, how long will the doctor be? i want to know if i mayn't get up." "i can tell you that, maria. not yet. try and be patient and trust to us." "oh, very well," said the girl petulantly; "but it's horrid lying here so long." "do you think you could read a little if i brought you a book?" "no. it only makes me tired. i hate reading." "hush! here is mr elthorne." as she spoke a tall, keen-looking, youngish man approached the bed. he was handsome and with a strong resemblance to his father; but his high forehead wore a peculiarly thoughtful, intent look, and there were the lines in his face made by constant devotion to some study, and a something in his eyes which suggested that he was thinking deeply of an object which had eluded his mental grasp. "good-morning," he said quietly. "how is your patient?" "a little nervous and restless, sir. ought she not to have change?" "yes," said the young surgeon, taking the patient's hand and watching her intently. "as soon as we can move her, but we must hasten slowly. you will be glad to get back--home, maria?" "oh, yes, sir, please, sir. i am so tired of being here." "i suppose so," said the young surgeon. "naturally;" and he turned to the nurse with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "it is so sad and painful, sir," she said gravely. "poor thing! i am sure she has tried to be very patient." "well, we will hear what sir denton says." neil elthorne went across the ward to another bed, and maria uttered a little laugh. "what amuses you?" "oh, nothing, nurse; i was only thinking. of course i want to get home again. anybody would." "well, be patient. you are getting better, and you must think of health and strength, and the bright country life, where you will have fresh flowers and better fruit, and be among your friends." the nurse smiled, and then placed a little bottle of lavender water in her patient's hand. "to sprinkle about you when you feel faint," she said. "thanky," said the woman, in a tone of voice which robbed the word of thankfulness; and the nurse went across to where the young surgeon was busy with another patient. "and she knows i don't like lavender water," grumbled the woman. "always trying to play the fine lady nurse, and showing off, and i don't believe she's a lady at all. a real lady would have brought padchouly or odyklone. think i don't know. flowers and grapes only cheap rubbish. can't afford better, i suppose." she lay back watching the actions of nurse and surgeon the while, and commenting thereon. "she's an artful one, she is, with all her demure looks and mincing ways. i'm not blind. only come here because she can wear them play-acting clothes and show off. i haven't patience with her. lady nurse, indeed. no more a lady than i am. yes, of course. look at that. but it won't do, madam. he's engaged, and if i see much more of it i'll tell the old doctor--see if i don't. you're not going to trap our master neil, and so i tell you. i should like to set miss saxa at her. my word, she'd startle my lady. well, now; look at that!" there was not much to see, only that neil elthorne had spoken as they were leaving the other patient's bedside, and the nurse had turned to look at him as if half startled, and then turned away and came back seeming slightly disturbed. but by the time she had reached the first patient's bedside her face was perfectly calm again, and an unbiased observer would have said that it was very beautiful in its gentle, resigned expression. "let me sprinkle a little of the scent for you," she said. "oh, very well. if you like," said maria ungraciously. then quickly, and with a flash of suspicion in her eyes, "i say, why do you look at me like that? you don't think i shall die, do you?" "oh, no," said the nurse, smiling, "indeed no. you will get better and go." "but lots of them do die, don't they?" "some do, unfortunately; but why should you think of that?" "you've seen lots die, haven't you?" "yes," said the nurse gravely; "in spite of all our efforts; and i have seen many grow strong and well, thanks to the skill of sir denton hayle and mr elthorne." "we always call him mr neil at home; master's mr elthorne." "and go away at last, cured," continued the nurse, not heeding the interruption, "thankful for heaven's mercy and full of gratitude to those who have tended them." "so am i," said maria, shortly. "you think i'm not, but i am." "hush! do not talk. you are getting flushed and excited. here is sir denton." "that's right," muttered maria, as the nurse left the bedside to go toward a slight little white-haired gentleman, closely shaven, and whose lips were closely compressed, as, with his large, deeply-set eyes he gave a quick glance round the ward, which became perfectly still as he approached. "good-morning," he said. "come, my child, this will not do. too pale! too much application. the nurse will have to be nursed if we go on like this." "oh, no, i am quite well, sir denton," she said, smiling, with quite an affectionate look in her face. "then i am an ignorant old pretender, my child," he said gravely. "well, elthorne, anything special to report?" "number forty-four, here, not quite so well as i should like to see her. been a little feverish in the night, has she not, nurse?" "yes, sir," replied the nurse; "but if i might say so--." "of course, of course," said sir denton, "a little irritable." "i think it is more that she is fretting to get away from here, than from any fresh complication." "let's see," said the keen-looking old surgeon, turning at once to the bed, where maria had lain watching them and trying to catch their words. "well," he said aloud, as he seated himself and made his rapid examination, "flowers and fruit, and a clear eye and a clean tongue. healthy look, too, about your skin, and the colour coming back. why, you may get up--yes, for an hour or two, say the day after to-morrow, and in another week or two we will send you back home cured. what do you say to that?" "thanky, sir." "strange woman, that," said sir denton, an hour later, when he was leaving the ward. "i believe that when she was made, all the atoms or particles which go to form the virtue known as gratitude were left out. what do you say, nurse?" "the poor woman has suffered a great deal." "yes, but she might have shown some little thankfulness to you for what you have done." "i, sir denton?" said the nurse deprecatingly. "yes, my child, you. what i have done would have been useless without your help. but there, it is waste of words to praise you, for you are a dreadful sceptic. by the way, elthorne, there is nothing to prevent you from taking a week's run. you ought to have it now." "i don't like to leave till that woman is perfectly safe from a relapse." "well, she is now, so go. it will suit me better than if you wait to go later on. nurse elisia and i will see to her. i suppose you will trust us?" "what a question!" said the young surgeon. "well, under those circumstances i will go for a few days--say four." "take a fortnight, man." "no; the time i said. i should not go down only my people consider that i am neglecting them. i shall be back at the end of four days." he glanced sharply at the nurse as he spoke, and she met his eyes in the most calm, unmoved way. "you may depend upon my taking every care of the patient, mr elthorne," she said quietly. "thank you; i am sure you will," he said with his brow wrinkling a little. but he mastered himself the next minute, as he gave a few directions concerning other patients in the ward. "tut, man! that will do," said sir denton, impatiently. "the conceit of you young fellows is dreadful. do you think there will be screens drawn round all the beds just because you are out of the way? we'll try and keep your patients alive." neil laughed good-humouredly. "i have perfect faith in nurse," he said apologetically. "forgive me for being anxious about my ward." "partly humbug, my dear boy," said the great surgeon to himself. "but there, i don't blame him." then aloud: "my dear elthorne, seriously, i think change is necessary sometimes, and take my word for it, as an old experienced man, when i say that a holiday is no waste of time. you will come back clearer-headed, and with your nerves toned up. when you come back i shall myself take a few days' rest, and i can do so with the pleasant feeling of confidence that everything here in my ward will go on exactly as i could wish--thanks to you both." "thanks to your teachings," said neil. "well, perhaps i have done my best. you are wanted there." one of the dressers had come up and was waiting to speak, and neil went off with him directly to the other end of the ward. "he will be a great man one of these days, nurse," said the old surgeon quietly. "his heart is in his work, and he is having chances far beyond any that came to my lot when i was young. we have made such vast strides during the past five and twenty years. and now, my child, a word or two with you." "with me, sir denton?" said the nurse, with the blood flushing up at once into her pale cheeks. "yes," he said, watching her keenly. "proof positive. the colour flooded your face directly i spoke. you are as nervous as if you had been ill." "oh, i am quite well, sir denton," she said hastily. "no, you are not, my child. you are over-strung. you have been working too hard, and you are on the point of breaking down. your life is too valuable to us all here for your health to be trifled with." "indeed, i--" "know nothing about it," said the old man decisively. "i do, and i know that your heart is so much in your work that you would go on till you dropped. you must have change from the air of this place." "really, sir denton, i am--" "going to do exactly as i bid you, nurse; and i wish that you would look upon me as a very old friend, and not merely as a crotchety surgeon, who worries and bullies the nurses about his patients." "indeed, you have always been most kind and considerate to me, sir denton." "have i? i thought i was very inconsiderate sometimes, and found a great deal of fault." "you have just given me proof of the interest you take in me, sir denton." "ah, well, we all try to do our best. then, as your friend, i shall insist upon your taking a month." "a month, sir denton?" "yes; it is quite necessary; and you, too, will come back like a lioness refreshed, ready to battle with our troubles here. look, that woman wants you," he continued, nodding toward maria's bed. "don't spoil her too much. she's an ungrateful baggage. i've noticed her. behaves to you as if you were her servant." "oh, i do not mind," said the nurse, smiling. "that's right. neither do i, for we've made a splendid cure of it, nurse. it's a perfect triumph for science. i shall have to read a paper upon her case at the institution. morning. i shall insist upon your going away soon." sir denton went out of the ward in a quick, energetic way, and nurse elisia crossed to maria's bed. "did you want me?" she said gently. "yes, of course i did. it's too bad for you to stop away talking to the doctor so long." "sir denton was giving me instructions partly," said the nurse. "yes, partly," said the woman maliciously. "things go on at hospitals that wouldn't be allowed in a gentleman's house, i can tell you." the nurse's eyes flashed, but her voice was unchanged as she said quietly: "what did you wish me to do for you?" "oh, you needn't turn it off. i'm not blind. i've seen and noticed a deal while i've been lying here. isn't it time i had my meat jelly?" "no," said the nurse quietly. "i should have brought it to you if it had been time." "i don't know so much about that. never mind. i shall soon be fit to go, and precious glad of it." "yes, it will be a great relief for you to get away." "and so mr neil's going for a holiday down home. i suppose he can't stop away any longer without running down to see his sweetheart. shouldn't wonder if he got married before he comes back." she gazed in the nurse's face with eyes full of low-class cunning, expecting to see there a peculiar shrinking--the wincing of one found out. but the countenance into which she gazed was perfectly calm and unruffled. "can i do anything more for you?" "no; not now. thank ye," said the woman ungraciously; "i'm going to have a nap." "do," said the nurse, rearranging the pillow. "if you do not find that it interferes with your night's rest, sleep as much as you can. it gives nature a better opportunity to build up your strength again." "yes; but i'm not blind," said maria to herself, as she saw the nurse go and bend over another patient, and try to alleviate her sufferings. "i've been long enough in the world to know what's what. i've seen too much here. she's a nasty, artful one. she's playing the fine lady, and mincing and using big words, and trying to lead mr neil on till he is getting ever so stupid over her, and then she looks up at him as meek and innocent as a lamb, and as much as to say: `oh, my! what do you mean?' wait till i get home again, and master shall know all about it, and if he don't put a stop to it pretty sharp, my name isn't maria. such impudence! a common hospital nurse trying to lead him on. ugh! i hate the smooth, whitefaced thing, dressed up in her starchy cap and collar and cuffs, and making believe to be so superior. oh, how i should like to see miss saxa have a turn at her. i'll tell her; that i will. i haven't patience with the creature; and as for mr neil, he ought to be ashamed of himself." nurse elisia was having her fit of musing about the same time, and her face for the moment looked troubled and strange. chapter three. neil at home. "morning, elthorne. had breakfast?" "no," said alison, as he patted the neck of sir cheltnam's horse, just reined up in front of the house. "no one down yet but the gov'nor and isabel." "isabel?" said the baronet eagerly. "where is she?" "garden, i think. no, no. don't go after her. you'll only scare her away. if you want that to come off, you must be careful. there, walk your horse round and come in to breakfast." "had it." "then come and have another. we shan't start for our ride these two hours." "oh, hang it! mr elthorne said he wanted me to see him put his horse through his paces. he's not quite satisfied with his deal." "yes, and ride alongside of isabel." "humph--perhaps." "and look here, young man, if you don't wish to develop a row you had better be a little more attentive." "i should be attentive enough, but your sister seems to prefer the attentions of the parson's boy." "what, beck? oh, he's nobody. besides, he'll be off to sea directly, and you'll be married and have a family before he comes back. that is, if--" "if? what do you mean?" "the governor has not thrown you over, and neil has not knocked your head off." "propound, o, sphinx. read me the riddle." "i mean that if the governor sees you so attentive to saxa, he'll cry off, and if neil notices it he will pitch into you. i should if i saw you hanging after dana as you do after her sister." "rubbish, man! a few civil words to a lady who rides well." "sort of civil words the dad does not understand in his quiet, old-fashioned way. i suppose it is to be isabel, is it not?" "of course; that is understood." "very well, then, behave yourself, and don't let neil see anything, for he is as hot and peppery as--" "you are." "if you like. he's down, you know." "who is? your brother?" "yes. came down by the mail, and got in here by three this morning, i suppose. i have not seen him yet." "well, i like that," said sir cheltnam. "like what?" "your lecturing me about being inattentive to your sister. here's the blue-jacket again." "what nonsense! he has always been like one of us. we were schoolboys together, and he has come here, as neil and i used to go to the vicarage, just as if it was our own home." "oh, all right. i should not have said a word but for the wigging i had." "good-morning," cried the young lieutenant, walking his horse up to where they stood. "neil down yet?" "no," replied alison. "yes, he is. that's being a doctor. i believe these fellows can do without sleep. you knew he had come, then?" "yes; heard it from the postman. ah, neil, old fellow!" the young doctor came up looking rather pale, but in no wise like one who had been travelling all night, and shook hands warmly with all, supplementing the grasp of his hand with a clap on the young sailor's shoulder of a very warm and friendly nature. "you are here early, burwood," he said. "yes. mr elthorne planned one of his rides yesterday; weather's so fine. on the make-your-hay-while-the-sun-shines principle. he wants me to try his new horse for him." five minutes later the young men had paired off and were strolling down the garden, waiting for the breakfast bell, which was always rung as soon as the head of the family came down. "i'm so glad you've come down, neil," said beck eagerly. "why?" "i wanted a chat with you before i sail. i did think of coming to the hospital, but i don't believe i could have said what i wanted there." neil fixed his eyes upon his companion. "what is it?" he said. "you don't want to borrow money?" "oh, hang it, no!" "what is it, then?" the young man was silent, and began to break the twigs of the shrubs they were passing. "don't do that, boy, unless you want to make my father wroth." "no, of course not," said beck. "how absurd!" "well, what's the matter? you're just off to sea, i believe." "yes. long voyage," said the young man huskily. "go on; i'm all attention." tom beck did not go on, but stood examining his right hand, and frowning. "what's the matter with your hand?" "oh, nothing. miss lydon's horse gave it a nip the other day." "humph! vicious brute. those girls are more like rough riders than ladies." beck looked at him curiously, while the young doctor flushed under the scrutiny, and said hastily: "well, boy, what is it? isabel?" "yes," cried beck, snatching at the words. "you see i may be gone for two years, and i wanted--and i thought that--" "thought what? is she very hard to please?" "heaven bless her! no," cried the young sailor eagerly. "there, i can speak to you, neil. you have always been to me like a big brother. and you know that i care for her." "well, i suppose i have thought so, my lad. what's the matter?" "that's the matter," said the sailor, giving his head a side nod in the direction of sir cheltnam, who was crossing the lawn. "humph! burwood? you think so?" "he comes here a good deal, and i can't help being fidgety. it's the going away, you see. can you help me?" "no," said neil. "you must help yourself. have you spoken to my father?" "no." "why not? `faint heart never won fair lady,' boy. go and speak to him like a man." "all very well for an argumentative, scientific fellow like you. i can't talk; you can." "nonsense!" "i know. i'm only a quiet, thoughtful sailor, and i tell you frankly, old fellow, i felt so miserable one day about your sister that i thought the best way out of it all would be to go and drown myself." "and did you?" "no, irishman, i did not; but, 'pon my word, seeing how burwood is encouraged here, i have been really disposed, not to drown myself, but my sorrows--in drink." "and did you?" said neil, mockingly. "no," replied beck dryly. "it was no good to try; they all know how to swim." "humph!" ejaculated neil laughing. "you're a queer fellow, beck. so you think you love my sister?" "neil, old fellow, i swear--" "no rhapsodies, please. be matter of fact. i don't believe it's love; it's liver. better let me prescribe for you." "yes, do, old chap. tell me what to do." "go straight to my father and tell him in a frank, manly way that you care for isabel, and as you are going away for so long, you would like to be engaged." "neil, old fellow, i feel as if i dare not." "nonsense! you, a sailor, who faces storms?" "yes, but your father's a regular typhoon. i say, though, wouldn't it be premature?" "of course not." "you would go--really?" "if i cared for the lady, certainly," said neil, laughing at the combination of frank, manly daring and shrinking bashfulness before him. "it is not capital punishment if you fail." "no," said beck thoughtfully, "it isn't. i've no cause to be afraid, have i?" "not a bit." "then hang it all, i will the first moment i can get your father alone." "bravo, brave man!" cried neil merrily. "ah, it's all very well for you to laugh, old fellow. you don't know how bad it is. but i say, neil, you wouldn't mind, would you?" "my dear tom," said neil, clapping him warmly on the shoulder, "it seems to me something like sacrilege for a man to come here to the old home, and to want to rob us of my darling, innocent little sister; but if it is to be i do not know a man to whom i would sooner see her given than you." "thank you," cried the young sailor warmly, and his voice sounding a little husky from the emotion he felt. "thank you, neil, old fellow, you seem more than ever like a big brother to me now." "here is my father," said neil, quickly. "wait your opportunity, and get it over." for at that instant mr elthorne appeared at the door, looking the _beau-ideal_ of a tall, middle-aged country gentleman, with many years of hearty, vigorous life before him. "morning, beck," he cried. "ah, neil, my boy, glad to see you down already. why, you ought to have had a few hours' more rest." "i'm accustomed to short and broken nights," said the young man, warmly returning the grasp of his father's hand. "how well you look, sir!" "sorry i can't return the compliment, my boy. you look, white and careworn. never mind; we'll soon blow the london smoke out of you. can you manage a ride after breakfast?" "yes, and enjoy it." "that's right. the lydon girls are coming over, and we'll mount you on the old cob. by the way, i thought i heard burwood's voice." "he is down the garden with alison," said neil. "that's right. i asked him to come over to breakfast. he is going to try my new purchase for me. but it's of no use to talk horseflesh to you. well, my dear?" this to isabel, who came running out, looking very innocent and girlish. "good-morning, papa," she cried, kissing him. "i did not know you were down. good-morning, mr beck," she continued shyly, as she let her hand rest in his for a moment, and then turned to her brother to kiss him affectionately. "i'm so glad you've come, dear neil." "let's have breakfast, isabel. aunt's not down, i suppose?" "oh, yes, papa, and waiting for us." "wonderful!" said mr elthorne grimly. "run down the garden, isabel, and fetch alison and sir cheltnam in to breakfast. will you have a cup of coffee, beck?" he continued rather coldly. "thank you, sir, i have breakfasted, but--" "oh, he can manage another," said neil laughingly. "come along, tom;" and then to himself: "poor boy! it will be no, for certain." mr elthorne took no further notice of the young sailor, but laid his hand upon his son's shoulder and pointed to a clump of trees at the farther end of the park. "i'm going to have those down, neil." "pity, isn't it, sir?" "no; if it were i should not take them away. they shut off the view in that direction. and i'm going to make an opening out there," he continued, pointing due south. "all improvements for your benefit, sir." "say for alison's, father. i shall never settle down here." "humph! no?" said mr elthorne, glancing sidewise at his son. "if you go on like this you'll be an old man before i am. i must have a talk to saxa about you." neil looked round sharply. "well, what is it?" said mr elthorne. "nothing, sir, nothing." "you looked as if i had said something shocking. look here, neil, my boy, as you are down at last, suppose you try if you cannot make up a little for lost time. you know what i mean." "hush! beck will hear you," said the young surgeon quickly. "let him stand a little farther off, then," said mr elthorne peevishly; "but," he continued, in a lower tone of voice, "saxa feels hurt; i know she does. she tries to carry it off by being boisterous and merry, but she is piqued by your coldness." "you still foster that idea, then, sir?" "foster? that idea? of course, sir; and i should like to see you display a little more warmth respecting the carrying out of your father's wishes. there, i'm not going to scold now you have come down; but just keep my last letter in mind. a bright, pretty young wife with two thousand a year and more to come later on, is not to be sneered at, my boy, and you must not quite bury yourself in london over your hospital work." he turned sharply. "really, beck," he cried, "i'm afraid i have behaved very rudely to you." "very, sir," thought the young man. "don't mention it, sir," he said aloud. "let's see: you are coming with us this morning?" "i think you asked me to come, mr elthorne," said beck quietly. "to be sure--of course--i am very forgetful. come in--come in. oh, by the way, would you mind telling your father that i cannot accede to his request. i think i have done quite enough for those people, and they must now shift for themselves. one wants to be charitable, but even charity has its limits. come, you folks, breakfast, breakfast," he cried cheerily, as sir cheltnam and alison came up with isabel. "poor beck is right," thought neil, as he saw his father's particularly cordial greeting of the baronet. "it is time to speak. but too late, i fear, after all." "ah, neil, my dear," cried aunt anne, kissing him affectionately. "i'm so glad to see you home again. i hope you slept comfortably. and how is poor maria?" "getting well fast, aunt, dear." "that's right. i'm so glad, for i do want her back very badly." "breakfast!--something solid, and less talk," shouted mr elthorne loudly, and the meal progressed, the head of the house leading the conversation, and always to one topic--his new horse. chapter four. the new horse. "well, isabel," said neil, in an undertone, as his father was loudly debating with sir cheltnam some vital question in which bits, bridles, and surcingles were mentioned again and again. "well, neil, dear," said the girl archly; "why do you keep looking out of the window? it is not saxa's time yet." "thank goodness!" he said to himself. then aloud: "facetious this morning, eh? two can play at that, as we used to say when i was at home. which is it to be--sir cheltnam or the sailor boy?" the arch expression passed away from isabel's countenance on the instant. she gave a frightened glance round the table, as if dreading that the brother's words had been overheard, and then, bending down over her cup, she whispered: "don't, please, neil, dear. you hurt me when you talk like that." "then you do care for beck?" he said in a sharp whisper. "i--i don't know," she faltered. "well, you know that he cares for you?" she gave him a piteous look. "and you know, too, that he is going to speak to your father this morning?" "o neil, dear, he must not," whispered the girl, in an agony of fear. "but he must if he means to win you. i advised him to do so." isabel caught hold of the cloth below the level of the table and glanced wildly at beck, but he could not interpret the meaning of the look, and replied to it with one full of hope. the little party rose from the table soon after and fate favoured the sailor by giving him the opportunity he sought--mr elthorne crossing the hall to the library, while the others went out on to the lawn. "eh! want to speak to me, beck?" said mr elthorne. "come in here." he closed the door after the young officer, and pointed to a chair. "sit down, my lad," he said pleasantly. "now i'll be bound to say i can guess what you are about to say." "you can, sir?" said beck eagerly. "i think so," said mr elthorne, with rather a set smile on his lips. "you were going to tell me that you have to start for the east in a very few days--am i right so far?" "yes, sir, quite." "and that, as i have known you from a boy, you felt that without hesitation you might speak to me and not trouble your father. still right?" "yes, sir--i think so." "i felt it at once," said mr elthorne nodding. "well, yes, my lad, i will try and oblige you. how much do you want?" "want? how much?" cried the young man, starting up with his face flushing. "did you think i wanted to borrow money, sir?" "yes, my lad, of course." "oh, no, sir," he cried; and, excited now by his position, he somewhat blunderingly, but with manly frankness, told how long he had loved isabel, and asked for a sanction to his engagement. mr elthorne heard him in silence to the end, and then said briefly: "impossible." "impossible, sir?" "quite, my lad. it is all a boy and a girl piece of nonsense. yes; you two have known each other from children, been playfellows and the like, but i could never sanction my child's marriage to one who leads such a life as yours." "but, mr elthorne--" "hear me out, my lad. i tell you frankly, i like you and always did as a boy and the friend of my sons, but as my prospective son-in-law, once for all, it is impossible." "mr elthorne!" cried the young man appealingly. "no, my lad, no; so give up all thought of it at once. isabel will leave home one of these days, but not with you. you are not the man. do you ride with us this morning?" beck did not answer for the moment, for he was half stunned, but an angry flush came into his cheeks just then, for sir cheltnam's voice was heard through the open window. there was the cause of his rejection, he felt sure, and, full of resentment and the feeling that mr elthorne had not treated him well, he replied sharply: "yes, sir, i shall go with the party this morning, and if i tell you that i cannot give up my hopes--" "ah, well," said mr elthorne sharply, "you will think differently, i dare say, after the first smart of the disappointment has worn off." "ready, father?" came from the window. "yes. have they got the horse round?" "all right. burwood is going to try him over a fence or two before we start." "i'll come," said mr elthorne. "you like horses, beck; come and see the leaping." beck followed mechanically, cut to the heart by the half-contemptuous, cold-blooded way in which his aspirations were treated, and in a few minutes he stood with the others looking at the noble looking animal held by a groom, while sir cheltnam examined him after the fashion of a dealer, and then mounted. "i'll trot him across the park and take the hedge, and the fence as i come back. thick in his breathing, you think?" "yes, i thought so," said mr elthorne. "well, we shall soon know, and if he is, i'd make them take him back." sir cheltnam mounted and went off at a sharp trot for some hundred yards, curved round full into sight, and, increasing his pace, came toward them at a good swinging gallop, rose at a hedge, cleared it well, and then pressed the horse on toward a stiffish fence, which it also cleared capitally, and cantered back to the waiting party, where sir cheltnam pulled up and leaped down. "i can detect nothing," he said. "you did not take him far enough to prove it," said mr elthorne shortly. "i'll canter him down to the far hedge and back." as he approached the horse, there was the trampling of other hoofs, the groom and helper bringing round the horses ordered for the morning ride, while just seen in the distance over the hedge which ran along by the road were the heads of the sisters coming over to join in the excursion. the next minute mr elthorne was in the saddle, and the horse sprang forward at a touch. "your father rides well, elthorne," said sir cheltnam. "capital seat for so heavy a man." "hasn't followed hounds thirty years for nothing," replied alison. "i say," he shouted; "better take that lower down." for, reversing the baronet's process, mr elthorne directed his course straight for the fence, and was apparently about to take it at rather an awkward spot. "he can't hear you, man," said sir cheltnam; "but he knows what he is about. ah, here is your sister. i say, keep that beck along with you this morning: he monopolised her entirely the other day." alison did not heed his words, but started forward with a cry, just as neil and beck also made a rush for the spot. only a few minutes before, the don had risen and cleared the fence with the greatest ease. this time, possibly from some bad management on the part of his rider, he rushed at it so clumsily that horse and man came down together with a crash; and as neil, who was nearest, dashed forward, he could see that his father was beneath the horse, which was plunging violently in its attempts to rise, and fell back twice, crushing his rider, before he could regain his feet. chapter five. need of a surgeon. as neil elthorne reached the spot where his father had fallen, the horse dashed off at full gallop across the park, followed by one of the grooms, who saw in it something of far greater consequence than his master, who lay perfectly motionless upon the grass. "any bones broken?" cried sir cheltnam. "only a bit of a spill. here, someone go for a doctor." no one heeded his words; but alison and beck watched neil curiously as he was down on one knee making a hasty examination of the injured man. "oh, papa, papa!" cried isabel. "neil, neil, is he dead?" "hush, my dear, be quiet." "hadn't you better send for a doctor?" cried sir cheltnam. "nasty thing for a horse to roll across a man." "be good enough to be silent, sir," said neil sharply. "alison, make two of the men lift one of the light iron gates off its hinges. isabel, my child, be a woman. run to the house and make them bring down a mattress to lay upon the gate, and tell aunt anne to bring the brandy, some water, and a glass." "but, neil, dear--" "don't stop to question. i know nothing yet." "but hadn't you better send a groom at once for a doctor?" "confound it all, sir!" cried beck in a low voice, "can't you see that mr elthorne is in a skillful surgeon's hands?" sir cheltnam gave him an angry look, and turned his back, while beck, in the matter of fact, cool fashion of a sailor in a time of emergency, bent down over neil. "can i help you?" he said quietly. "eh? thanks, no. i can do nothing till i get him to bed. poor old dad!" he muttered to himself. "i little thought i was coming for this." he had placed the injured man's head in an easy position, and in his cursory examination found that no limb was broken or joint dislocated; but elthorne was perfectly insensible, and the young surgeon dreaded the crushing in of ribs and some internal injury. meantime the strong, hale, imperious man of a few minutes earlier lay there, breathing painfully, while those about him were too much occupied to notice the soft, dull sound of horse's hoofs approaching fast. neil started as a shadow was thrown across him, and a sharp, metallic voice cried: "hallo! what's the matter? anyone hurt?" "yes; a bad fall," said neil coldly, as his eyes met those of the speaker, the elder of the two lydons. "well, i couldn't help it," said the girl rather resentfully. "no fault of mine." "poor old guardy!" cried her sister. "don't look like a ride to-day." "not much," said saxa. "did the horse throw him?" "fell with him," said sir cheltnam. "looked it," cried saxa. "i told dan here that i didn't like the looks of the mount, but it was no use to tell the old man. he always would have his own way, eh, dan?" "always," assented her sister. "burwood," cried neil impatiently, "will you give me your help?" "certainly. what shall i do?" "take these ladies away somewhere; their talking disturbs the patient." "well, i'm sure!" cried saxa with a laugh full of annoyance. "but we will not trouble sir cheltnam; we know our way back." "here's someone else coming who will be more civil, perhaps," said dana to herself, as isabel, followed by half the household, came hurrying back. alison was returning too, with some of the stablemen and gardeners bearing a light iron gate and the mattress, with the result that the sufferer was borne carefully back to the house. "i say, elthorne, though," said sir cheltnam, as they followed behind; "no offence to your brother, who is, i dare say, clever enough,--i forgot that he was a doctor,--hadn't you better send to the town for the best man they've got? i'm afraid your old gov'nor has come off badly." "neil will know," replied alison. "he will do what is right." "oh, very well; i only suggested; but i say, hadn't you better make a bit of a clearance? so many people about must be bad for the patient." alison looked at him curiously, but he said nothing, though the idea did occur to him that it would be satisfactory if his friend were to ride off in company with the misses lydon. "how is he, neil? what do you think of him?" said alison, after quietly watching his brother for some time. "bad," said neil laconically. "i can say nothing yet for certain." "will he die?" "please god, no; but the symptoms are serious." "bones broken?" "no; injury to the spine, i fear. i must have help and further advice." "i'll send on to the town at once for morrison." "no," said neil quietly. "this is not a case for a general practitioner. get me a telegraph form, and have the message sent on at once." "yes," said alison eagerly; "but tell me what you are going to do." "send for sir denton hayle." "will he come?" "if i ask him--yes." the message was written and sent off. the lydons, after waiting till after noon, had shaken hands with the brothers, and said they were very sorry, and then accepted sir cheltnam's escort home. neil, who had left his father's side for a few minutes to say good-bye, heaved a sigh and turned to go back. "they don't seem very much broken-hearted about the poor old dad, neil," said alison. "no," cried his brother, flashing out angrily. "i wonder sometimes whether--no, no, we can't discuss that now, with him lying like that," he added hastily, and he went back into the house to find that beck still lingered. neil looked at him reproachfully and the young sailor caught his arm. "i have not gone," he said. "i'm staying in case i can be of any use." "thanks," said neil shortly. then a thought struck him, and he turned back. "did you speak to my father?" he said. beck nodded. "what did he say?" "that it was impossible." neil went hastily toward the room where his father had been carried, and found his sister listening by the door. "you here, isabel?" he said. "yes, dear," she whispered in broken tones. "let me go in and see poor papa now." "no, my child, not yet." "but, neil, i am not a child now. you have let aunt anne be with him." "well, she is older, and experienced, dear. pray be patient. you will be helping me then." "yes, neil," she said with a sigh, and she reached up and kissed him. "that is my darling sister," he said tenderly. "but, neil, dear, one word--pray tell me the truth. will papa get better?" "heaven only knows, dear," he said solemnly. "he is very badly hurt." he passed through the door, and closed it after him almost without a sound, and then stopped to gaze on the scene before him, feeling a glow of warmth in his breast toward his aunt, who, in their freedom from anxiety, had always seemed to him a weak, self-indulgent woman. but self was evidently forgotten now as she knelt beside her brother's couch, holding one of his hands against her breast, and watching the pale, slightly drawn face as if her life depended upon her noting the slightest change. "has he moved, aunt?" said neil softly. she started violently. "o neil, dear!" she exclaimed, "i did not hear you. no, no, no," she cried, with a burst of sobbing, "he's dying! my poor brother! what shall i do?" "be patient and helpful, aunt, dear. we must not think of our now sufferings now." "yes, my dear, and i will, indeed i will. but, neil, my love," she whispered, as she caught his hand and held it in both hers; "don't think me unkind. i know what a good, clever boy you are, but don't you think you ought to send for a real doctor?" neil smiled sadly as he bent down and kissed the agitated woman, and thought of his diplomas, and the trust and faith of the eminent surgeon who had chosen him for assistant in the ward of the great london hospital. "yes, aunt, dear," he said quietly. "you are quite right. i have sent for sir denton." "oh, that's very good of you, my dear. you are so young; and i was afraid, dear, that you would be too proud to accept any help, and--" "hist!" said neil quickly; and he stepped to his father's side, for he had seen a quick, trembling motion about the eyes, and the injured man began to mutter. "quite out of the question, my lad--i have made other arrangements for my child." he uttered a heavy sigh. "ride any horse--jumps well--you did not--" his eyes open and staring now, and fixed on his son. "neil!" he said aloud, "what's the matter? here, give me your hand." he tried to rise, and a spasm contracted his face as neil watched him anxiously and saw a confirmation of his fears. "i don't understand." "don't try to move, father. you are a little hurt," said neil gravely. "are you in much pain?" "pain? no," said his father irritably. "why don't you both speak? what does it all mean?" "your horse fell, sir," said neil gently. "lie quite still." "my horse fell? what horse fell? how long have i been here?" "my dear father, you must try and be calm, please." "but i don't understand," he cried angrily. "you said my horse fell. i can't remember." "but you will soon. try and go to sleep." "don't be absurd, boy. here, help me to get--" he did not finish his sentence but tried to raise himself and then lay perfectly still, with his jaw dropped, and a look of horror in his eyes. "neil--my boy," he said piteously, "i can't move. this sudden weakness--i--yes--i remember now. the don fell with me. quick--tell me--am i much hurt?" "i hope not, sir. it was a bad fall, but there are no bones broken." "but--" he stopped, and looked wildly at his son. "father, you must try and be calm," said neil firmly. "ralph, dearest--pray--pray--be calm," said aunt anne. "silence, woman!" he cried harshly; and the great drops of perspiration began to gather on his brow. "yes," he continued hoarsely, "i begin to remember clearly now. the brute fell and rolled over me. here, neil, you are a surgeon--tell me--not seriously hurt?" "you are hurt, father, and it is absolutely necessary that you should be quite calm." "calm, sir! how can i be calm? do you take me for a child? send for a proper doctor at once--a man who can understand, and who will tell me the truth." "i am telling you the truth, father. i repeat--it is absolutely necessary that you should lie still and try to be calm." "but--" he uttered that word angrily, and clutched at the side of the couch to try again and raise himself, but his arm fell nervelessly by his side, and he gave his son a piteous look. "my back," he groaned. "no feeling; neil, my boy, you know and you will not speak. don't, don't, tell me i am to be a cripple." "my dear father," cried neil huskily, as he grasped his hand, "i dare not tell you that, for i am not sure. i have sent up for sir denton, and he will, i know, come by the earliest possible train. i hope that my fears are wrong." "then they are right," said the sufferer with a groan. "i know now. great heavens!" he closed his eyes, and lay perfectly still, but the dew upon his contracted face told plainly enough of the mental agony he suffered. aunt anne drew back, and signed to neil to come to her side. "speak to him," she whispered. "try and say something to comfort him, dear." "it would be folly," replied neil sadly, "and only increase his irritation." "oh, but, my dear!" she whispered. "aunt, it was what i feared, and he has grasped the truth." "neil!" "wait till sir denton comes, and let him decide." he went back to the side of the couch, and sat down to watch and wait, ready to try and alleviate pain, and wipe the drops of agony from the sufferer's brow from time to time. and so an hour passed without the patient once unclosing his eyes, but it was plain that he did not sleep; a sharp twitch across the face now and again eliciting a faint groan. aunt anne had been out twice to speak to isabel, who was weeping silently in the adjoining room. and so the dreary day crept on with a strange silence pervading the place where all, as a rule, was bustle and activity. alison softly paced the hall hour after hour, waiting patiently for news of which aunt anne was the bearer. but she had little to communicate, and night was coming on fast when the sound of carriage wheels was heard, and a fly from the station drove up to the door, out of which stepped the famous london surgeon, who had arrived quite a couple of hours sooner than had been expected. neil hurried out, leaving aunt anne to take his place while he welcomed the visitor. "thank you," he said simply, as he grasped the old man's hand. "i came down at once. how is he?" neil shook this head, and led the way at once into the room where mr elthorne lay with his eyes tightly closed; but he opened them at once as sir denton approached, showing that he had been keenly conscious of every sound. aunt anne rose from his side, bent down again to kiss him, and then hurried out of the room to hide her tears, leaving the great surgeon to decide upon what her brother's future was to be. isabel and alison were outside, and the three waited together anxiously for the great man's verdict, and all oppressed by the strange sensation produced by the sudden shock which had fallen upon the family. everything seemed strange, and the very silence to be charged with portents. alison strode up and down the room, while his sister crouched by aunt anne's side, holding her hands tightly, and starting at every sharp turn her brother made. it seemed an age before they heard the opening of a door and steps in the hall; and as isabel started up, listening excitedly, neil appeared, looking white and anxious. "go to my father, aunt," he said, and then drew back to lead sir denton into a little room much affected by the young man, half study, half museum, where the surgeon sank into a chair and leaned back gazing at the worn, troubled face before him, as if waiting for his companion to speak. "well, sir?" he said at last, for sir denton remained silent. "well, elthorne," said sir denton gravely. "don't trifle with me. i am in agony." "naturally, my dear fellow, and i am not trifling with you. i only shrank from giving you pain." "then you think--" began neil. "no; i am sure, elthorne. my dear boy, you have not worked with me for years without being able to come to a decision at once upon such a case as this. i can quite understand your feelings. in your horror and despair you mistrusted yourself, or tried to mistrust yourself, hoping, i presume, that you might be wrong, and sent at once for me. is it not so?" neil bowed his head; and then quickly, as drowning men catch at straws, he said: "but, sir denton, do you feel absolutely certain?" "my dear elthorne, would to heaven i could say that there is a doubt. there is none. you know there is none." neil uttered a low groan. "it comes hard from one who feels toward you as i do, my dear brother," said the old man gently; "but we doctors and surgeons can have no concealment from each other. your examination must have shown you that the spine is hopelessly injured." "yes, yes," groaned neil; "but i clung to the hope that i might be wrong. then you can give me no hope?" "yes, i can do that. with careful nursing you may save his life, and he may have many years before him. there will be little physical suffering, and fortunately for him, being a wealthy man, he can palliate much of this by attendants and the many contrivances our mechanicians have invented for the benefit of the injured. it is a terrible case, but nothing compared to what it would be if some poor breadwinner had suddenly been stricken down--a case such as we have seen hundreds of times. your father has everything to soften the hardship, and, above all, the love of his children." "then you feel that nothing more can be done?" "frankly, nothing. it is the greatest kindness to tell you so, elthorne. as you well know, the treatment is of the simplest. time, and a thoroughly good, trustworthy nurse. there is the prescription that forty years of earnest study have taught me to offer you." "yes," said neil, after a pause, "i felt all this--thanks to your teachings. poor old father!" he continued as if to himself; "so full of vitality, so determined and energetic, so full of plans, and in an instant all at an end." "oh, no," said sir denton. "you must look at the brighter side of the accident, my dear fellow. he will--i am speaking plainly--he will be utterly paralysed in his lower limbs, but in all probability the mental faculties will be sharpened, and from what i have seen of your father i should say he will be more energetic and active than ever." "thank you," said neil warmly; "thank you--" "now go and break the bad news to your people at once, and all of you face the worst. you are spared a great deal. you know as well as i do that his accident might have meant a few hours' hopeless struggle against death and then the end." "yes, yes," said neil. "you are right, and i will try--we will all try--to face the trouble as we should. but you will stay the night and see him in the morning." "no, i can do no good. you will act in everything exactly as i should, and there are others waiting in agony for my return." "but--" "you know in your heart what i say is just, my dear elthorne. come, pupil, your old master trusts you," said the surgeon, taking his hand. "forget for the time being that the patient is a relative; sink everything in the scientific aspects of the case; do your duty, and trust yourself. now, god bless you, and good-bye." he grasped the young surgeon's hands warmly and turned to go, but stopped short. "i shall get someone to come and lend me a hand, so that you can stay down here as long as is necessary, but you will be able to come up for a day or two at the end of a week. of course the first thing is to send you down an efficient nurse. everything will depend upon her, as you know." "yes," said neil huskily, and he walked out into the hall. "i will not ask to see your sister or your aunt, elthorne. my kindest regards, and i hope to renew my friendship with them at some happier time." he stepped into the waiting fly and looked at his watch. "tell him to drive fast, and i shall just catch the last up-train. good-bye." the wheels grated on the gravel drive, and the sounds were dying away as neil turned to find that the drawing-room door had opened. isabel ran to him and threw her arms about his neck, trying vainly to speak, as he held her to his breast, while her eyes looked imploringly into his. "what does he say, neil?" said alison huskily. "tell us the worst." "the worst," replied neil gloomily. "then he will die?" cried alison excitedly. "no, no." "but he has gone so soon. don't keep it back, man. he said he could do nothing?" "he said that with care our father will live, but--" he stopped short for a few moments and a sigh that was almost a groan escaped him. "the poor old dad. al," he said softly, "i am afraid he will be a hopeless cripple if the knowledge of his state does not kill him right off." "what's that? what's the matter?" cried alison sharply, as the door opened and the butler appeared. "we are engaged." "beg pardon, sir," said the man. "mrs barnett, sir, rang the bell. master wants mr neil directly." "o neil, he is worse," sobbed isabel; and, as her brother hurried out of the room and across the hall, she followed, and they all entered together, just as aunt anne was coming to summon them, her ruddy face looking blanched and strange in places, while her eyes were wide open and she seemed to have been scared. "pray come to him, my dear," she whispered. "he frightens me." "what is that?" said mr elthorne sharply. "what is the meaning of that whispering? am i to lie here without any attention because i have had a bit of a fall? here, neil, quick. it is disgraceful. anne--isabel-- you can go. i want to talk to neil." isabel crept deprecatingly to the speaker's side and bent down to kiss him. he responded to her kiss, and then seemed annoyed with himself, as if he considered his conduct weak. "there, there," he cried. "don't hang about me, my dear. you make me hot. there is nothing much the matter. go and nurse up your aunt, and try to teach her to be sensible." "oh, papa, dear!" "now, don't you begin to be absurd too. i'm hurt and in pain. let me ask you one question--is it likely to do me good to have a foolish woman sitting close to me soaking her pocket handkerchief?" "ralph, dear, i was only sympathetic," cried aunt anne. "i don't want sympathy," cried mr elthorne. "i want help. i want you to go now. shut the door after them, alison. you can stop. now," he continued angrily, as soon as they were alone, and he fixed his eyes fiercely upon his elder son's, "you chose to be a doctor, sir, and i gave way unwillingly. i studied no expense, and you have gone on studying up your profession. but, once for all, if i am to take any of your assistance, i warn you that i will have none of the tricks of your trade played upon me." "my dear father, pray be calm," said neil anxiously. "did you hear what i said, sir? be calm! am i not calm? there you are bringing out all your medical stock in trade--medical cant to bear." neil looked at him anxiously, and saw that he was wild in his manner, and that there was a curiously excited glare in his eyes which troubled him a good deal, and affected his words as he replied. "now," cried his father, "tell me at once, what did sir denton say?" "that you must be kept perfectly quiet, sir, and be troubled by nothing exciting." "why?" said mr elthorne sharply. "did he say that my case was hopeless, and that i must die?" "no; decidedly not. nothing of the kind, sir. he told me that you only needed proper nursing to recover." "to recover my health?" "yes, sir." "and strength?" said mr elthorne, gazing at him searchingly. neil was silent. "why don't you speak, boy?" said the old man sternly. "no; you need not speak. a man is a physician or a fool at forty. i am long past forty, and not quite a fool, boys, as you both know. he told you that i should be a hopeless cripple." "he told me, i repeat, that you must be kept perfectly quiet, father, and i must insist upon your now trying to help me by following out his wishes." "a cripple--a helpless cripple," said the injured man, without paying the slightest heed to his son's words, but speaking as if to someone he could see across the room. "i did not want telling that. a man knows. but what does it mean? wreck? utter helplessness? being led about by the hand? no, no, no; not so bad as that. the brain is right. i am strong there. you boys are not going to usurp everything yet. do you hear? i say you boys are--you boys--i say--the doctor--quick--the doctor--ah!" his eyes glared wildly as the fit of excitement rapidly increased, till he almost raved like one in a fit of delirium, and every attempt to calm him by word or action on the part of his son only seemed to intensify his excitement, till a sudden spasm made his face twitch, and his head fell back with the angry light dying out of his eyes. "quick!" whispered neil. "run up to my room and bring down the little case on the drawers." he raised his father's head as he spoke, and, after glancing at him in a frightened manner, alison hurried out of the room. an hour later ralph elthorne was lying perfectly insensible, with his son watching by his bedside. it was no new, thing to him this tending of a patient in a serious strait consequent upon an accident, but their relative positions robbed him of his customary _sang-froid_, and again and again he asked himself whether he had not done wrong in accepting so onerous a task, and whether sir denton had not placed too much confidence in his knowledge of the treatment such a case demanded. when such thoughts mastered him he was ready over and over again to send a fresh message to the great surgeon, and it was only by a strong effort that he mastered himself and maintained his calmness. for he knew in an ordinary way a doubt of his capacity would never enter his head; all he had to do, he told himself, was to strive as he would have striven for another. "but he is my father," he muttered, "and it is so hard to feel confidence when one knows that the patient mistrusts every word and act." chapter six. watching the sufferer. "what are you going to do about sitting up?" said alison in a whisper about eleven o'clock that night. "he must not be left." "certainly not," said neil, after a glance at the bed where his father lay sleeping uneasily. "i am going to sit with him." "that will not do," said alison quietly. "_you_ are the doctor, and must be rested and ready when wanted. you had better go to bed and i'll sit up. aunt anne wants to, and so does isabel, but the old lady is hysterical and fit for nothing, and isabel is too young." "of course," said neil quietly. "but i have settled all that. i shall sit up, and if there is any need i can call you directly." alison looked as if he were going to oppose the plan, but he said nothing for the moment, only sat watching his brother and occasionally turning to the bed as the injured man made an uneasy movement. they were interrupted by a tap at the door, to which alison replied, coming back directly to whisper in his brother's ear. "you had better go and talk to the old lady yourself," he said. "she has come prepared to sit up." neil went hastily to the door and passed out on the landing, where his aunt was standing, dressed for the occasion, and armed with night lights and other necessary appliances used in an invalid's chamber. "no, aunt, dear," said neil quickly. "not necessary. i am going to sit up." "my dear boy, your brother said something of this kind to me," said the lady querulously; "but pray don't you be obstinate. i really must sit up with your father. it is my duty, and i will." "it is your duty, aunt, to obey the surgeon in attendance upon the patient," said neil firmly, but he winced a little at his aunt's next words. "so i would, my dear, if we had one here; but do you really think, neil, that you are able to deal with such a terrible case? hadn't you better have in the moreby doctor, and hear what he says?" "we have had sir denton hayle to-day, and i have his instructions. is not that enough?" "no, my dear, really i don't think it is. you see it isn't as if you were a much older man and more experienced, and had been a surgeon ever so long." "there is no need for you to sit up, aunt," said neil quietly. "i can quite understand your anxiety, but, believe me, i am doing my best." "oh, dear," sighed aunt anne. "you boys areas obstinate and as determined as your poor father. well, there, i cannot help myself," she continued in a tone full of remonstrance. "no one can blame me, and i am sure that i have done my duty." "yes, aunt, dear, quite," said neil soothingly. "go and get a good night's rest. i don't think there will be any need, but if it is necessary i will have you called." "encouraging!" he said to himself as he returned to the sick room, thinking that after all it was very natural on his aunt's part, for it must seem to her only a short time since he was a boy at home, when, upon the death of his mother, she had come to keep house. alison rose from a chair near the bed as he closed the door, and signed to him to come to the other end of the room. "i say," he whispered, "i don't like the governor's breathing. just you go and listen. its catchy like and strange." neil crossed to the bed and bent down over the sleeping man, felt his pulse, and came back. "quite natural," he said, "for a man in his condition. i detect nothing strange." alison looked at him curiously, turned away, and walked softly up and down the shaded room, to stop at last by his brother. "i don't want to upset you," he said, "but i feel obliged to speak." "go on," said neil, "but i know what you are going to say." "impossible!" said alison, staring. "by no means. you are uneasy, and think i am not capable of caring for my father." "well, i can't help it, old fellow," said alison. "i was thinking something of the kind. you see a regular old country doctor--" "has not half the experience of a young man in a large hospital," said neil, interrupting him and speaking now in a quite confident manner. "we have had many such cases as this, and i have helped to treat them." "yes, but--" "pray try and have a little confidence in me, old fellow. i am sure you do not mean it, but you are making my task much harder." "oh, i don't want to do that, but you see i can't help looking at you as my brother." "never cease to, pray. now go and lie down for a few hours. yes," he continued, as alison hesitated, "i wish it. i desire it. i will call you about four." "oh, very well, if i must, i must," said alison rather sulkily. then, as if ashamed of the tone he had taken, "all right. be sure and call me then." he crossed to the bed again, stood looking down at the sleeping face, and returned. "i say," he whispered, "what a change it seems! only this morning talking to us as he did, and now helpless like that." "yes; it is terrible how prostrate an accident renders a man." "did--did he say anything to you about--about marriage?" neil started and looked sharply at his brother, who had faltered as he spoke. "yes, but there is no occasion to discuss that now." "no, i suppose not, but he was wonderfully set upon our being regularly engaged to those two girls. don't seem natural for that sort of thing to be settled for you downright without your being consulted. it's just as if you were a royal personage." "my dear alison, is this a time for such a subject to be discussed? pray go now." "oh, very well--till four o'clock, then." the young man left the room, and neil sat down to think, after a closer examination of his father's state. for alison's words had started a current of thought which soon startled him by its intensity, as it raised up the calm, pale face of one who had constantly been at his side in cases of emergency--one who was always tenderly sensitive and ready to suffer with those who suffered, whose voice had a sweet, sympathetic ring as she spoke words of encouragement or consolation to the agony-wrung patient, but who could be firm as a rock at times, when a sufferer's life depended upon the strength of mind and nerve of the attendant. always that face, looking with calm, deep, thoughtful eyes into his, but with no heightening of colour, no tremor in the sensitive nerves of the smooth, high temples; and as he sat there thinking, she seemed to him one whom no words of man, however earnest and impassioned, could stir, certainly not such words as he could speak. he started from his reverie, which had in spirit taken him back to the hospital where the tall, graceful figure glided silently from bed to bed, and the colour mounted quickly to his cheeks as a faint tapping came at the door, and upon his opening it he started again, for there was a figure, tall and slight, indistinctly seen in the darkness, as if his thoughts had evoked the presence of her upon whom his mind had dwelt. "it is only i, neil, dear," whispered a pleasant, silvery voice. "isabel? i thought you were in bed." "how could you, neil, dear!" she said reproachfully. "i could not go to bed and sleep knowing you were sitting up with poor papa. how is he now, dear?" "just the same, and must be for some time." isabel sighed. "neil, dear," she whispered, "i've got a spirit-lamp and kettle in the next room, and as soon as you like i'll make you some tea." "thank you, my dear. leave it ready and i'll make some myself." "no, no, neil, dear," she said, clinging to him. "don't send me away. i could not sleep to-night." "but you must, dear. i want you to be rested and strong, so as to come and sit with him to-morrow while i have some sleep." "yes, dear, of course," she whispered, as she crept closer within the protecting arm round her, and laid her head upon her brother's shoulder. "come, come," neil whispered, as he stroked her soft hair, "you must not fret and give way. troubles come into every family, and we must learn to bear them with fortitude." "yes, neil, dear, and i am trying hard to bear this bravely." she nestled to him more closely, and as he smoothed her hair again and stroked her cheek, gazing down the while at its soft outline, he could not help thinking how attractive in appearance she had grown. "there," he said at last. "now you must go." "yes, dear, directly. but--neil--" "what is it?" "may i talk to you?" "of course." "but as i used when you were at home and i told you all my secrets?" "i hope you will, bel. why shouldn't you trust your big brother?" "yes; why not?" she said eagerly. "and you will not think me a silly girl nor forward?" "i hope not." "nor that i should not have spoken to you at such a time?" "why, what is the terrible secret, then?" he whispered, as he kissed her tenderly and made her throw her arms about his neck and utter a sob. "ah, i see; something about beck." she hid her face on his shoulder, and he felt her nod her head. "he told me what you said to him, dear," she whispered. "it was very dreadful at a time like this, but i could not help him speaking." "oh, he told you, eh?" "yes, dear, and he told me what papa said." "don't--don't talk about it, my child. it seems too terrible now." "yes, dear, it does," she said with a sob, "but the words would come. let me ask you one thing, neil, dear, and then i will not say another word. i wouldn't say this, only it is so very terrible to me, and it's all so still and quiet here now in the middle of the night, and it seems just the time for speaking." "what is it, then?" isabel was silent for a few moments, and then, with her lips very close to her brother's ear, she whispered: "neil, dear, do you feel sure that papa will get better?" "yes; i do not think there is any doubt about it." isabel uttered a sigh full of relief, and, leaving her brother, went softly to the bedside to bend down and kiss the sufferer's brow. then returning, she nestled close up to her brother again. he kissed her affectionately, and led her toward the door. "there, good-night, now," he whispered, but she clung to him tightly, and he took her head between his hands and gazed down into her shrinking eyes. "what is it, little one?" he said; and she feebly struggled with him, so as to avert her face from his searching eyes, but she made no reply. "why, isabel, darling, what is it? you have something you wish to say to me?" "yes, neil," she whispered, "but i hardly like to tell it." "i thought you were always ready to tell me everything." "yes, dear," she said quickly now, and she looked up full in his face. "neil, do you know what dear papa wishes?" "i have a suspicion." "it was more than a suspicion with me, neil. but, tell me, do you think now that he will want me to listen to that dreadful sir cheltnam?" "let's wait and see, dear," said neil quickly. "we must not meet troubles half way. this is no time to think of such a matter as that." "no; i felt that, dear, but i think so much about it that it would keep coming up." "leave it now, and we will talk about it another time," said neil gently. "you can always come to me, isabel, and i will try to be worthy of your confidence." "yes, i know that, neil," she said quickly; and after kissing him once more she hurried out of the room, leaving her brother to his thoughts and the long watch through the night. and as he seated himself near the bed, where he could gaze at the stern, deeply lined countenance upon the pillow, his memory went back to early days, when he and his brother felt something akin to dread whenever their father spoke. and from that starting point he went on through boyhood up to manhood, right up to the present, when, after shaping the lives of his children as far as had been possible, his father seemed determined to carry out his plans for the future. a slight movement on the part of the patient made elthorne rise from his seat, take the shaded lamp and go close to the bedside, but his father slept heavily, and he returned to his seat to continue unravelling the thread of his career. a few months back his father's plans had seemed of no consequence to him whatever. half jokingly mr elthorne had thrown him and saxa lydon together, and the bright, talkative girl, with her love of out door life, had amused him. if he must marry, he thought it did not much matter to him who the lady might be, so long as she was not exacting and did not interfere with his studies. saxa lydon was not likely to want him to take her into society. she was too fond of her horses and dogs, and if it pleased his father, why, it would please him. but then came the appointment of nurse elisia to sir denton's ward, and by degrees a complete change had come over the spirit of his dream. at first he had hardly noticed her save that she was a tall, graceful woman, with a sweet, calm, saddened countenance which he felt would be sympathetic to the patients; and, soon after, half wonderingly he had noticed the intense devotion of this refined gentlewoman to the various cases. nothing was too horrible, nothing too awful. the most sordid and repellent duties were unshrinkingly done, and in the darkest, most wearisome watches of the night she was always at her post, patient and wakeful, ready to tend, to humour, to relieve the poor sufferer whose good fortune it had been to have her aid. then he had thought it no wonder that sir denton was loud in her praise, and a certain intimacy of a friendly nature had sprung up between them, during which he had soon discovered that their new nurse was no ordinary woman, but who or what she was he had no idea, and it seemed was not likely to know, for she never referred to her antecedents. after a time he had often found himself after some painful episode at a patient's bedside, wondering why nurse elisia was there. everything about her betokened the lady, and no ordinary lady, and neil unconsciously began building up romantic stories about her previous life, in most of which he painted her as a woman who had passed through some terrible ordeal, become disgusted with the world in which she had lived, and had determined to devote herself to the duty of assuaging the pangs of her suffering fellow-creatures. once he had turned the conversation in her direction when dining with sir denton, but the old surgeon had quietly parried all inquiries, and at the same time let him see that he was touching on delicate ground in connection with one who was evidently his _protegee_. naturally this increased the interest as time went on, and he found himself taking note of the bearing of the old man toward the nurse. but he learned nothing by this. perhaps there was a quiet, paternal manner visible at times on sir denton's part, but on nurse elisia's nothing but an intense look and a display of eagerness to grasp fully his instructions in regard to some dying creature whose life they were trying to save. nothing more; and her bearing was the same to him, always calm and distant. if ever she was eager, it was in respect to a patient, and, his wishes carried out, she was either watching at some bedside or gliding patiently about the ward to smooth and turn a hot pillow here, gently move an aching head or injured limb there; and after many months neil elthorne found, to the disturbance of his mental balance, that he was constantly thinking of nurse elisia, while, save in connection with her duties and his instructions, she apparently never gave him a thought. all these memories came back to neil elthorne as he sat that night by his father's couch. they troubled and annoyed him, and he moved feverishly from time to time in his chair. "it is absurd," he said to himself. "one would think i was some romantic boy, ready to be attracted by the first beautiful face i see-- yes; she is beautiful, after all, and that simple white cap and plain black dress only enhance instead of hiding it. and she is a lady, i am sure. but what does it mean? a nurse; devoting herself to all those repulsive cases as if she were seeking by self-denial and punishment to make a kind of atonement for something which has gone before. what can have gone before? who is she? why is she there?" his questioning thoughts became so unbearable that he rose from his seat, thrust off the soft slippers he was wearing, and began to pace the room. "it was quite time i left the hospital," he thought. "the work there has weakened my nerves, and made me ready to think like this--caused this susceptible state. quite time i left. it is a kind of disease, and i am glad i am away before i committed myself to some folly. i should look well--i, a man with an advancing reputation--if i were to be questioned by sir denton upon what i meant by forgetting myself, and degrading myself by making advances toward one of the nurses. it would come before the governors of the hospital, and i should be asked to resign. i must be worse than i thought. too much strain. incipient nerve attacks previous to something more terrible. there," he muttered, as he returned to and resumed his seat, "one never knows what is best for one's self. it was right that i should come away from the hospital, and i am here. bah! ready in my selfishness to think i am of so much consequence that my poor father was called upon to suffer like this to save me from a folly. yes; there is no doubt about it," he added, after a pause, during which he sat in the semi-darkness of the bedroom gazing straight before him into the gloom; "i have been too much on the strain. a month or two in this pure air will set me up again, and i shall go back ready to look her calmly in the face as of old, and treat her as what she is--a hospital nurse. you shall not have cause to blush for your son, father," he said in a low whisper as he leaned toward the bed and gently took the old man's hand. "you will have enough to bear without meeting with rebellion against your wishes." he raised the hand to his lips, and then tenderly laid it back on the coverlet, bent over the sufferer, and drew back with a sigh. "it will be a question of time and careful nursing," he said, softly. "there must be no mental trouble to hinder his progress. we must not let him feel his weakness and want of power, or he will suffer horribly. only a few hours since, and so strong and well; but by management we can keep off a good deal, and we will. my poor old dad!" chapter seven. "join your ship at once." the morning broke warm and bright, but the gloom within the fine old manor-house deepened as the facts became more and more impressed on all these that the master would, if his life were spared, never again be the same. isabel came softly into the room twice during the night, so silently that neil, as he sat watching, did not hear her till she touched his arm. she stayed with him for a time, and as they sat together in those solemn hours brother and sister seemed to be drawn more together than before. not that there had ever been any gap between them, for neil, partaking more of the nature of their dead mother than alison, had always been the one to whom isabel had clung, and whom she had gone to with her troubles when their father was in his sterner and most exacting moods. alison, too, came twice to see how the patient was; but here, somehow, his brother's manner and words are jarred upon neil, for there seemed a want of sympathy and a suggestion of alison's feeling free and independent, now that the autocrat of their house, hold had been cast down from his throne. just before morning, too, aunt anne had been in, ready to assert that she might just as well have sat up and kept her nephew company, for she had not slept a wink, her eyes stubbornly refusing to support her declaration, for they looked as if they had been tightly closed for hours. as the morning progressed, and the injured man still lay in a stupor-like sleep, visitors and messengers arrived with inquiries about his state. beck was one of the first, and he came in the hope that isabel would contrive to see him for a few minutes. he was not disappointed, for he had not been seated many minutes before isabel came into the drawing room quite by accident, to fetch some work left on one of the chairs, and in an instant her hands were clasped in those of the young sailor. "no, no!" she cried excitedly. "you know what papa said." "yes," he said earnestly; "and it would be cowardly and mean of me to take advantage of his lying there helpless. see, i will try and act like a gentleman,"--he dropped her hands--"i only want to tell you, isabel, that, come what may, i shall keep to my course. some day, when he is well again--" "then you think he will get well?" she cried eagerly. "yes; why not?" responded beck. "i say, some day, when he is well again, he may alter and not be so set against me, and i am going to wait till then." "yes," she said with a sigh. "i am not going to doubt you for a moment, isabel. i don't think, after all these years, you could turn from me; and when your father sees really what is for your happiness, he will, i believe, relent." tom beck had no opportunity to say more, for just then aunt anne bustled into the room. "you, mr beck?" she said. "why, i thought it was your father." "he is going to try and get across, by and by, in the invalid chair. he is not up yet, and honestly i do not think he is fit to leave his bed; but he says he must, and he will." "poor man!" sighed aunt anne. "oh, dear me, mr beck, what a deal of-- isabel, my dear, don't wait." "no, aunt," said the girl quietly; and then, to herself, "papa must have told aunt anne not to let me be along with tom, or she would not have spoken like that." then aloud-- "good-bye, mr beck;" and she held out her hand, which was taken for a moment and then dropped, as she turned and left the room. the vicar's son had hardly left the house an hour when sir cheltnam rode over to make inquiries, and was leaving his card, when alison came into the hall and went out on the steps to speak to him. "can't ask you in," said alison. "the governor's very bad." "got a doctor down from london, haven't you?" "we've had one in consultation, but he has gone back." "but our doctor here is not attending him, for i met him, and he was asking about it, and thought it rather strange that he had not been sent for." "humph! you see, my brother is attending him." "oh!" ejaculated sir cheltnam. "well, it's no business of mine, but if anything happened to the old man it wouldn't look well, and people would talk about it a good deal. i say, isn't your brother rather disposed to ride the high horse?" alison winced. "what do you mean?" he said rather roughly. "oh, nothing much. a bit haughty with me, as if he did not approve of my pretensions. coming the elder brother a bit, and i'm getting nervous as to what it is going to be now your father is down." "oh, it is only neil's way," said alison sulkily. "and you don't seem much better. if you came over to my place, i should ask you in, and call a man to take your horse." "how can i ask you in at a time like this?" said alison apologetically. "easily enough, and take me into the drawing room. how is isabel?" "broken-hearted, nearly. this came about directly after the governor had given tom beck his _conge_." "then he had done that?" "yes; and the little girl's a bit sore about it." "cheerful for me!" said sir cheltnam. "bah! he'll be off to sea directly, and she'll soon forget him." "then you think i had better not come in to-day? i'm off, then. wish the old man better. i'll come on again to-morrow to see how he is. i say, tell isabel i called and was in great trouble, and that sort of thing." "oh, yes; all right," growled alison. "pleasant sort of a brother-in-law in prospective," said sir cheltnam to himself, as he cantered off. "takes it as a matter of course that he is to have her," muttered alison. "i'm not so sure." he bit one of his nails and watched the visitor till he was out of sight, and still stood at the foot of the steps frowning. "even he sees it," he muttered. "i won't stand any more of his arbitrary ways. he is only a year older than i am, and yet he is to lord it over me as if i were a child. why should he take the lead in everything? is he to do so always? not if i know it. if all this means that a new king reigns in hightoft, it is not going to be brother neil." almost in perfect ignorance of what was going on downstairs, neil remained patiently watching by his father's side. aunt and sister had both begged him to go and lie down, insisting upon the fact that he would be quite helpless at night, and that it was his duty, so as to be ready to watch again, but he only smiled. "my dear aunt," he said at last to that lady, who was greatly agitated in his behalf, "a doctor grows used to watching by his patient's bedside, and gets little snatches of sleep which refresh him. believe me, i am not a bit tired." at that moment isabel entered the room with a telegram. "for you, neil, dear," she said. "it has been opened." "yes, dear, alison opened it. he said it must be for him." neil frowned, but said no more, and taking out the telegram he read: "the nurse leaves town this afternoon. let a carriage meet her at the station. "hayle." "hah!" he said, passing the letter to his aunt. "i am glad of that; it will set me free, and the help of a good nurse at a time like this is invaluable." "but shall we be able to trust her?" said aunt anne. "my experience of nurses is that they are dreadful women, who drink and go to sleep in sickrooms, and the patient cannot wake them, and dies for want of attention." "oh, aunt!" cried isabel. "i am assured that it is quite true, my dear," said aunt anne, didactically. "i think we have changed all that, aunt, dear," said neil, smiling. "sir denton would not send down any woman who is not thoroughly trustworthy." aunt anne pursed up her lips, and tried to look wise and full of experience--a difficult task for a lady with her plump, dimpled countenance. "well, my dear," she said, "i hope so; but it always seems to me that the selection of an attendant for a sick man is a lady's duty, and i cannot believe in the choice made by a man, and such an old man too. but there, we shall see." "yes, aunt, dear," said neil, smiling, "we shall see." aunt anne was left in charge of the patient, very much to her satisfaction, so that neil could go down with isabel for a rest and a little fresh air. as they reached the hall they met alison, who came up directly. "oh, neil," he said, "i opened that telegram thinking it might be meant for me." "yes," said his brother. "i heard that you did." "quite a mistake i hope you don't mind." "i have other things to take my attention," replied neil. "come, isabel, let's have a walk up and down in the fresh air. i can't stay long." he led the way out on to the drive, and, after hesitating for a few moments, alison followed, frowning, just as the sound of horses' hoofs was heard, and saxa and dana lydon rode up. "well, how's the dad?" cried saxa boisterously. "going on all right? glad of it. you boys are making too much fuss over it. nature soon cures a fall. it isn't like a disease, is it, doctor?" "it's of no use to ask him," said dana merrily. "he'll pull a professional face, and make the worst of it, and then by and by, rub his hands and say, `there; see what a clever fellow i am.'" "yes," said saxa maliciously, "when i could have set him right with some embrocation and a bit of flannel bandage." "glad the old man's better," cried dana. "here, you people look white and worried. order out the horses and come for an hour's ride." "would you like to go, isabel?" asked neil. "i? oh, no," cried the girl hurriedly. "what a baby you are, bel!" said saxa contemptuously. "you'll come, neil?" "i should like a ride," he replied, "but it is impossible to leave home." "next time i ask you there will be a different answer," said the girl sharply. "don't ask alison, dan," she continued, turning to her sister. "he is going to be a good boy too, and stop and see his papa take his barley-water." "is he?" said alison gruffly. "perhaps he was not going to wait to be asked. there is no occasion for me to hang about at home, neil?" "n-no, i think not. you can do nothing." "i'll be ready in five minutes, then, girls." "here, we'll come round to the stables with you," said saxa. "i want to see the don. is he any the worse for his fall?" she said this as she rode on beside alison, her sister following, without any further notice of neil and his sister, while the former stood looking after her, frowning. "and i thought of marrying that hoyden!" he said to himself. "it is impossible. we have not a sympathy in common." then the thought of his father's expressed wishes came back, and of his lying there helpless. he had made no opposition when the matter had been spoken of last. how could he draw back now? his heart sank low as he looked into the future with a kind of wonder as to what his future life would be bound up to a woman like that, and a feeling of anger rose within him at his weakness in letting the affair drift on so far. "it is impossible," he thought. "she does not care for me. it would be madness--a sin against her and against myself. yes!" he said aloud with a start, for isabel had laid her hand upon his arm. "there is something the matter," she said quickly. neil turned to hurry into the house, but his sister held him fast. "no, no, dear. tom is coming. mr beck must be worse." neil looked in the direction taken by her eyes, and saw that the young lieutenant was striding rapidly toward them, coming by the short cut across the park, and now, seeing that he was observed, he waved his hand. "go in, isabel," said neil quietly. "neil!" "i wish it, my dear. after what has passed, you have no right to see him now." she gave him a tearful look, and went in with her head bent down to hide her face from anyone who might be at the windows. the next minute the young sailor hurried up. "you have sent her in, neil," he said reproachfully. "yes; why have you come back so soon? anything wrong?" "yes," said the young man hoarsely. "your father? i'll come on." "no, no. read that." he thrust a telegram into neil's hand, which read: "to join your ship at once. imperative!" "yes; and i cannot go with matters like this," cried beck. "but you must. your position as an officer is at stake." "i can't help it. neil elthorne, put yourself in my place. how can i go and leave isabel at such a time?" "what good could you do if you stayed?" "it would help her. she would know i was near. i can't go and leave her knowing what i do about that fellow burwood." neil looked at him fixedly for a few moments. "don't play the boy," he said at last sternly. "no; i am going to play the man," cried beck. "isabel and i have been girl and boy together, and our affection has gradually strengthened till i know that she loves me as well as i love her." "yes, perhaps so, my lad, but you heard her father's decision, and you can do no more." "yes; i heard his decision," said the young sailor sturdily, "and i am not going to stand by and see her given up to that man! why, neil, it would kill her." "look here, tom, my good fellow, you must be sensible. it would be no kindness to my sister to let her feel that she had ruined your prospects." "it would not ruin my prospects," said beck sturdily. "i'm a good sailor, and if i lose my ship i can always get employment in the merchant service." "of course you could, but neither isabel nor i are going to let you degrade yourself. my father is dangerously ill, and nothing such as you fear can advance a step for months to come, so join your ship like a man, and show that you have faith in the girl you believe to love you." "if i only could think--" began beck. "look here, tom. i think you have some faith in me." "in you? my dear neil," cried the young sailor warmly, "if ever fellow looked upon another man as a brother, i do upon you. why, you know that." "yes, i know that," said neil, taking his arm and walking up and down the drive with him, "and i am going always to behave like a brother to you. go and join your ship." "but isabel?" "leave me to act for you over that matter as a brother would. for both your sakes i will do what is best." "but burwood?" "i don't like burwood, and i do like you," said neil, smiling. "come, will not that satisfy you?" "almost. you will fight for me, then, neil?" "i don't think that there will be any occasion to fight for you. i think time is on your side. lieutenant beck's chance was very small with my father; but suppose one captain beck, a young officer who had distinguished himself by his seamanship in her majesty's service, came and renewed his proposal for my sister's hand, surely he would have a better chance of success." "neil, old fellow," cried beck, facing round and grasping the young surgeon's hand, "i don't wonder that you are getting to be a big fellow at your hospital." "nonsense! who says i am?" "oh, i've heard. i wish i were as clever as you are. i came here feeling so bad that life didn't seem worth living, and in a few minutes you've shown things to me in such a different light that--" "you think it is worth living and sharing with someone else," cried neil. "my dear old fellow," cried the sailor, with tears in his eyes. "and you will go off like a man and join your ship?" "yes," cried beck, grasping his friend's hand, and speaking firmly, "like a man." "and you go at once?" "directly. now take me in, and let me say good-bye to her." "no," said neil firmly. "what? after my promise?" "after your promise. i have a duty to my helpless father, tom, my lad, and i should be playing a very dishonourable part if i took advantage of his position, knowing what i do of his wishes, to arrange a meeting between you and my sister. that was a love-sick boy speaking, not the queen's officer--the man whose honour is beyond reproach." "i suppose you are right," said beck, after a pause. "you know i am." "let me see her for a moment, though." "no." "i know you are right--just to say `good-bye' before you--just to touch her hand." "no, my lad. say good-bye to me, and i'll tell her you love her truly, and that you have gone off to your duty like a man--an officer and a gentleman. that you have exacted no promise from her, and that you have taken the advice of her brother--a man who loves you both and will help you to the end. there, i must go back to my father's room. good-bye." "o neil," groaned the young sailor; "this is all so hard and business-like. everything goes easily for you. you don't know what love is." a spasm contracted neil's features for a few moments, but he smiled sadly directly after. "perhaps not," he said. "who knows? there, business-like or not, you know i am doing my duty and you have to do yours. come, sailor, i shall begin to quote shakespeare to you. `aboard, for shame; the wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, and you are staid for.'" "but it is so hard, neil." "life's duties are hard, man; but we men must do them at any cost. come, good-bye, and old shakespeare again--the end of the old man's speech: `to thine own self be true'--and you will be true to the girl you wish to make your wife. good-bye." neil held out his hand, but it remained untouched for the full space of a minute before it was seized and crushed heavily between two nervous sets of fingers, while the young man's eyes gazed fixedly in his. then it was dashed aside. beck swung himself round and dashed off across the park as hard as he could go, without trusting himself to look back. chapter eight. conflicting emotions. "poor fellow!" said neil to himself; "and the dad prefers that hunting, racing baronet to him for a son-in-law! why it would break little bel's heart." he stood watching till beck passed in among the trees, expecting to the last to see him turn and wave his hand. "no; gone," he said. "well, i must fight their battle--when the time comes--but it is quite another battle now." as he thought this he heard the clattering of hoofs, and hastened his steps so as to get indoors before his brother rode out of the stable yard with the lydon sisters, and a guilty feeling sent the blood into his pale cheeks. but he did not check his steps; he rather hastened them. "they don't want to see me again," he muttered; and then, "oh, what a miserable, contemptible coward i am; preaching to that young fellow about his duty, and here i am, the next minute, deceiving myself and utterly wanting in strength to do mine. i ought to go out and say good-bye to saxa, and i will." he stopped and turned to go, but a hand was laid upon his arm, and, as he faced round, it was to see a little white appealing face turned up to his, and as he passed his arm round his sister's waist the horses' hoofs crushed the gravel by the door, passed on, and the sound grew more faint. "neil, dear; tom has gone. is his father very ill?" these words brought the young surgeon back to the troubles of others in place of his own. "no, dear; he is no worse. it was not that," he said hastily. "what was it, then? oh, neil, dear, you hurt me. you are keeping something back." "i am not going to keep anything back, little sis," he said tenderly. "come in here." he led her into the drawing room and closed the door, while she clung to him, searching his eyes with her own wistful gaze, as her lips trembled. "now, dear, pray tell me. why did tom come?" "he had bad news, dear." "about his ship?" cried the girl wildly. "yes." "o neil! it was about going back to sea!" neil nodded, and drew her more closely to him, but she resisted. his embrace seemed to stifle her; she could hardly breathe. "you are cruel to me," she panted. "but i know," she cried half hysterically; "he has to go soon." "he has to do his duty as a queen's officer, isabel, dear, and you must be firm." "yes, yes, dear, of course," she cried, struggling hard the while to master her emotion. "i will, indeed, try--to be calm--and patient. but tell me; he has had a message about rejoining his ship?" "yes, dear." "and he is to go soon?" neil was silent. "neil, pray speak," she sobbed. "yes, my child. he brought a telegram." "a despatch," she said, correcting him. "no, dear--a telegram." "then--then--it means--something sudden--for them to telegraph. i can bear it, now, dear. how soon is he to go?" "isabel, my child, will you trust in me to help you to do what is best?" said neil tenderly. "yes, neil, dear; of course, i want to do what is right, and you will help me." "i will, dear, with all my strength. you know that tom has his duty to do, like the rest of us, and you have yours to our poor father." "yes, neil, of course, and you know i try." "my darling, yes," he cried, as he kissed the pale cheeks wet now with tears. "then tell me. i must know. when is tom to go?" "isabel, your father forbade all engagement with him, and i have talked to tom beck as i thought was best for both of you. come, you must act like a brave little woman and help me. we have both got our duty to do now at a very sad time. you will help me and try to be firm?" "yes--yes," she whispered hoarsely, "but--but--neil--tell me--when is he to go?" "isabel, dear, it was his duty as an officer and as an honourable man." "yes," she whispered in a strangely low tone. "tom would do his duty always, i know--now--you are keeping something back. i can see it," she cried, growing more excited and struggling in his arms. "i know now-- and without bidding me good-bye. neil, you have sent him away; he is gone!" neil bent his head sadly, and she literally snatched herself away. "and you call yourself my brother!" she cried passionately. "you say you taught him his duty; and, after all he has said to me, to make him go without one word. oh, it is cruel--it is cruel. what have i done that you should treat me so?" "isabel, dear, you promised me that you would be firm." "how can a woman be firm at a time like this? but i know; you could not be so cruel. he is coming back just to see me and say good-bye." "he has gone, isabel." "without a single word or look?" she gazed at him as if dazed, and unable to believe his words. then uttering a low, piteous cry, she sank helpless across his arms, her eyes closed, and for hours she lay for the most part unconscious, only awakening from time to time to burst into a passion of hysterical weeping as her senses returned. "duty is hard--very hard," said neil through his set teeth, as he divided his time between his father's and his sister's chambers, where aunt anne sat sobbing and bewailing their fate. alison had returned at dusk, and partaken of the dinner alone, to go afterward to his little study, where he sat and scowled and smoked. the carriage had been sent to the station in accordance with sir denton's request, and then forgotten by all in the house, and the night was going on apace. neil had just left his sister's room and gone back to his father's to find him hot and feverish to an extent which rather troubled him, and once more made him long for the friendly counsel and advice of a colleague. but his sound common sense gave him the help he needed, and after administering medicine he became satisfied with the result and sat by the bedside thinking of the stern duty he had to fulfill. "i judge saxa too hardly," he said to himself. "i do not go the way to make her care for me, and it is no wonder that she should be piqued by my indifference. i'll try and alter it, for all that other is a foolish dream, and due to my low nervous state. i'll turn over a new leaf to-morrow, and see what can be done. it would help him in his recovery if he knew that his dearest wishes were bearing fruit; and if i satisfy him over that, he will yield to mine about poor little isabel. she will not be so hard to-morrow when her sorrow is being softened down. for i did right, and i'll do right about saxa, poor girl! i was quite rude to her to-day. i'll ride over to-morrow and fetch her to see him. he likes her as much as he does isabel. there, i think i am getting things into train for the beginning of a new life, and--what is it?" "the carriage back from the station, my dear," whispered aunt anne. "the new nurse is in the hall. will you come down and speak to her at once?" "yes, aunt. thank heaven, she has come." he hurried out of the room and down the stairs to where, in the dim light, a tall cloaked figure stood by her humble-looking luggage. and as he went he had made up in his mind the words he would say to her about getting some refreshment at once and joining him in the sick chamber, where a bed had been made up in the dressing room for her use. but neil elthorne did not speak the words he had meant to say, for, as the visitor turned at his step, he stopped short with the blood rushing to his brain, and a strange sensation of vertigo attacking him as he faltered out: "good heavens! nurse elisia! has he sent you?" chapter nine. off to hightoft. "there, you are better now." "no, i'm not." "yes, indeed you are. this has nothing to do with the operation, i assure you." "then, pray, what is it?" this question very sharply, and the patient moved in her bed in a way that showed very little feebleness. "simply hysteria." "what! sterricks?" "yes, a form of hysterics." "there!" cried the patient, with a triumphant tone in her voice. "i knew you didn't know nothing about it. i never had sterricks in my life." "because you have always been a woman in a vigorous state of health. latterly you have been brought down rather low." "'taint that," said the woman sharply, "it's what's done to me here, and the shameful neglect. it's horrid; i'm half killed, and then mr neil goes away and leaves me to that horrible old man, and as soon as mr neil's gone, the other leaves me to die." "i am afraid you are a very foolish woman," said the nurse quietly. "i can assure you that you are getting well fast." "oh, yes, i know. and you are as bad as they are. it's shameful!" "you have been working yourself up to think you are being neglected, but your troubles are imaginary." "oh, yes, i know," cried the woman angrily. "pray try and be reasonable," said the nurse, speaking in a voice full of patient resignation. "go on, pray, ma'am. you've all got me down here and are trampling on me. i'm unreasonable now, am i?" "i am afraid you are a little," said the nurse, smiling as she rearranged the bedclothes. "mr elthorne went away because he was worn out with attending the poor people here, and sir denton was telegraphed for to attend some unfortunate gentleman who had met with an accident." "then he oughtn't to have gone," cried the woman loudly. "pray, hush," said the nurse. "you are hurting yourself and upsetting the other patients." "and i say he'd no right to go. my life's as much consequence as anybody else's life, and it's a shameful piece of neglect. oh, if i do live to get away from this 'ateful place, i'll let some of you know. i'm to be left to die because the doctors are too idle to come and see me. if i'd only known, you'd never caught me here." "hush, hush! pray be quiet, dear. you are making yourself hot and feverish." the nurse laid her cool white hand upon the patient's brow, but she resented it and thrust it away. "let me be. i don't want holding down. it's shameful. it's cruel. oh, why did i come to this dreadful place? as for that sir denton, or whatever his name is--" "what about him? do you want me?" said the gentleman in question, who had come into the ward and up to the bed unnoticed. "how are you this morning?--ah, better." "no, i'm not, i'm worse, and it's shameful." "what is?" said the surgeon, smiling. "for me to be neglected by the doctors and nurses as i am. it's too bad, it is; and i might have died--no doctor, no nurse." "ah, yes; it is very cruel," said sir denton. "i have shamefully neglected my patients here, and as for the conduct of nurse elisia to you, it is almost criminal. you will have to go back home to your own people and be properly treated. dreadful places, these hospitals are." nurse elisia looked up at the old surgeon with wondering eyes, as he took the woman's own tone, but he smiled at her sadly. "come with me, i want to talk to you. poor thing," he said, as they walked away, "she is in the irritable, weary state of the convalescent. she is not answerable for what she says. sorry i was obliged to go, but the case was urgent. mr elthorne's father. a terrible accident. the spine injured, and paralysis of the lower part of the body." "mr elthorne's father!" cried the nurse, turning pale. "how shocking!" "terrible. mr elthorne telegraphed for me. it was not necessary, for he was doing everything possible, and now it is a case of careful nursing to save the poor fellow's life." "nursing?" "yes. i have promised mr elthorne to send him down the most helpful, trustworthy nurse i knew, at once." "sir denton," faltered the nurse, with a faint colour rising in her cheeks. "it is an exceptional ease, my child, one which calls for all a nurse's skill and tenderness with, perhaps, as much patience as i have seen you exercise toward that foolish woman. i am going to ask you to start at once for hightoft, and take up this case." "sir denton!" she cried. "oh! it is impossible." "why?" "my patients here." "your place can be filled, just as it would be necessary to fill it if you were taken ill." "but i am not ill, sir denton, and i am needed here." "but you are needed there--at this gentleman's house, where the services of a patient lady like yourself would be invaluable." "i could not go, sir denton; i beg you will not send me." "it is in a lovely part of the country. it is a charming place, and i can guarantee for you that the ladies will receive you as their equal-- perhaps as their superior," he added with a meaning smile, which made her look slightly resentful. "really, sir denton," she began. "forgive me," he said. "it was a slip. i have no wish to pry into your private life, nurse elisia. i am only thankful to have the help and co-operation of a refined woman in my sad cases here." "thank you, sir denton, but you must excuse me from this." "i cannot," he said firmly, "for i feel that it is your duty to go. i have no hesitation in saying that it is absolutely necessary for you to have a change, even if you do not have rest, but you will be able to combine both there." "pray send someone else, sir denton." "i know nobody whom i could trust as i would you, nurse elisia," he replied quietly, "and i am quite sure that there is no one in whom mr elthorne would have so much confidence." he noted the change in the nurse's mobile countenance as he went on speaking in his quiet way, for she was evidently agitated and trying hard to conceal it. "you see it would be so advantageous," he continued. "after a few days you could set mr elthorne at liberty to come back here. of course, as you know, the case is one which needs almost wholly a careful nurse's skill. how soon will you be free to go?" like lightning the thoughts flashed through her brain of the position she would occupy. it was like throwing her constantly in neil elthorne's society, and she shrank from the position almost with horror. for, of late there had been no disguising from herself the fact that the young surgeon had, in his quiet way, been more than courteous to her, and that his manner betokened a something, which on his side was fast ripening into admiration. "it is impossible," she thought. "it would be cruelty to him, for he is sincere and manly. no, i cannot go. it would be a crime. sir denton," she said hastily, aloud. "you must excuse me from this duty. i cannot go." "no," he said firmly, and he took her hand. "i cannot, i will not excuse you. once more i tell you that you ought to go; it is your duty." "but why?" she cried, rather excitedly. "because you--evidently a lady of gentle birth--have set yourself the task of toiling for your suffering fellow-creatures. here is one who may die if you do not go to his help." "but another would be as efficient." "i do not know one at the present moment whom i would trust as i would you; and in addition, the call comes at a time when it is imperative that you should have rest and change." "but," she said, with a smile full of perplexity, "that would not be rest and change." "can you not trust me to advise you for your good?" said sir denton gravely. "oh, yes, but--" "that `but' again. come, nurse, i think you believe that i take great interest in you." "oh, yes, sir denton," she said eagerly. "then trust me in this. take my advice. more--oblige me by going. i am surgeon here, and you are nurse, but it has seemed to me, for some time past, that we have had a closer intimacy--that of friends. come, you will oblige me?" "it is your wish then, that i should go?" "indeed, yes. when will you be ready to start?" "at once." "that is good. then i will telegraph down, so that a carriage may be in waiting for you at the station. i am sure that mr elthorne will see that you have every comfort and attention. good-morning. thanks." nurse elisia stood by the door of the ward, watching the retiring figure of the old surgeon as he passed down the corridor. "is it not weak to have given way?" she said to herself. "perhaps not in such a case as this. mr elthorne will see that i have every comfort and attention," she said softly. "mr elthorne must be taught that i am the hospital nurse, sent down there for a special purpose. mr elthorne is weak, and given to follies such as i should not have suspected in so wise and able a man." she stood hesitating for a few moments looking toward where maria bell lay, evidently watching her attentively, and her first impulse was to cross to the woman and to tell her that she would be handed over now to the charge of another nurse; but, reconsidering the matter, she decided merely to tell the next nurse in authority that she must take full charge of the ward, and going down to the matron, she stated that she would be absent for a time. that evening she was being hurried down by a fast train, to reach the station within a few minutes of the appointed time, and she had scarcely stepped on to the platform when a man's voice made her start with dread lest it should be neil. "the nurse for hightoft?" said the voice; and as she turned she found that it was only a servant. "yes, i am the nurse," she replied. "well, here's a carriage for you. any luggage?" the man's voice was sharp, and wanting in respect, the ordering of the carriage for a long night drive having found little favour with coachman and footman. "that little black bag, that is all," said the nurse quietly. "don't mean to stay long, then," said the man with a laugh, as he took the little travelling bag, and swung it up on to the foot-board, while the nurse stood patiently waiting, and without resenting the man's insolence and indifference as he entered into a conversation with the coachman before turning and, stepping back, stared hard at the calm, refined face dimly seen by the feeble station lamps. "will you have the goodness to open the carriage door?" "eh? open the door? of course. just going to," said the footman cavalierly, as he snatched open the door and rattled down the steps. he held out his hand, but she stepped in without his assistance, the door was banged sharply to, and the handle took some time to turn, as the man stared in at the visitor, who quietly drew up the window and sank back in her seat. "gives herself airs, does she!" said the footman to himself. "how fond people who have never been in a carriage before are of making believe they are used to one. can't cheat me, my lady. bet a shilling she has never been in anything better than a cab or a station-fly before in her life." "what are you grumbling about?" said the coachman, as his fellow-servant climbed up to his side. "nothing, only thinking aloud about her ladyship inside. got in with a reg'lar toss of her head. there, hit 'em up, tom, and let's get back. i don't want to be on this job all night." "regular nurse, arn't she?" said the coachman. "horspittle?" "yes, i suppose so. dressed up like a nun out for a holiday. why couldn't they have had a nurse out of the village, or your wife?" "ah! why indeed?" said the coachman sourly. "'fraid poor people should make a few shillings too much, i suppose. it's just the same if one of the horses is bad; we must have the vet to see him, when i could put him right in a week. it's having the name does it with some people. horspittle nurse! a deal, i dare say, she knows." the ill-usage to which he and his fellow-servants were called upon to submit claimed both their tongues during the long, dark drive to hightoft, while nurse elisia sat back in the carriage, dreamy and thoughtful, watching the lights of the lamps thrown upon hedgerow and tree as the good pair of horses trotted swiftly back. it seemed a strange contrast to the glaring, shop-filled streets of sooty london, this long winding lane with only a long, low whitewashed cottage seen at intervals. so quiet and calm was it all that there appeared to be no reason for the rapid action of the nurse's pulses as they sped onward. but the action was going on, and the occupant of the carriage felt a strange longing more than once to pull the check string, and bid the coachman stop and turn back. but she refrained and grew cooler as they progressed, forcing herself to keep on trying to make out the landscape, till, in due time, the lodge gates were passed, and the carriage drawn up at the entrance, where nurse elisia descended and stood beside her little bag till neil descended and uttered the words expressing his astonishment at her presence there. chapter ten. neil is perplexed. neil elthorne had hard work to control himself for, paradoxically, although nurse elisia was the most likely personage for sir denton to send down to attend his young friend's father, it had never once occurred to him that she would be chosen. "i am glad you have come," he said quietly. "ah, here is my aunt," he continued, as that lady appeared. "aunt, dear, this is nurse elisia, from the hospital. will you see that she is shown to her room and has some refreshment before she comes upstairs?" isabel, looking very white and careworn, joined them as he spoke, unable to withdraw his eyes from the countenance which filled so large a portion of his meditative hours, but the nurse met his eyes calmly and turned and bowed to aunt anne and isabel in turn, the former lady seeming quite taken back by the attendant's appearance. "i don't like the look of her at all, isabel, my dear," she said, as soon as they were alone. "i expected she would look like a nurse, not be a tall body like that." "she seemed very nice, aunt, dear," said isabel quietly, "and of course she will be a very skillful nurse. i thought she looked very tired, but her face seemed to me quite beautiful." "good-looking, not beautiful, my dear, and that's it. i always made a point of never having good-looking servants in the house, especially as there are young men about." "aunt!" "oh, yes, you may say `aunt,' my dear, but you do not understand these things. good-looking servants always know it, and give themselves airs." "but this lady is not a servant, aunt." "don't talk nonsense, isabel," said aunt anne tartly. "she is a servant, and she is not a lady. i can't help it, my dear; i don't like her at all, and i hope she will prove to be so dissatisfied, when she finds what she has to do, that she will want to go back to town at once. there's too much of the fine madam about her for me." "sir denton would not have sent down a person who was not quite suitable, aunt," said isabel gravely. "if she nurses poor papa well that is all we want." "yes, my dear, but will she? there, i can't help it; i must speak plainly. i am the least suspicious woman in the world, but i do not like a surprise like this being sprung upon us." "a surprise, aunt?" "yes. why did not neil tell us what sort of a person this woman was going to be. he knows her, of course. you heard him call her by name." "aunt, dear, of what are you thinking?" cried isabel wonderingly, and giving her aunt a strangely perplexed look. "oh, nothing, my dear. there, i suppose i must see to her having some tea when she comes down. she will have her meals with the servants of course." "has nurse elisia come down yet?" said neil, entering quickly. "no, my dear," said aunt anne, pinching her lips together. "you have given orders for refreshments to be brought up to her?" "indeed no, my dear. i was just going to ring and tell them to get something ready in the servants' hall." neil's countenance changed. "no, no," he said harshly. "my dear neil, she cannot have her meals with us." "i cannot see why not," he replied sternly. "but she will not wish to leave her patient. have one of the dressing rooms set apart entirely for her use, and all her meals can be taken to her upstairs." isabel looked at her brother in surprise, his manner seemed so changed. "oh, very well, my dear," said aunt anne in an ill-used tone as she rose to ring the bell, but was forestalled by her nephew. "i always thought when i came here that i was to take the entire management of this establishment, but your father always interfered, and now that he is helpless, i suppose you, as his eldest son--" "why, dear aunt," said neil, "pray do not think that i wish to interfere, but you do not understand nurse elisia's position. she is our principal lady nurse at the hospital, one in whom sir denton hayle places every confidence, and whom he treats almost as a friend." "oh, indeed!" said aunt anne. "i was not aware. why did you not tell me before, my dear, who was coming down?" "for the simple reason that i did not know, aunt," said neil quietly. the footman, who had been waiting, signified his presence by a faint cough, received his orders, and left the room. about this time alison, who had been seated alone in the little study, smoking and trying to read, suddenly threw the book one way, the end of his cigar another, and rose with a yawn. "tired out and sleepy," he muttered. "last night to make up for." he seated himself on the table, and began swinging one leg about. "wonder how the guv'nor is," he said to himself, "and i wonder what he would say if he had seen us this afternoon. those girls are giving themselves fine airs of their own. miss dana is siding with her sister, i suppose because neil is so careless. i can't help it. no fault of mine, and if she thinks i am going to be snubbed and treated just as she pleases, she is mistaken. the money's all very well, but i'm not quite the easy-going fool she seems to think me. hang me, if i go for a ride with them again till i'm treated better." he gave his leg a sharp slap as a sudden thought struck him. "that's it!" he cried. "i never thought of it before. it's master burwood's doing. that accounts for his being down home instead of in town. he wouldn't hang about so much on account of our isabel. the governor's made all that too easy for him. and they knew it, and there's a sort of an idea that it would be nice to be my lady. would it? well, i'm not so stupid as they think me, and people get checkmated sometimes in a way they little expect." he swung his leg about swiftly for a few moments, and then leaped off the table. "i'm going to bed," he muttered. "just see how the governor is as i go by, and--" he yawned--"oh, dear me! how sleepy i am." he went out into the hall, and then, after pausing to listen to the murmur of voices in the drawing room, he shook one hand. "good-night, and bless you all," he said softly. "that's old neil's voice. look out, my lad, or you will lose the volatile saxa. i suppose aunt is with the old man." he began to ascend the broad staircase very slowly, his steps being inaudible on the thick soft carpet, and he was about half way up when he became conscious of the soft rustle of a dress, and a faint glow of light passing along the gallery at the head of the stairs. he stopped short on the landing, half startled as, in the centre of that glow, and gradually coming nearer, he saw, standing out plainly from the surrounding darkness, a clearly cut white face, that looked for the moment almost unearthly; but as it came nearer and approached the head of the stairs the half startled feeling gave way to wonder, and then to admiration. "who is she? what does it mean?" he thought as he noted the eyes glistening in the light shed by the candle, and the quaint white headdress, the only part of the costume seen, the black gown being as it were absorbed by the darkness of the great staircase and landing. the figure came nearer and as she reached the top of the stairs began to descend, holding the candlestick so that it was between her and alison, and hence she did not see him, where he stood on the landing half way down, till she was close upon him, when she stopped short and raised the light so that it fell upon his face, and they stood gazing at each other. nurse elisia was the first to speak, just as she became conscious of alison's admiring look. "i beg pardon," she said, "would you kindly show me the way to the sick room." "the nurse? you?" cried alison eagerly. "yes; i have just come down from town," she said quietly. "yes, of course," said alison eagerly. "and you must be tired and faint. had any dinner? here, come with me, and i'll show you the way to the dining room." nurse elisia hesitated, and at that moment the drawing-room door opened, shedding a flood of light upon the portion of the staircase where they stood, and neil elthorne was conscious of a keen pang which for the moment he could not have explained. "oh, there you are," cried alison sharply. "this lady does not know the way." aunt anne's lips tightened again as she stepped forward majestically. "will you come this way, nurse, and i'll show you my brother's room," she said; and her dress rustled loudly, as if partaking of its owner's agitation, while she crossed the hall and began to ascend the stairs. nurse elisia stood, candle in hand, waiting patiently and gazing at the plump elderly lady approaching her, in profound ignorance of the picturesque, striking aspect she presented as she held up the light whose rays illumined her features. "i really don't like her at all," said aunt anne to herself, as her brow furrowed. "what a dreadful looking woman." and the memory of certain words she had spoken to her niece only a short time back came vividly before her. "i would a great deal rather it had been one of those old-fashioned stout nurses who did not wear white starched caps and black dresses, just as if they were playing at being nurses. this way, please," she continued aloud. one minute the light shone strongly upon that white face; the next it seemed as if darkness had suddenly come over the scene and those in the hall were looking at two silhouettes moving up after a dull glow of light, to disappear through an archway; and then neil elthorne felt a pang of rage and misery shoot through him as, from the first landing of the broad staircase, he heard alison exclaim aloud: "by george!" he descended then quickly to where neil and isabel were standing. "i say," he cried banteringly, "so that's the modern style of nurse. neil, old chap, is there any room for me to walk your hospital? i'm coming up to study medicine." isabel looked curiously from one to the other in the semi-gloom; and, as she saw her elder brother's face, a feeling of dislike to the newcomer which she could not have analysed arose within her, and she started as she heard the deep, hoarse tones in which neil spoke. "is not this ribald style of talk out of place when our father is lying up yonder in so dangerous a state?" "oh, rubbish! he's getting better. but i like your taste, i must say. capital judge of nurses. neil's own selection, bel." neil turned upon him sharply, as if about to speak, but he compressed his lips and went to the foot of the stairs. "going up?" said alison laughingly. "come along, isabel; we'll go, too. i want another look at our new nurse." neil made an angry gesture. "isabel," he said hoarsely, "take no notice of him. you had better not come up now." as he spoke he began to ascend, and alison was silent till neil reached the top. "was that the doctor talking, or brother neil?" he said sarcastically; but there was no reply, for the young surgeon had gone on slowly toward his father's chamber, with a strange, sickening feeling of misery and despair at his heart, as he felt that, in spite of all his resolutions, a bitter fight was commencing against fate, one which threatened to be complicated in a way that was horrible to contemplate. for his brother's countenance, as he saw it for one brief moment when he was watching the figure on the stairs, had impressed him in a way which was startling, and as he reached the door, he stopped on the mat listening to a faint murmur, while his brow became furrowed and he muttered. "am i so helpless? have i no will, and do i really love this woman after all?" he paused, gazing back along the passage to where he could see the dim reflection of the lamp in the hall, and as he stood there, the faintly heard voice of nurse elisia came once more to his ear. he drew a long, deep breath, and then, half aloud: "i had not calculated on this," he thought. "i fled from the temptation, and it has followed me here. and she--she has never given me a second thought." he turned the handle quickly, and entered the room. "ah, that is right, neil," said aunt anne. "will you stay here while i take nurse to have some supper? she says she is not too tired to sit up to-night." "absurd!" said neil, in a low, harsh voice. "after this long journey? nurse, you will go with mrs barnett, and have some refreshment; then get to bed, and come and relieve me about seven." "but, my dear neil, you, too, want rest," said aunt anne. "aunt, be good enough not to interfere," replied neil shortly. "nurse elisia, you heard my orders." "yes, sir." "oh, very well, my dear," said aunt anne, in an ill-used tone. "i suppose you know best. this way, nurse." neil stood watching them as they left the room, and turned back toward the bed with a sigh of relief. "i have not lost my strength of mind, then, after all," he muttered, as he drew himself up. "i will master it." there was a faint glow in his pale cheeks as he spoke, but it died out at once, leaving him haggard-looking and careworn, and his face grew set and his eyes dark as he stood gazing straight before him, seeing neither the bed nor the wall beyond, but the scene upon the stairs of the pale, white face lit up by the caudle, while, a short distance below, stood alison, gazing up from the darkness. neil shuddered, closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again they fell upon the sleeping figure before him. and as he looked down it was not with the eyes of man of science but of the son, thinking of his father's plans. they had been children, and he had planned their education according to an eccentric whim of his own; youths, and he had principally chosen their career; they had reached manhood, and he had settled who were to be the companions of their lives. and as he thought, the faces of saxa lydon and her sister, followed by sir cheltnam burwood, floated out of the mental mist, and complication after complication arose. it was a dreary vigil, for neil elthorne was half worn out from broken nights and a long period of great anxiety, which had culminated in the arrival of the nurse; but not once through that long night did he feel the desire to sleep, and he could hardly realise the fact that it was morning, but stared and looked at her wildly when the door opened, and light shone in that was that of the morning sun, throwing up the pale, calm face of nurse elisia, who entered as if she were perfectly used to the place, and bearing for his special use a small tray, upon which were dry toast and tea. neil rose as she entered, with a whispered "good-morning," and he felt that he was trembling, and that he was only man, with all his weaknesses, in spite of his stubborn resolves. but he was himself again directly, as she spoke. "the patient, sir," she whispered; "has he passed a quiet night?" "yes, quite," said neil. "may i open one of the windows--that farthest from the bed, sir? the room is oppressive and faint." "yes, yes; of course;" he said hastily, and he hurried out of the room. chapter eleven. awkward encounters. "oh, really, sir cheltnam, i would a great deal rather you waited till my brother is better," said aunt anne, who seemed rather concerned about the sit of a couple of folds in her dress. "waited till he is better?" said the baronet, smiling. "well, you know what i mean. it is such an important thing that i really don't like to interfere." "i would not ask you but i cannot ask mr elthorne. wait? oh, yes; i should be willing to wait, only, with all due respect to you, my dear mrs barnett, is it not rather indefinite?" "oh, dear me, i'm afraid so." "and time is going on. you see, i do not want to be exacting, but i should like to find rather a warmer welcome when i come, and to be asked more frequently. it is mr elthorne's wishes." "yes, yes, of course; i know that. but isabel is very young." "it makes her the more attractive." "well, i suppose so. there, sir cheltnam, i'm a plain woman, and i'll speak out. i'm afraid she has been thinking a good deal about mr beck." "of course; but that is all over now. mr elthorne did not approve of it, and when i spoke to him, he told me that it was one of the great desires of his heart. then came that terrible accident, and since then, you see, i have been quite left out in the cold. come, now, mrs barnett, i do not wish to puff myself, but you must own that i can offer her everything that will insure her a happy future." "oh, yes; i know all that," said aunt anne. "then play the part of friend to us both." "what can i do?" "a thousand things that a clever diplomatic woman, like yourself, can contrive admirably. of course i know all about the beck business, and what did i do? show annoyance? not a bit. i said, `it is a young girl's first fancy, but one that she will soon forget. i'll wait;' and i have waited, but now it is time i was recognised a little by the young lady." "but her time is so taken up with attending to her father." "no, mrs barnett; i say little, but i see much. the nurse takes all that off her shoulders i believe." "oh, yes, very attentive, and that sort of thing; but i shall be very glad when she is gone." "naturally. but come, now--you will help me?" "well, well; i'll do all i can." "i knew you would. give me more of a _carte blanche_ to come and go." "but you are here a great deal now." "yes, as a formal visitor. come, now, mrs barnett; if this were another establishment, and you a stranger and saw me here from time to time, would you ever imagine that dear isabel and i were engaged?" "well--er--no." "of course you would not. there, i need not say any more; i am quite satisfied. is she with her father now?" "no; i think she is down the garden." sir cheltnam smiled, bent forward, took and kissed the lady's hand. "thank you," he said, with a meaning smile; and he rose from the lounge in the drawing room where the above conversation had taken place, and turned toward the french window which opened out upon the lawn. "no, no, really, sir cheltnam. i did not mean that." "my dear mrs barnett--" "oh, very well; i suppose it's quite right. it was her father's wish." "and yours, i am sure," he said, nodding meaningly as he reached the window and passed out. "i hope i've done right," said aunt anne; "but ralph is so strange, he may find fault. i'll go up and talk to him, and gradually introduce the subject." her countenance brightened, as she thought of this way out of a difficulty, and rising and smoothing her stiff silk dress, whose rustling she liked to hear, she went out into the hall, and began slowly to ascend the stairs. "it is very trying to me," she said to herself. "isabel does not seem to care for him a bit; and as to the two lydon girls, really if any gentleman had behaved so cavalierly to me as neil and alison do to them, i certainly should not have put up with it." she paused for awhile rather breathlessly at the top of the stairs, and then went on to her brother's room and turned the handle, but the door was evidently bolted inside. for the moment she seemed surprised, but she went on toward the next door, that of the dressing room attached, but, as she reached it, this door was opened, and the nurse appeared, to step out into the corridor, and close the door behind her. "did you try the other door, ma'am?" she said softly. "yes; it is bolted. never mind; i'll go through here." "not now, ma'am," said the nurse quickly, and in a voice hardly above a whisper; but there was plenty of decision in her tones. "not now?" said aunt anne haughtily. "my good woman, what do you mean?" "mr elthorne has dropped asleep, ma'am." "well, i'll go in and sit with him till he wakes." "excuse me, madam," said nurse elisia, barring the way; "he must not be disturbed." "my good woman!" cried aunt anne again, ruffling up at anyone daring to interfere with her in that house, "i am not going to disturb him. surely i know perfectly how to behave to a sick person." "of course, ma'am," said the nurse quietly, "and i am sorry to have to interfere." "as you should be," said aunt anne tartly. "have the goodness to stand on one side." "i beg your pardon, madam," said the nurse gently, "you are placing me in a very awkward position, and i grieve to oppose you in your wishes, but i must obey my instruction from mr neil elthorne. they were that i was to particularly guard against the patient's being disturbed when he was asleep." "and very proper instructions too; but say mr elthorne, nurse elisia, and not `the patient.' this is not a hospital." the nurse bowed. "i am sure my nephew did not intend that such instructions as these were to apply to me." "to everybody, madam. sleep is of such vital importance to the--mr elthorne in his present state, and he has so much difficulty in obtaining rest, especially at night, that even an hour's natural sleep is most desirable." "well, of course, i understand all that," said aunt anne, "and i shall take care that i do not make a sound." she stepped forward, but the nurse did not stir. "will you have the goodness to move," said aunt anne, in the most frigid of tones. "pray forgive me, madam. i must carry out my orders." "i have told you, my good woman, that they do not apply to me. will you be good enough to stand aside?" a faint colour appeared in the nurse's cheeks, but she did not move. "did you hear what i said?" cried aunt anne haughtily. "yes, madam, and again i ask your pardon," said the nurse gently. "excuse me, pray, but you are placing me in a very painful position." "then stand aside," said aunt anne, who was growing very red in the face, consequent on being opposed. "do you hear me, woman?" "yes, madam, but i must obey mr elthorne. a nurse dare not depart from the doctor's instructions. even a slight lapse might mean a serious injury to the patient in her charge." "i will take all the responsibility," said aunt anne haughtily. "have the goodness to allow me to pass." nurse elisia's eyes dropped, and there was a faint twitching at the corners of her eyes, but she did not stir. "are you aware that the mistress of this household is speaking to you?" "hush, madam, pray!" "oh, it is insufferable," cried aunt anne, whose anger was rising fast, when she saw a quick, eager look of satisfaction animate the pale set face before her, and at that moment a familiar voice said in a low tone: "what is the matter, aunt?" "ah, my dear," she cried; "you are there. i am glad. i declare it is insufferable. i was going in to sit by your father and talk to him." "i told mrs barnett, sir, that mr elthorne was asleep." "yes, my good woman," said aunt anne, "and i told you i should go in and sit with him till he awoke. and, then, really it is insufferable for a hired servant to take so much upon herself." "as what, aunt?" said neil, in a low, stern voice, "as to refuse to allow you to go in?" "yes, my dear. i can put up with a great deal, but i think it is quite time that the nurse knew that this is not a hospital ward, and that she is not mistress here." "nurse elisia is quite aware of that," said neil coldly; and his lips quivered slightly, as he saw that in spite of her apparent immobility, she was watching him curiously as if wondering what he would say; but he went on in the same cold, passionless way, "it is not a question of mistress or hired servant, but of care of my patient's progress toward recovery. i gave instructions that my father should never be in the slightest degree disturbed when he dropped into a natural sleep, and the nurse has done her duty and nothing more. come away now, please, and you will see this in the proper light, if you will give it a moment's thought." aunt anne gave her hands a kind of wave as if she were smoothing out a cloth over a table, and turning suddenly, walked with stately strides toward the head of the stairs, followed by her nephew, who did not even glance at nurse elisia, neither did he speak again till the drawing room was reached. "the nurse was quite right, aunt," he said quietly. "you must see that an attendant who did not carry out one's instructions to the letter would be untrustworthy." "pray say no more about it, neil," she replied, with a great show of dignity. "i suppose i am growing old and useless. but there was a time when my opinion was of value in a sick chamber." "yes, of course, my dear aunt, but this is a case where the patient must be kept perfectly quiet." "yes, that is it, neil. you have become so absorbed in your studies as a surgeon that you seem to forget that my poor dear brother is your father." "nonsense, aunt, dear." "oh, no, sir, it is the truth. i suppose i shall be looked upon as a patient next." "yes; as my dear loving patient aunt," said neil, smiling. "there, don't take any more notice of it. good-bye. come, come, don't look at me like that. it brings back one of your old scoldings when i was a boy." he kissed her and went out of the room. "but i don't like it," said aunt anne, "and i am not one to be deceived. i disliked that woman from the hour she entered the house. i had my forebodings then, and they grow firmer every day. he took her part directly. why, isabel, my dear, i thought you were down the garden," she cried, as her niece entered the room. "i? no, aunt. i just went to get a few flowers for papa, and i wanted to take them and arrange them in his room, but nurse elisia keeps watch there like a dragon, and would not let me go in." "why, she would not even let me go in," cried aunt anne with great emphasis on the first personal pronoun. "wouldn't she, aunt?" "no, my dear, and i shall bless the day when that woman goes. she is not what she appears." "isn't she, aunt?" "no, my dear." "i've thought something of that kind," said isabel dreamily. "she seems so much of the lady, and as if she quite looked down upon me, as being superior to us." "yes, my dear, and it makes my blood boil at times." "oh, i don't mean like that, aunt, dear, for she is always gentle and kind and respectful too." "no, my dear, no," cried aunt anne emphatically, "not to me. there, never mind that now, for i've something else to say. did you see sir cheltnam down the garden?" "sir cheltnam!" cried isabel, changing colour. "is he here?" "yes, my dear, and i told him you were down the garden." "aunt! oh, you should not have told him that. is he there now?" "i presume that he is, and really my dear child, i see no reason why you should be so disturbed. of course a little maidenly diffidence is nice and becoming and--good gracious! child, don't run away like that." but isabel had reached the door and darted out, for, through the window came the faint _crunch, crunch_, of manly steps upon the gravel. for, naturally enough, sir cheltnam's quest had been in vain, as far as isabel was concerned, but after looking about the lawn he had caught sight of someone seated beneath the drooping ash at one corner, and in the hope that it was she whom he sought, he had walked silently across the velvet grass to find that the heavy leafy screen was deceptive and that it was alison leaning back in a garden-chair. "oh, it's you," he said, as he pulled aside the pendent boughs. "yes. who did you think it was?" replied alison surlily. "your sister. is she always going to play hide-and-seek with me like this?" "like what? how should i know?" "look here, young fellow," cried sir cheltnam; "what's come to you these last three weeks?" "nothing." "bah! i'm not blind. there's something the matter. it isn't filial affection and grief, because the old man's getting better. it isn't love, because the fair dana is pining for you on horseback somewhere. there is only one other grief can befall a hale, hearty young man; so it's money." "nonsense!" "must be, and if so, my dear boy, come in a brotherly way to me for help, and it is yours, either with a check of my own or somebody else's in the city." "it isn't money," said alison shortly. "i've as much as i want." "my dear alison elthorne," cried sir cheltnam, grasping his hand, "that will do. you must stop now. you can go no farther. a young man of your years, appearance, and pursuits who can say that he has as much money as he wants, is a paragon, a _rara avis in terris_, a perfect model." "don't fool." "i am not fooling, but speaking in sober earnest. my dear boy, you must be photographed, painted, modelled, sculptured, and, hang it all, my dear alison, you will have to be put in madame tussaud's." "then it will be in the chamber of horrors for killing you," said alison fiercely. "i'm not in a humour to be played with, so leave off." "then if it is not money, it's love," said sir cheltnam. "i've done, my dear boy; but tell me where your sister is." "i don't know." "or won't know," said sir cheltnam. "never mind. you will be better soon, and then apologetic." alison made no answer, and sir cheltnam walked slowly away. "sulky cub!" he muttered. "what's the matter with him? quarrelled with dana perhaps, and she is leading him a life. well, she is quite capable of doing it, and her sister will keep a pretty tight curb on neil. i shall have a nice set of brothers and sisters-in-law when it comes off. well, i don't know that it much matters. i am quite capable of keeping a watch over my own front door." chapter twelve. maria is venomous. "come in," said aunt anne, in response to a knock, and maria bell entered, to stand for a moment watching while a few entries were made diligently in the housekeeping book. then aunt anne raised her head and coughed, a signal which maria knew of old as premonitor of a scolding, and, to ward it off, struck first. "oh, much better, ma'am, thank you," she said hastily; "and it's very kind of you to ask. i'm getting as strong as i was before i went to the hospital, and i think the wine you gave me has done me a deal of good. i hope master's much better this morning, ma'am." "yes; your master is much better, maria." "i'm very glad, ma'am, for more reasons than one." aunt anne had made up and rehearsed a speech relative to the neglect of certain duties, now that maria was back, and that though she had been ill, and allowances would be made and she would still be well cared for, she was not to expect that she was to lead a life of idleness, especially as there was now an invalid permanently in the house. but maria's manner and that addition or qualifying of her joy at her master's improvement, quite drove the admonitory remarks out of her head by exciting curiosity. "eh?" she exclaimed, "for more reasons than one, maria? what do you mean by that?" "oh, nothing, ma'am," said the woman, tightening her lips, and taking up the hem of her apron to arrange in plaits. "maria, you know, and have known for years, how i hate and detest mystery. i desire that you tell me what you mean." "nothing at all, ma'am, indeed. i really--that is--i am very glad that master is better--that's all." "that is not all, maria. i despise hints, as you well know." "really, ma'am, there is nothing." "maria, you cannot deceive me. i can read you perfectly. you have some reason for that innuendo and after all i have done for you and that mr neil has done for you, i consider that you are acting very ungratefully by this reserve." maria began to cry. "it--it--it wasn't from ungratefulness ma'am, i'm sure, for i'm bubbling over with gratitude to you and mr neil, and it was all on account of him that i spoke as i did." "now, maria, what do you mean?" cried aunt anne, for the spark ignited upon her tinder-like nature was rapidly beginning to glow. "please, please, don't ask me, ma'am," said maria, with sobs. "i would not make mischief in a house for worlds." "nobody asks you to make mischief, maria; but if you have seen peculations, or matters connected with the housekeeping going wrong during your master's illness, it is your duty to speak." "yes, ma'am, but it wasn't anything of that sort." "then what was it?" said aunt anne judicially. "and i'd be the last to speak, ma'am, knowing how valuable a character is to a poor person; and well i know how easy it is to make mistakes and be deceived, especially about such matters as that." "maria, i insist. why do you wish your master to be better?" "oh, of course, i want to see him quite well, ma'am, for though a bit 'arsh, a better master--" "what other reason, maria?" "well, ma'am, if i must speak, it is because i shall be glad when master's down again, and nurse is gone." "nurse? stop a moment. she attended you at the hospital?" "oh, yes, ma'am," said maria, in a peculiar tone, which suggested neglect, ill-treatment, and all kinds of unfeminine behaviour; "she attended me. i was in her ward." "well?" "oh, that's all, ma'am." "it is not all, maria, and i desire that you speak." "i don't like to see a woman like that attending master." "it was the doctor's orders, maria." "so i s'pose, ma'am. i heard that sir denton sent her down. he thinks a deal of her. you see he's a very old gentleman, ma'am, and she flatters him, and makes believe to be very attentive, and she was always just the same to mr neil, ma'am. i was a-lying there in pain and suffering and affliction sore, but i couldn't help using my eyes, and i saw a great deal." "maria!" "oh, it's a fact, ma'am, and if i'd gone on as she did talking to the young doctors, i should never have expected to keep no place; but of course a head nurse is different to a hupper 'ousemaid." "that will do, maria," said aunt anne. "i cannot listen to such scandalous tattle. i have no doubt about its being all imagination on your part." "i only wish it was, ma'am, i'm sure." "it's only a temporary arrangement, of course; and now, i wanted to speak to you about several little pieces of neglect i have observed that must not occur again. i know you have been ill, but it is quite time that you were a little more attentive, especially as we are about to have company." "company, ma'am?" "yes; the miss lydons will be here to dinner on friday, and they will stay the night, so i desire that their rooms are properly prepared before they come, and of course, as they will not bring their maid you will wait upon them." "yes, ma'am; i'll do my very best, and i hope--" "that will do, maria." "but there was one thing i should like to tell you, ma'am." aunt anne was burning with curiosity, but she raised her hand. "not another word, maria. you know i never listen to the servants' tattle. now go about your work." "i 'ate her," muttered maria, as soon as she was in the hall, which she crossed so as to get to the back stairs; "and if i haven't put a spoke in her wheel this time my name isn't what it is." maria tightened her lips as if to condense her spleen against the patient, long-suffering woman who had had the misfortune to incur her dislike. "a thing like her!" she continued muttering. "a beggarly nurse, with not so much as a box of her own to bring down when she comes into a gentleman's house, and giving herself airs as if she was a lady. oh, dear me, and indeed! couldn't stoop to talk to a poor girl as if she was a fellow-creature, at the hospital; and down here, lor' bless us! anyone would think she was a duchess up in the skies instead of a common hospital nurse. oh, i do 'ate pride, and if it wasn't that it do have a fall there'd be no living with such people." maria was not very strong yet, and she stopped short--as she expressed it to herself, with her heart in her mouth--and turned red and then pale on hearing a faint rustle behind her, and the nurse's low sympathetic voice accosting her. "ah, maria, are you better this morning?" "oh, yes, thank you, ma'am, much better." there was a tremendous emphasis on the "ma'am," suggestive of keen and subtle sarcasm, and the revolt of honest humility against assumption. "i am very glad," said the nurse gently. "mrs barnett said that there were several little things you might do now in mr elthorne's room." maria's face turned scarlet, and she faced round viciously. "then it was you, was it, who complained to her that i didn't do my work properly?" "i, my good girl?" said nurse elisia, smiling. "oh, no." "it must have been. nobody else wouldn't have been so mean as to go telling tales." "you are making a great mistake, maria," said the nurse, with quiet dignity. "i certainly asked mrs barnett about a few things being done in your master's room, and she referred me to you." "i don't want you to come here teaching me my work." "oh, no, i will not interfere, maria," said the nurse coldly; "but it is necessary that the room should be seen to." "thank you, ma'am; as if i didn't know what a 'ousemaid's work is. oh, i haven't patience with such mean, tale-bearing, stuck-up ways." the nurse looked at her in a pained way, and for a few moments there was a slight flash of resentment in her face; but it died out directly, and she spoke very gently: "you are making a mistake, maria." "don't `maria' me, please--ma'am," cried the housemaid; and that "ma'am" was tremendous. "stop," said the nurse, gently and firmly, and her eyes seemed to fascinate the woman, as a hand was laid upon her arm. "you have passed through a very trying ordeal lately, and it has affected your nervous system. you must not give way to an angry, hysterical fit like this. it is dangerous in your state." "oh, don't you begin to `my lady' it over me." nurse elisia changed colour a little, and darted a penetrating look at the speaker, but her countenance resumed its old calm directly, and she went on firmly. "take my advice, maria; now do as i tell you. never mind about the work--i will do what is necessary myself. go up to your bedroom and lie down for an hour, till you have grown calm and cool." "i shan't," cried maria, with the passionate utterance of an angry child; "and i won't stop in a house where--where,"--there was a hysterical outburst of sobbing here--"such goings on--and i'll take my month." "let me take you up to your room." "no, no! i won't go. i--oh, oh, oh!" but the strong will prevailed over the weak, and maria suffered herself to be led along the corridor till, a figure approaching at the end, she cried spitefully through her sobs: "of course, i know. to get me out of the way. oh, i'm not blind." nurse elisia's hand fell from the woman's arm as if it had been a gymnotus, and there was an indignant look in her eyes as they met neil elthorne's searchingly, in fear lest he had heard the malignant utterance. "what is the matter?" he said. "why, maria, i thought you were so much better." "it is a little hysterical attack," said the nurse quietly. "i was advising her to go and lie down, sir." "yes, of course," said neil quickly, as he caught the woman's wrist. "go and lie down at once. you must not give way to that sort of thing, maria. you are not quite yourself yet." "i--i'm better, now, sir," she said, as she struggled for the mastery over herself. "no, thank you! i can go by myself." "oh, yes," she muttered, as she glanced back on reaching the swing-door at the end of the corridor. "i'm not blind. a nice creature!--and him to go on like that. but i've not done yet." chapter thirteen. aunt anne's resolutions. aunt anne would not, she said, listen to maria's tattle, but the woman's words went home. "i suspected it," she said to herself, "and go she shall before matters are worse. it is always the way with these quiet, artful women." so she took up her pen to write to sir denton hayle, but she did not begin, for it occurred to her that if she did write and ask him to recall the nurse, he would immediately communicate with neil to ask for an explanation, and whether nurse elisia had neglected her duties. "and that's the worst of it," said aunt anne to herself, "she never has, but has done wonders for poor ralph." then it occurred to her also that, though neil was only her nephew, he was fast rising into the position of an eminent surgeon, and that in such a case as this she would not have dared to interfere if he had been someone else. "oh, dear me!" she said pettishly, "it's very dreadful. women always were at the bottom of all the mischief in the world. i've suspected it; neil has been so changed, and so has alison. it seems monstrous, but as sure as i'm a living woman she has managed to attract them both, and it must be stopped or do one knows what mischief will happen. why, those two might quarrel dreadfully, and then-oh, dear me, i'm very glad saxa and dana are coming. they will be the real cure for the trouble after all." she took up her pen again, but only to throw it back on to the silver tray. "no; i mustn't write. stop, i know; i'll go in and sit with ralph this afternoon, and quietly work round to the point of the nurse leaving now. isabel and i could do everything he requires." "no," she cried, with her face full of perplexity, "he would only fly in a passion and abuse me for interfering, and insist upon keeping her twice as long, and if i told him what i thought about neil and alison it would enrage him so that he would have some terrible relapse. oh, dear me! i don't know what nature could have been about to make a nurse with a face and a soft, cooing voice like that woman's. bless me!" she cried aloud. "neil, you shouldn't make me jump like that." "didn't you hear me come in, aunt?" "no, my dear, and i am so nervous. it came on when your father had his accident." "oh, that will soon go off. i've just had a message from sir denton." "to say that we need not keep the nurse any longer, and that he wants her back at the hospital?" "no, aunt, dear, in response to a letter of mine written days ago," said neil, looking at her curiously. "what about, then?" "to say that he is on his way down here to see my father again, and give me his opinion about the progress made." "but, neil, my dear, you should not ask people like that. the lydon girls are coming, and i cannot ask one of them to give up her room, and i'm sure sir denton wouldn't like mine, looking out toward the stables, though you can't see them." "don't trouble yourself, aunt, dear. he will not stay. he will come down by one train, spend an hour here, and go back to town at once. i want his indorsement of my ideas respecting a change of treatment." "oh, if that is the case, then i need not worry." "not in the least, aunt. only see that the lunch is kept back." "of course, my dear. i am relieved. for it would have been awkward with those girls here." "they are coming, then?" said neil absently. "why, you know they are coming, dear. really, neil, i shall be very glad when you are married-- and alison, too, if it comes to that." neil looked at her searchingly, but his aunt's face was perfectly calm-- placid to a degree--though all the while she was congratulating herself upon the subtlety and depth of her nature in introducing the subject so cleverly. "and why, pray?" he said coldly. "because you want something else to think about besides cutting off people's arms and legs. i declare you are quite growing into a dreamy, thoughtful old man. if i were saxa lydon i should take you to task finely about your carelessness and neglect. i declare i've felt quite ashamed of you." he looked at her sadly. "i'm afraid i am anything but a model young man, auntie." "indeed you are, sir, and it's quite time you mended. i don't know what your father will say to you when he gets better. it is one of his pet projects, you know. fortunately, saxa is not like most girls." "no," he said aloud, unintentionally. "saxa is not like most girls." "then do, pray, make haste and get your father well and the nurse out of the house." "why are you in such a hurry to get the nurse out of the house, aunt?" "my dear! what a question! i declare, neil, you revel in sick rooms, and in having nurses near you. this is not a hospital. of course i want to see the nurse gone, and your father about again." neil frowned, and his aunt saw it. she added hastily: "not that i have a word to say against nurse elisia. i'm sure her attention to your poor father deserves all praise." "god bless her! yes," said neil, in a low, grave tone. "she has saved his life." "oh, no, my dear; i am not going so far as that," said aunt anne in alarm, so earnest was her nephew's utterance. "nurses are not doctors." "but they often do far more for the patients, aunt." "do they, my dear? oh, well, i dare say you are right." "yes, i am right," he said dreamily, and he turned and left the room, unaware of the fact that aunt anne was watching him intently. "oh, dear me! oh, dear me!" she said to herself, "what a tone of voice! he is thinking about her. there is no doubt about it, but he is sorry and repentant. i can read him like a book. yes; he is sorry. my words brought him back to a sense of duty, and he will be as nice as can be to saxa in future. i'm sure i could not have spoken better. it is a great advantage--experience, and a good knowledge of human nature. now that boy--well, he always was the dearest and best of boys, and if he had been my own i couldn't have thought more of him--that boy knows he has been doing wrong in letting himself be attracted by a pretty face, and my words have thoroughly brought him round. maria was quite right, and i must talk to alison too, and--yes, i will; i'll manage to have a chat with sir denton and beg him as a great favour to let me finish nursing my brother. i will not say a word about the nurse. dear me! what am i thinking about? i quite forgot to tell them we would lunch at half-past two." aunt anne got up and rang the bell. chapter fourteen. a suspicious patient. there is plenty of food for the student in the dispositions of the sick, and the way they bear their pains. ralph elthorne's was an exceptional case, and his moods were many. the principal feeling with him, in the intervals when he was free from pain, was one of irritation against fate for selecting him to bear all this trouble and discomfort. illness had been so rare with him that at times he found it hard to realise the fact that he was lying there, utterly helpless and forced to depend upon those about him for everything, the result being that he was about as petulant and restless a patient as could be well imagined. in addition, he grew day by day more and more suspicious, lying and watching every look and act of those about him, ready to distort the most trifling things, and fancy that they were all part and parcel of some deeply laid scheme which was to interfere with his peace of mind and tend to his utter dethronement from the old position he had held so long. on this particular morning he had been lying placidly enough, chatting with his son, while nurse elisia was in attendance, till neil, feeling that the time had now come for his father to be prepared, let drop a few words about sir denton's visit. the change was almost startling. there was a wildly eager, excited look in his eyes, and suspicion in the tone of his voice, as he exclaimed: "coming down? sir denton? for what reason? quick! tell me why?" he caught his son's wrist, and his long thin fingers gripped it firmly as his troubled face, about which the grey hair was growing long since his illness, was turned searchingly to his son. "don't take it like that, my dear father," said neil, smiling. "it is not the first time we have had him to see you." "no, no! i know all that; but why, why is he coming?" "i asked him to come down, sir, that is all." "ah! you asked him to come down. why, why was i not told?" "for the reason you are showing," replied neil quietly. "i was afraid that if you knew you might agitate yourself, and fill your brain with fancies about your state." "so would any sick man," cried elthorne sharply. "and that is not all. you are keeping a great deal from me in your false wisdom. but you cannot hide it from one who knows intuitively what changes take place in him. i can see and feel it all. i am worse." "my dear sir, no," said neil, smiling. "don't contradict me, boy," cried his father fiercely. "surely i ought to know from my own sensations. i am far worse, and you have sent for sir denton because you have reached the end of your teachings, and feel helpless to do any more." "you do not give me much credit, father," said neil, smiling. "yes, yes, i do, boy, a great deal," said the old man excitedly. "then it has come to this at last." "my dear father, that is what i feared, or i should have spoken to you sooner. i assure you that you have no cause for alarm." "words, words, words," cried mr elthorne piteously. "the case is absolutely hopeless. you know it, and so you have sent for sir denton again." "my dear father," began neil, taking his hand. "be silent sir," cried the old man fiercely, "and let me speak." "then, my dear patient," said neil, "i must insist upon your listening to me calmly and patiently;" but mr elthorne paid no heed and went on. "i'm not going to blame you, boy, i suppose you have done your best, everything that you have been taught." elisia glanced at neil in spite of herself, and it was a commiserating look, but a feeling of elation ran through her as she saw his calm, patient, pitying look as she quitted the room. "indeed i have done everything possible, father," he said quietly. "yes, yes; all you knew, boy; all you knew." "and i have been able to do more perhaps than a surgeon who visited you would have achieved, through always being on the spot." "but your knowledge is limited, of course, boy." "yes, i am afraid so," replied neil sadly. "i'm not blaming you. very patient with me, my boy. so has she been. nurse!" he called. "nurse!" he turned his head a little so as to look over the back of the couch, for he had not seen that they were alone; and then, as he strained his neck a little to fix his eyes upon the door which communicated with the dressing room, it was painful to see the state of utter helplessness to which the strong man had been reduced. he could move his hands and arms, but the complete want of power elsewhere was so apparent to himself now that he uttered a groan of despair, and looked back imploringly at his son. "what had i done?" he muttered. "what had i done?" "my dear father," whispered neil; but the old man turned from him again impatiently. "nurse," he cried, "nurse!" and he beat, with a stick that was ready to his hand, impatiently upon the floor. "i will go for her," said neil eagerly; but there was no need. nurse elisia had faithfully devoted herself to the service of her patient; his call had been heard, and she came in quickly and silently, to glide toward the couch, her eyes the while scanning the sufferer questioningly, as if asking what had occurred to cause the summons. "there is nothing wrong, nurse," neil felt moved to say, as he saw the questioning look. "what?" cried mr elthorne, turning his eyes fiercely upon his son. "there is, nurse, and that is why i summoned you. look here, neil; my body may be half dead, but my head is clear. i am not imbecile yet, and i will not be treated like a child. it is hard, very hard, that even one's own son sinks his relationship in the professional man, and forgets that he is dealing with his father, who has become to him only a patient." "my dear father!" cried neil, smiling, "are you not a little hard on me?" "no, no!" cried the old man irritably. "you are deceiving me, for my good as you call it, and as you owned a little while back." "indeed, no," said neil quietly. "i only owned to keeping back the fact that sir denton was coming down till the morning of his visit, so as to save you from brooding over it and getting anxious." "well, what is that but deceiving me as i say, and treating me as a child?" "surely not, my dear father." "i say it is, and it is cruel. i want to trust you, but you all, even to isabel, join in cheating me, for my good as you are pleased to call it." neil glanced at the nurse, who met his eyes, but, quick as lightning the sick man raised his hand, half menacingly, at his son. "hah!" he cried, "don't try to corrupt her, and induce her to join your conspiracy; i can read your looks--`don't contradict him.' she is honest; i can trust her. you will tell me the simple truth, nurse, will you not?" he said, holding one hand over the back of the couch toward her. she stepped nearer, and took the extended hand. "indeed, i will, sir," she said gently; and then, with a smile, "unless, sir, i were forbidden." "what?" he cried, withdrawing his hand. "there might be a crisis in your illness when your medical adviser felt it was absolutely necessary, for your own sake, to keep back something of your state." "hah!" he cried bitterly, "all alike--all alike. i thought i could trust you." "you can trust me, sir, to be your faithful servant, who is striving to help your recovery." he looked at her with the lines about the corners of his eyes very deep, but her frank, ingenuous look disarmed him, his face softened, and he said gently: "yes, i can trust you, nurse. god bless you for a good, patient soul. and now, tell me--there cannot be such a crisis as that of which you speak--surely i should feel something of it if impending--" he did not finish his sentence but looked piteously up at the nurse, whose smile of encouragement chased his dark thoughts away again, and he once more raised his hand. "yes," he said gently. "you will tell me the truth. sir denton is coming down--to see me--to-day. it means that, though i do not suffer more, i am much worse?" "indeed, no, sir; and you are agitating yourself without cause." "agitating myself without cause," he muttered softly as he glanced at his son, and then quickly back at the candid face bent over him, while neil's heart beat more heavily, and there was a dreamy sensation of intense joy at his heart as he saw how full of faith and trust his father seemed. "you are steadily getting better, sir," continued elisia, and her soft, low voice was full of a tender sympathy for the broken man who clung to her hand. "is that the truth?" he said, very slowly and impressively. "don't you deceive me, it would be too cruel. you will tell me all?" she bent down over him a little lower so that he could gaze full in her clear, frank eyes, and there was a curious sense of swelling in neil's breast, and a jealous pang of despair as he clutched the arm of the chair tightly and thought of alison, while the silence in the room seemed to be prolonged. it was ralph elthorne who broke that silence, and neil started back to the present, for his imagination had been going rapidly astray. "yes," he said quietly; "it is the truth." he paused again for a few moments. "you need not tell me," he continued, "but, answer this: and i shall quite recover--the use--of my limbs--and get about--again--as before?" nurse elisia did not remove her eyes from those which gazed into hers with such fierce question; but her own grew cloudy and seemed to darken with sadness and pity for the suffering man. "answer me," he said imperiously. she turned quickly to neil. "no," cried mr elthorne; "don't ask him what you are to say. speak out--the truth." she bent lower over him with her eyes brimming over now, a couple of drops falling upon the invalid's breast as he clung spasmodically to her hand. "you cannot lie," he said hoarsely. "the truth--the truth?" again there was a painful silence, and neil clasped his hands together as his arms rested upon his knees, and he closed his eyes and let his head sink down, listening intently for the sentence which nurse elisia had been called upon to deliver. and at last she spoke, her low, soft voice thrilling father and son: "god has spared your life," she almost whispered, but every word was painfully audible, "and you retain the greatest gift to man--the full possession of your mental powers." "yes, yes," he whispered. "go on--go on." "you will soon, now, be sufficiently strong to be out and about once more, but--" "go on," he panted--"go on." "forgive me, dear mr elthorne, for saying it. you force it from me." "yes, yes; go on," he panted--"the truth--the truth. i shall be out and about, but--" "never again as of old," she continued; and low as her words were, they rang out to the ears of the listeners; "never again as of old." as she uttered this last word of what was almost as painful as a death sentence to such a man as ralph elthorne, a sob seemed to be torn from his breast, and neil sprang up as if expectant of some fresh seizure. but his father made a sign which arrested him, and lay back gazing straight before him till many moments had elapsed. then his lips parted, and they heard him say in a whisper: "a helpless cripple--i? yes, it is the truth--the truth." chapter fifteen. a tempting offer. "never again as of old." the words seemed to quiver in the silence of the sick chamber as nurse elisia uttered what, to the sufferer, sounded like a sentence, the more terrible as coming from one so grave, calm, and unimpassioned as the beautiful woman who stood before him; and as he lay, gazing wildly at the speaker, neil saw his father's eyelids tremble and then slowly drop over the dilated eyes, while his worn, thin, wrinkled face was contracted. but he opened his eyes again, and clung tightly to the nurse's hand. "yes," he said firmly, "that is the truth. thank you, nurse, thank you. god bless you for what you have done for a poor helpless cripple." he drew her down toward him as he spoke till he could kiss her brow, and then, as she rose, he released her hand. "thank you," he said quietly; "thank you. yes, that is the truth. but i shall be out again, neil, weak in body, but not imbecile. i shall still be the squire, boy. i am the squire. now, tell me: why is sir denton coming down?" "simply for me to ask his opinion, father," said neil, seating himself again, and resisting the temptation to offer the nurse a chair. but before he could continue it seemed as if his thoughts had been communicated to the patient, who turned toward her. "sit down, nurse," he said. "i am wearing you out with attending on me." "indeed no, mr elthorne--" she began. "sit down," he cried imperiously, and she quietly obeyed. "now go on, neil." "of course i have studied your case very hard," said the son, "and i have certain ideas that i should like to test. i believe they would strengthen you, but i will not do anything without getting my opinions endorsed by a man of greater experience." "humph! that's sensible; eh, nurse?" she bowed gravely. "so i wrote to sir denton at length, telling him what i had arrived at, and asking him to come down the first free day he had, or, i should say, the first time he had a few hours, to see you, and give me his advice." "is that all?" said mr elthorne sharply. "everything, father." "humph! well, that's right, my boy, quite right. don't experiment upon me," he said, with a painful laugh. "after fighting through all this i can't afford to go backward. keep the experiment for some poor hospital patient." the words jarred on neil, and he glanced quickly at the nurse, to see that there was a pained look in her eyes, but it passed off as she saw that she was observed. "well, when do you expect him?" said mr elthorne. "almost directly, sir." "and why was i not told?" "for fear of agitating you, and setting you brooding over it. besides, i was not sure when he would come down." "humph! well, don't treat me as if i were a child, boy. i can think if i can't walk. and i must be got out now. has that chair come down?" "yes." "that's right. i'll be carried down on friday when my girls come. if they call before then they are to be brought up. no, no; i know what you are going to say--that they will talk too much. it will do me good to hear saxa's chatter and dana's prattle. when did you see them last?" in spite of himself neil glanced at the nurse as he answered: "i hardly know. on sunday, i think." "you hardly know! on sunday, you think! my dear boy, what a dreamer you have become! lucky for you that saxa is what she is." it was hard work for neil to keep his eyes averted from the nurse. "what will she think?" he said to himself. the sound of wheels on the drive put an end to the conversation, neil hurrying out to welcome the great surgeon, who declined all refreshment until after he had heard full particulars of the progress of the case and seen the patient. "i could not have done differently," said sir denton at last. "you found nurse elisia invaluable, of course?" "invaluable." "then now let us go up and see him." neil led the way to where ralph elthorne lay helpless, but with his eyes gazing keenly at him as they entered. "ah, good-morning, mr elthorne," cried sir denton cheerily. "good-morning, nurse. now, sir, you know why i have come?" "yes, my son has told me," replied the injured man, watching his visitor's expression. "well? am i worse?" "no, sir; much better. there is no doubt of that. there is a vigour in your manner and speech that is most satisfactory." "but i am always to be a helpless cripple?" said elthorne bitterly. sir denton did not reply for a few moments, but sat gazing in the patient's eyes. "you wish me to answer that question?" he said at last. "of course." "then i will. i can answer a man of your strength of intellect, mr elthorne. yes, sir. no surgical skill could restore you." he stopped short and watched the patient intently. "that's well," he went on. "you bear the announcement manfully. quite right, for your life has been saved, mr elthorne; and with the palliatives that mechanical skill can supply you with, you ought to and can enjoy many years of useful life. your son has thoroughly explained to me his intentions regarding your future treatment, and i fully endorse his ideas. they will benefit you, but do not expect too much." "condemned to a life of helplessness!" muttered elthorne in a low voice. "no, sir, you have your brain intact," said sir denton. "thank god for that." "yes," said elthorne, gripping the surgeon's hand, "thank god for that. i will not repine, sir denton, for i can think, and will, and be obeyed. do you hear, neil? and be obeyed. the head is right." "yes, and the heart, mr elthorne. so no despair, sir. meet your trouble like a man. you can be a successful general yet in the battle of life." "thank you, sir." "my dear mr elthorne, i wish i could hold out hopes of an ultimate recovery of the use of your limbs, but, with a man like you, a frank, open statement is best. you know the worst, and you can get over the difficulties. i can say no more, unless i deliver a eulogy upon your son's skill." "don't do that," said the invalid grimly; "he is conceited enough already." "then i will leave you now and ask for a little refreshment. i have had nothing but a cup of tea since my dinner last evening." he rose, shook hands, and then turned to nurse elisia. "i miss you sadly, nurse, but i suppose you cannot be spared for the present." "spared?" cried elthorne quickly. "no, no; certainly not." "but i want her in my ward, mr elthorne," said sir denton, smiling. "yes, after a time. but not yet. i am so helpless at present." "well, well, we shall see," said sir denton pleasantly. "it is mutually satisfactory. nurse was suffering from our close london hospital air, and overworked. the change here has worked wonders. good-bye, mr elthorne. i congratulate you upon the skill your son has shown." he shook hands, and left patient and nurse together, descending with neil to the drawing room, where isabel, alison, and aunt anne were waiting to hear his report. "oh, i am glad," cried aunt anne, wiping her eyes; and then: "you think he can do without the nurse now?" alison gave her a furious look, which did not escape neil. "eh? do without the nurse?" cried sir denton. "i did not say so. no, my dear madam, her attention is more necessary than ever, i am sorry to say." aunt anne's plump countenance bespoke her disappointment. "you are sorry to say?" she said. "yes, my dear madam, for i want her back in town." lunch was at an end, and the carriage at the door. sir denton shook hands and went out into the hall with neil, took up his hat, set it down again, looked at his watch, and replaced it. "about half an hour to spare, eh, elthorne?" "yes, quite." "take me down the garden, then, where i can see flowers growing. god bless them! i wish i were a gardener. i want to speak to you." neil led the way down a sunny walk, beneath an ancient red brick wall, the old surgeon looking sharply about him till they reached a sundial standing upon a moss-eaten stone. here he paused and rested his elbow on the copper disk, like a modern figure of time. "neil elthorne," he said, "i like you." neil smiled. "the feeling is mutual, sir denton." "i know it, my dear boy. you are my favourite pupil, and i want to see you rise. now, do not be startled. i have been requested to select an able man who promises to be eminent to send out to black port." "on the west coast of africa?" "yes. to establish a hospital there--a cosmopolitan hospital in which government is interested. it is a terrible place, but a medical man knows how to take care of himself. he would have to engage for five years; the pay is very high; and he would have to devote himself to his task, above all in trying to ameliorate--cure if he can, and i believe it possible--the local disease, which is increasing fast. i do not conceal from you that there will be risks; but the man who goes out there for a few years and works, will come back to be loaded with honours, and take a very high position in his profession. a knighthood will probably follow. if i were a young man i would go, but i must content myself at my age with my ward in london. now, then, there is plenty of time for consideration, but i should like to go back with some idea. i have not spoken yet to a soul, and i need not tell you that it would be a wrench to part with you; but it is your opportunity, and, as i have your future success at heart, i want to see you rise. will you go?" "i, sir denton? it is the opening for a physician." "as much for a surgeon, my dear boy. he must be both. you are as good a surgeon as i am." "oh, sir denton!" "you need not exclaim. i am not blind. i have had vast experience, but i am getting old and weaker. you have all that my experience has taught you, and, in addition, youth and a thoughtful, originating brain. i tell you frankly, because you are not a weak fool who would be puffed up: long before you are my age you will stand far higher than i do. i don't want to send you out there because i am jealous of you," he added laughingly. "but i should not be equal to the task from the medical point of view." "nonsense, my lad! if i wanted medical help, i would far rather come to you for it than to any man in our hospital. now, don't decide rashly; take time to think it over. you would not have to go for two or three months. there, i need say no more save repeating this: it is a terrible place from a health point of view, but the man who goes will be able to do something to lessen the risks, and government will help him in his movements for sanitation. now, i must be off. pick me a few flowers. aha! that is charming," he cried, as he saw isabel waiting with a bunch she had hastily cut in one of the houses. "thank you, my dear child. those shall stand in water in my room in memory of a delightful visit. i envy you your life in this charming old place. good-bye." he shook hands with isabel again, and walked back to the carriage with neil, who looked very thoughtful. "you can write and ask any questions," said sir denton, "and in a week you will give me your decision." "i will give it you now, sir denton," said neil gravely. "it is no." "are you sure?" "quite." "you will not alter your mind?" "no; i shall stay in england--with you." "i am very sorry, neil elthorne, for some things--very glad for others. the first is for you--the latter for myself. good-bye. tell him to go fast." the horses sprang off, and neil stood thinking in the carriage drive. "a lady in the case," said sir denton. "well! it is human nature, and i am not sorry--for both their sakes. he loves her, and some day he will come and tell me." at that moment neil turned to re-enter the house, and his eyes lighted upon nurse elisia at the first-floor window watching the departing carriage. their eyes met, and she drew back. neil sighed, and then felt a spasm of pain shoot through him, for he saw that his brother was close at hand, and that he must have seen the direction of his eyes, for there was a frown upon his brow which was there still as he said roughly: "the old man's gone, then. i suppose he'll charge a pretty penny for coming down all this way?" neil looked at him in surprise for the moment, but directly after he felt that his brother had merely spoken to conceal his thoughts, and he was thinking this as he replied: "charge? no. i shall give him a check for the railway fare. he would look upon it as an insult if i offered him a fee." chapter sixteen. how elisia became a nurse. the bedroom was bright with flowers and the many touches given by a thoughtful woman's hand, to which was due the sweet fragrance in the air. "but you are better to-day, sir?" "no, nurse, no. perhaps better in body, but not in spirit. you cannot understand it. i seem to be a prisoner chained down. my body is here, and my mind is everywhere about the place with my old projects." "shall i read to you, sir?" "read? yes; i like to hear you read. you are a strange nurse, to be able to read with so much feeling. get a book. something good." "what would you like to-day?" "anything. who's that? go and see. so tiresome, disturbing me like this." nurse elisia went to answer the light tap at the door, and as she opened it aunt anne appeared, and was sweeping by her, when her brother cried, "stop!" "but i have some business to transact with you, ralph," said the lady pleadingly. "i cannot help it. go away now. i cannot be disturbed." "oh, very well, ralph. i will come up again," said aunt anne in an ill-used tone. "wait till i send for you," said her brother sourly. "it's all that woman's doing," said aunt anne to herself, as she swept down the corridor. "oh, if i could find some means of sending her away." "it seems as if it were my fate to make enemies here," said nurse elisia to herself, as she stood waiting with a book in her hand. "it is time i left, and yet life seems to have been growing sweeter in this quiet country home." her eyes were directed toward the window, by which a little bookcase had been placed; and, as she looked out on the beautiful garden, there was the faint dawn of a smile upon her lip, but it passed away directly, leaving the lips white and pinched, while a curiously haggard and strange look came into her face. she craned forward and gazed out intently; there was a cold dew upon her forehead, and the hand which took out her kerchief trembled violently. she drew back from the window, but, as if compelled by some emotion she still gazed out. ralph elthorne did not notice the change in the nurse's aspect, but illness had made his hearing keen, and he said sharply: "who is that coming up to the front?" "miss elthorne, sir." "but i can hear two people." "a gentleman is with her." "what gentleman? what is he like?" there was a strange singing in nurse elisia's ears, as, with her voice now perfectly calm, and her emotion nearly mastered, she described the appearance of the visitor so vividly that elthorne said at once: "oh, it's burwood." she looked at him quickly, to see that he lay back with his eyes half closed, musing, with a satisfied expression upon his face, while her own grew wondering of aspect and strange. for her life at hightoft had been so much confined to the sick chamber, that she knew very little of the neighbours. the lydons had often been mentioned in her presence, and, from a hint or two let fall, she had gathered that isabel was engaged to some baronet in the neighbourhood; but she had not heard his name, which came to her now as a surprise, while the fact of his being in company with the daughter of the house, and the satisfied look upon the father's countenance, left no doubt in her mind that this was the suitor of his choice. the current of her thoughts was broken by her patient, who seemed to wake up from a doze. "ah, you are there?" he said. "i must have dropped asleep, and was dreaming that you had gone out for your walk, and i could not make anybody hear. have i been asleep long?" "very few minutes, sir. in fact, i did not know you were asleep." "ah, one dreams a great deal in a very short time. you were going to read to me, weren't you?" "yes, sir. shall i begin?" "you may as well, though i would as soon think." there was a gentle tap at the door. "come in. no; see who that is, nurse. why am i to be so worried! i'm not ill now," he cried peevishly. she crossed to the door and opened it, to find isabel standing there, flushed and evidently agitated. "may i come in and sit with you a little while, papa?" she said. elthorne shook his head. "no," he cried shortly, "and i will not be interrupted so. your aunt was here just now. pray do not be so tiresome, my dear child. i will send for you if i want you. why have you left burwood?" a sob rose to isabel's throat, and as she saw the nurse standing there, book in hand, a feeling of dislike began to grow within her breast. for why should not this be her task? why was this strange woman to be always preferred to her? it should have been her office to read to the sick man, and she would gladly have undertaken the duty. "i am very sorry i came, papa, but i see you so seldom," she said softly. "papa, dear, let me come and read to you." "no, no," cried elthorne peevishly. "nurse is going to read. besides, you have company downstairs. burwood has not gone?" "no, papa." "and you come away and leave him? there, go down again, and do, pray, help your aunt to keep up some of the old traditions of the place. what will burwood think?" isabel gave a kind of gasp, her forehead wrinkled up, and the tears rose to her eyes, but at that moment she saw those of the nurse fixed upon her inquiringly, and in an instant she flushed up and darted a look full of resentment at "this woman," who appeared to be gratifying a vulgar curiosity at her expense. "did you hear me, isabel?" cried her father, querulously. "pray, go down. you fidget me. go down to burwood, and if he asks, tell him i am very much better, and that i shall be glad to see him soon." "yes, papa," she said faintly; and turning back to the door, she had her hand upon it, when, moved by an affectionate impulse, she ran back quickly, bent down and kissed him. "good girl!" he said. "good girl! now make haste down." she glanced quickly at the nurse, and the resentful flush once more suffused her cheeks, for those eyes were still watching her, and this time there was a smile upon the slightly parted lips. the girl's eyelids dropped a little and she replied with a fixed stare before once more reaching the door and passing out. "how dare she!" thought isabel, trembling now with indignation. "she quite triumphs over one. aunt is right; she is not nice. she seems to contrive to stand between me and papa. it is not prejudice, and i shall be very, very glad when she is gone." the door had hardly closed upon her, when, in a fretful way, ralph elthorne exclaimed: "now, go on; go on!" the nurse began reading directly, an old world poem of chivalry, honour, and self-denial; and as the soft, rich, deep tones of her voice floated through the room, ralph elthorne's head sank back, his eyes closed, and his breath came slowly and regularly. but the reader had grown interested in the words she read. the story of the poem seemed to fit with her own life of patient long-suffering and self-denial, and she read on, throwing more and more feeling into the writer's lines. at last, in the culminating point of the story, her voice began to tremble, her eyes became dim, the book dropped into her lap, and a low faint sob escaped from her lips, as the pent up, long suppressed agony of her heart now broke its bounds, and, as her face went down into her hands, she had to fight hard to keep from bursting into a fit of hysterical weeping. for, only a short hour before, the deep wound of the past had suddenly been torn open, and memory had come with a rush of incidents to torture her with the recollections of the bygone, of the rude awakening from the golden dream of her girlhood's first love to the fact that the man who had first made her heart increase its pulsations, the man she had believed in her bright, young imagination to be the soul of chivalrous honour, was a contemptible, low-minded _roue_. how she had refused to believe it at first, and insisted to herself that all she had heard was base calumny; and she had gone on defending him with indignation till the cruel facts were forced upon her, and in one short minute she had turned from a trustful, passionate, loving girl, to the disillusioned woman, with no hope but to find some occupation which would deaden the misery of her heart. since then her life had been one of patient self-denial, at first in toiling among the suffering in the sordid homes of misery in one of the worst parts of london. here, while tending a woman dying of neglect and injuries inflicted by some inhuman brute, it had struck her that she might enlist the sympathies of the great surgeon whose name had long been familiar, and ask him to come and try to save the woman's life. to think with her was to act, and she waited on him humbly and patiently, all the time trembling for the consequence to the injured woman left almost alone. but at last her turn came, and she was ushered into sir denton's presence. he heard her patiently, and shook his head. "it is impossible, my dear young lady," he said sharply. "i can but battle with a few of the atoms of misery in the vast sands of troubled life. from your description of the case, i fear i can do no good, and my time for seeing patients here at home is over, while a score of poor creatures are lying in agony at my hospital waiting their turn." she looked at him despairingly, and he spoke more gently. "i admire and respect the grand self-denial of such ladies as yourself who devote themselves to these tasks, so do not think me unfeeling. it is that i can only attend a certain number of cases every day." "but you would go to some wealthy patient," she cried imploringly, "and i will pay you whatever fee you ask." "you wrong me, my dear young lady," he said gravely. "i would not go to-day to any wealthy or great patient for any sum that could be offered me. i take fees, but i hope my life is not so sordid as that." "forgive me," she said hastily. "i beg your pardon." "yes," he said, taking her hand to raise it reverently to his lips, "i forgive you, my child, and i will prove it by seeing the poor woman of whom you speak. come." he led her out to the carriage waiting to take him to the hospital, and a group of the wretched dwellers in the foul street soon after stood watching the great surgeon's carriage, while he was in the bare upstairs room of the crowded house. he stayed an hour, and came again and again, till the day came when another carriage stopped at that door, and a hushed crowd of neighbours stood around, to see nurse elisia's patient carried out, asleep. "if i only had come to you sooner!" she said. "i could have done no more," replied sir denton. "believe me, it is the simple truth. we can both honestly say that we have done everything that human brain and hands could do." they were walking slowly away from the house where the woman had died. "and now i must speak to you about yourself." "about myself?" she said wonderingly. "yes; i ask you no questions about your friends, or your reasons for taking up the life to which you have devoted yourself; but i am interested in you and your future. do you intend to go on attending the sick and suffering?" "yes," she said simply. "good; but not like this. you are young and beautiful, and at all hours you are going about here alone." "i have no fear," she said, smiling. "the poor people here respect me." "yes; and, to the honour of rough manhood, i believe, my child, that there are hundreds who would raise a hand for your protection; but the time will come when you will meet with insult from some drink-maddened brute. you must give it up. your presence is so much light in these homes of darkness, but--you have interested me, as i tell you." she looked at him searchingly. he read her thoughts and smiled. "i am speaking as your grandfather might. let me advise you, my child. this must not go on." "i thank you," she replied; "but i have devoted myself to this life, and i cannot turn back." "i do not ask you to turn back," he said. "you have devoted yourself to the sick and suffering. the duties can be as well performed where you will be safe, and treated with respect." she looked at him doubtingly. "let me counsel you," he said. "come." "where?" she asked, and he held out his hand. "you can trust me," he said; and he led her to his carriage, and then through the ward of the hospital where he reigned supreme. it was a few days after a terrible accident at one of the hives of industry, and among other sufferers, some ten or a dozen poor work-girls lay, burned, maimed, and in agony, longingly gazing at the door to see the face of the grey-haired man on whose words they hung for life and strength. that day he came accompanied by his pale, sweet-faced young friend, in whose beautiful eyes the tears gathered as she went round with him from bed to bed, appalled by the amount of bodily and mental suffering gathered in that one narrow space. "well?" he said, a couple of hours later. "is it too dreadful, or will you help me here?" "can i?" she said simply. "i am so ignorant and young." "you possess that," he said gravely, "which no education can impart. your presence here will be sunshine through the clouds. i should shrink from asking you to come among these horrors, but you have, for some reasons of your own, taken up this self-denying life, and i tell you that you can do far more good to your suffering fellow-creatures here than by seeking out cases in those vile streets. you will be safe from insult and from imposition. we have no impostors here. what do you say?" she gave him her hand, and the next day nurse elisia came from her home--somewhere west, the other nurses said--and returned at night unquestioned, and after a week or two of jealousy and avoidance, as one different to themselves, the attendants one and all were won to respect and deference by acts, not words. chapter seventeen. "you insult me!" and now nurse elisia sat in ralph elthorne's chamber, her face buried in her hands, the memories of her past life rushing back and a sense of misery and despair increasing, so that she felt that the time had come when she must rise and flee from a place which had suddenly become insupportable to her. then a change came over her. there was a feeling of passionate resentment, and a desire to do battle against the one who had wrecked her life. "shall i stand by and see another's life destroyed as mine has been?" but her own misery and despair drove these thoughts away, and her spirit was sinking lower and lower as the complications of her position seemed to increase. "i cannot stay here," she said to herself. "it is impossible. i have no part or parcel with these people. i have done my duty, and i must go." suddenly she started as if she had been stung, for her hand had been taken, and neil elthorne was bending over her. "for heaven's sake," he whispered, "don't! i cannot bear to see you suffer. tell me, why are you in such grief?" "mr elthorne!" she cried in a low voice, as she glanced toward where the patient lay asleep. "yes; neil elthorne," he said huskily. "i cannot bear to see you in such distress. i have fought with it; i have struggled and suffered for months and months now. i felt that it was a kind of madness and that it was folly and presumption to think as i did of one who seemed never even to give me a thought. i came down here. it was to flee from you, and try to forget you, but fate brought you here, and i have had to go on from day to day fighting this bitter fight." "mr elthorne--your father--are you mad?" "yes," he said excitedly. "mad; and you have made me so. i know that i am not worthy of you, but listen; give me some hope. elisia, have pity on me--i love you." "no, no; hush, hush!" she whispered excitedly. "it is impossible; it is not true." "it is not impossible, and it is true," he said. "you must have known this for long enough. you must have seen the cruel struggle i have had. are you so cold and heartless that you turn from me like this?" "mr elthorne!" she cried indignantly; "you take advantage of my helplessness here. i ought to look for your respect and protection as a gentleman, and you speak to me like this--here, with your poor father in this state." "don't reproach me," he pleaded. "have i ever failed in respect and reverence for you from the day we met till now?--you are silent. you know i have not. you know how my love for you has grown day by day as we have worked together yonder--here. you know how i have fought against it till now, when i see you suffering, and i can bear no more." "you insult me!" she said indignantly. "it is no insult for a man to offer the woman he loves his name, and the devotion of his life," he said proudly. "am i such a frivolous boy that you speak to me as you do, treating me as if it were some pitiful declaration from one who has uttered the same words to a dozen women? i am a student; my life has been devoted to my profession, and i swear to you that i never gave more than a passing thought to love until you awoke the passion in my breast--and for what? to tell me, when the truth will out, that i insult you! i--i who would die to save you pain--who would suffer anything for your sake--who would make it the one aim of my life to bring happiness to yours. and you tell me i insult you!" "yes; it is an insult to take advantage of my position here, sir, at such a time as this. you forget yourself. i am the hospital nurse attending your father. you are the surgeon whose duty is, not only to your patient, but also to me." "it is no insult," he said warmly. "it is the honest outspoken word of the man who asks you to be his wife." "mr elthorne," she said coldly, "it is impossible." "why? can you not give me some hope? i will wait patiently, as jacob waited for rachel." "i tell you, sir, it is impossible, and you force me to quit this house at once." "no, no; for pity's sake don't say that," he cried, catching her hand, but she drew it away, and stood back with her eyes flashing. "how dare you!" she cried angrily. "you force me to speak, sir. once more i tell you it is an infamy--an insult." "infamy! insult!" he said bitterly. "yes. do you suppose i am ignorant of your position here? you ask me to be your wife when in a few more hours the lady to whom you are betrothed will be staying in the house." he drew back, looking ghastly, just as there was a soft tap at the dressing room door, and maria appeared, looking sharply from one to the other. "i have brought up master's lunch," she said. "shall i bring it in here?" "no; i will come and see to it first," said the nurse quickly; and she went into the little room, while neil walked across to his father's couch and stood looking down at the worn, thin face as the old man still slept on. "an insult!" he thought--"the lady to whom i am betrothed!" he looked round wildly, and a sense of despair that was almost insupportable attacked him as he fully realised his position and the justice of the words which had stung him to the heart. "but there is something more," he said to himself, as, with nerves jarred and his feelings lacerated by disappointment, unworthy thoughts now crept in--"there is something more." and throwing himself into a chair, he sat gazing down at the carpet, recalling bit by bit every look and word of his brother, beginning with the scene upon the staircase on the night of elisia's first arrival. they were thoughts which grew more and more unworthy--thoughts which began to rankle in and venom his nature, as he formed mental pictures of his brother being received with smiles and kindly words. "i would rather see her dead," he muttered fiercely; and at that moment the object of his thoughts entered from the dressing room, bearing the little tray with his father's lunch. their eyes met, and as he gazed in the pure, sweet face, the harsh unworthy thoughts passed away, to give place to a sense of misery, hopelessness, and despondency, which humbled him before her to the dust. "and i dared to think all that!" he said to himself, as he rose and drew back from the couch to give place for her to approach. at that moment the passion within him burned as strongly, but it was softened and subdued by the better feelings--the tender love which prevailed. "forgive me," he said deprecatingly. "i was nearly mad." she made no reply, but stood by the couch half turned from him, and he could see that her lips were working. "can you not hear my words?" he continued humbly. "what more can i say? it was the truth." she turned to him proudly. "mr elthorne," she said, "i ask you, as a gentleman, to end this scene. if you have any respect for my position here, pray go." he stood looking at her for a few moments, then turned and left the room without a word, giddy with emotion, crushed by a terrible feeling of despair which drove him to his own room. here the bitter thoughts came back. alison had been impressed from the first, and he was always seeking for opportunities to speak to her. that, then, was the reason, he told himself. she had twitted him with his engagement, but she would not have cast him off for that; and in this spirit a couple of hours went by, during which he paced the room. unable to bear the turmoil in his brain, toward the middle of the afternoon he went down and determined on trying to calm the irritation of his nerves by a long walk. crossing the garden, he reached the park, and was hesitating as to the direction he should take. then, in a motiveless way, he went on to a plantation through which a path led toward a beautiful woodland hollow, which was his father's pride as being the loveliest bit of the park scenery. here, just as he reached the edge of the plantation, he caught sight of a figure walking rather quickly toward the woodland, and in a moment he was all excitement again. "it was the time," he said to himself. "i was mad to speak to her at such an inopportune moment. she will listen to me now. for she is all that is gentle and sympathetic at heart." his steps grew faster, and he was just about to turn to his right, so as to cut off a good corner, and meet the object of his thoughts about a quarter of a mile beyond where she was walking, when he caught sight of his brother going in the same direction as himself, but from another point, and he stopped short with the old sinking sense of misery coming back, and with it the host of bitter fancies. for there could be no doubt about it, he thought, and not a single loyal honest idea came to his help. she was going toward the woodland, perhaps by appointment, and if not, alison had seen her, and was hurrying his steps so as to overtake her as soon as she was out of sight. a curious kind of mental blindness came over neil elthorne, and he stopped short in the shelter of the trees, gazing straight before him, till the figure of his brother disappeared just at the spot which nurse elisia had passed a few minutes before. he might have said to himself that there was nothing unusual in the nurse taking that part of the park for the daily walk upon which he had himself insisted, but upon which he had never intruded. and again it might have been accidental that his brother was going in that direction. but, no; the woman he had idolised so long in silence had rejected him coldly, and twitted him with his position. alison loved her he was sure, and he had gone to meet her. at that hour he was sure of this being the case, and he stood thinking. alison was as much engaged as he. would she listen to him, and would she pass over it in the younger, more manly looking brother? human nature is strangely full of weakness as well as strength; and as these thoughts crowded through neil elthorne's brain, it was of the woman he was thinking, not of nurse elisia, toward whom for the past two years he had looked up, almost with veneration as well as love. it was the weak woman, not the self-denying, unwearied, patient being who glided from bedside to bedside, assuaging pain and whispering hope and calming words. nurse elisia with her saint-like face was no longer in his thoughts. they were filled by the beautiful woman who preferred his brother to him, and, with a hoarse cry of rage and despair, he strode away, his hands clenched, his brow rugged, and the veins in his temples swollen and throbbing. for he was realising for the first time in his life the true meaning of the words "jealous hate"; but through it all there was a glimmering of satisfaction that he was not about to meet his brother on his way, and he shuddered as he thought that sooner or later they must encounter after all. chapter eighteen. a sore little heart. neil elthorne was in his father's room when nurse elisia returned from her walk, looking agitated and strange. he had found the old man fretful and impatient, full of complaints about the way in which he was neglected by those who ought, he said, to respect and love him all the more for his illness. "you all have an idea that i am weak and helpless," he cried; "but it is a mistake. i am a little weak, but quite able to manage the affairs of my house." "of course you are, sir," said neil. elthorne turned upon him fiercely. "don't speak to me again like that, sir," he cried. "do you think i want to be humoured like a child?" neil made no reply, but let his father finish his complaint, knowing that he would drop asleep afterward, and awaken refreshed and forgetful of all he had said. he was sleeping peacefully as a child when the nurse entered the room, to stop near the door as she saw that neil was present. "has mr elthorne wanted me, sir?" she said, ignoring the scene which had taken place a short time before. "no; and if he had," replied neil bitterly, "he would have been quite willing to wait until you had kept your appointment." the words seemed to come in spite of neil's efforts to stay them; and as he finished the blood tingled in his cheeks, and he mentally writhed as he saw the look of calm, cold contempt directed at him. "it was mr elthorne's wish, and your own, that i should go for a walk, sir," she said gravely. "to meet my brother?" she gazed at him half sorrowfully. "i certainly did meet your brother, sir," she said; and then stopped short as if scorning to offer any explanation to him, while he stood with his teeth set, wishing that he could have bitten off his tongue before he had stooped to make himself so contemptible and petty in her eyes. there was a pause for a few moments, and then the nurse spoke. "mr elthorne," she said, "will you be good enough to set me free? another nurse could do my duties, and i wish now to return to the hospital." "return? you know it is impossible," he said. "the consequences to my father would be most serious. you know that as well as i." she turned to the patient, and looked at him sadly for a few moments. "you need not be afraid," he said coldly. "i shall not address you again. it was a mad dream, and is at an end. i have been awakened at last." he left the room, feeling as if he could hardly contain his anger as he asked himself whether other men could be as weak, and if this was all the strength of mind and dignity he had achieved by his years of patient study. "i spoke to her like some spiteful schoolgirl," he muttered, as he reached the library, and then threw himself into a chair. "what must she have thought? how could i lower myself so in her eyes?" he had hardly left his father's room when there was a quick, soft tap at the door, and as the nurse rose to open it, isabel appeared. her eyes were red as if she had been weeping lately, and she made a few hurried steps toward the couch, and then turned angrily upon the nurse, as a hand was laid upon her arm. "how dare you?" she cried. "i must and i will speak to papa." "i dare," said nurse elisia, smiling, "because he must not be awakened suddenly." "you always say that," cried isabel; but she lowered her voice. "i must--i will speak to him now." "hush, my child!" whispered nurse elisia; "you are angry and hysterical from some trouble. do not blame me, dear. you know it is my duty to watch over him and save him from every shock." "but you try to keep us apart. you try to be mistress here in everything. you try to--" "no, no, no," said nurse elisia gently, as she passed her arm about the excited girl's waist, and drew her toward the other door, while isabel struggled to free herself, but only faintly, and as if a stronger will was mastering hers. "come with me to my room," was whispered in her ear, and then, sobbing weakly, she suffered herself to be led through the other door into the little place devoted to the nurse, where she sank into an easy-chair, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed as if her heart would break. nurse elisia stood gazing down at her pityingly for a few moments, and then sank upon her knees and drew the half resisting little figure toward her, as it was evident that poor isabel was fighting hard to keep from bursting out into a paroxysm of hysterical cries. "my poor motherless child!" she whispered; "what have i done that you should insist upon treating me as your enemy?" "always--if i wish to go to papa--" panted isabel with childish vehemence. "no, no, no, my darling," whispered the nurse, as if she were trying to soothe some passionate child. "if you think a moment you will see that i only obey my orders. it is to give him perfect rest that nature may strengthen and restore him to you, his child. come, come, tell me--what is the great trouble? you cannot understand, but i want to be your friend." "you--you!" cried isabel, looking up angrily, as she wrested herself away, and her eyes flashed; but as she gazed on the patient face so close to hers, and saw that the beautiful eyes which looked pityingly in hers were also clouded with tears, her mood changed, and she flung her arms about the nurse's neck, and buried her face in her breast. "i am so wretched--so unhappy!" she cried. "yes, yes, as if i could not see and feel it," whispered elisia. "there, there," she continued, as she drew the yielding form closer to her breast, and smoothed and caressed the soft, fair hair, till isabel's sobs grew fewer, and she looked up half wonderingly, and then clung to her more tightly as elisia bent down and kissed her lovingly. "there," she whispered, "was that the kiss of an enemy?" "no, no, no," cried isabel. "i did not mean it. i tried not to say it, but you seem to--seem to--oh, pray don't think of what i said!" "i shall not. i did not mind, for i felt that some day you would know the truth. how could you think that i would be anyone's enemy! it is my misfortune that i am not liked. i have tried to satisfy your aunt, but she resents my presence here." "yes," said isabel naively, as she clung more closely to her comforter. "she thinks you are taking her place, and that--" she stopped short. "yes, dear," said her companion gently; "and--what?" "i cannot tell you." "then i will tell you, dear," said elisia sadly. "she thinks that i am a deceitful, scheming woman, who tries to lead your brothers astray from the path your father has mapped out for them." "yes," said isabel faintly. "how did you know?" elisia smiled. "because i am a woman who has seen much of the world, though i am not so very much older than you. isabel dear," she whispered, as she held the girl's cheek close to her own, which now burned, "i want you to trust me. i want you to believe me when i tell you that it is not true." "i do believe you," cried isabel ingenuously, as she turned and kissed her. "indeed--indeed i do." "i know it, and i feel as if you would always have liked me, only there has been this baseless misunderstanding. now that is all past, dear, and you are going to trust me. tell me what is the trouble." isabel shook her head. "there is no need. forgive me if i trespass on delicate ground, dear, and say that it is because this little heart is very sore." isabel tried to escape, but very feebly, and the sore little heart began to throb as she was held firmly to another which beat more rapidly than was its wont. "i cannot help understanding a good deal," was whispered to her gently. "i have not sought to know, but it has come to me. come, dear, be frank, and let me help you as one who loves you. yes," she continued, as she saw the wondering look directed at her; "the little heart is sore because of tender little passages with one who is now crossing the seas." "oh!" sighed isabel, who fluttered a little as if to escape. "yes; that is so," whispered the nurse; "and now, with poor papa's wishes to back it up, there has come temptation in the way." "temptation?" "yes, dear, with a title and wealth; and is the heart core because it is yielding to circumstances, and trying to forget the absent one who will not be forgotten?" "yes," sighed isabel, "and it is so hard." "harder for him to return, and see the girl he loved my lady burwood." "but he shall not," cried isabel passionately. "i would sooner die!" "ah!" a long drawn, catching sigh, but not of agony, for there was a restful satisfaction in its tone, and for a few minutes there was utter silence in the room. "then you do not care for sir cheltnam's tender words?" said elisia at last. "no, no! i hate him!" cried the girl. "he knows so well about poor tom, and he laughs at it all, and says it was a boy and girl love, and that this is my father's wish." "yes?" "and no matter what i say, or how i behave, he persecutes me with his addresses. it is dreadful. poor papa has promised him that i shall be his wife, and he treats me as if i were his own--as if he were my master--till i feel as if i wish i were dead." "so as to break the poor trusting sailor's heart?" "no, no, no," cried isabel piteously; "don't, don't say that." "then never say those foolish, wicked words again, dear." "but i am so wretched," sighed isabel. "i have wanted again and again to see and talk to papa--to beg him to speak to sir cheltnam, and tell him that i have tried so hard to do what he wishes, but that i cannot-- indeed, i cannot--though he has set his mind upon it all just as he has upon my brothers marrying saxa and dana lydon and--and," she cried passionately, "they don't care for them a bit." there was another long pause, during which isabel wept bitterly. "what shall i do?" she cried at last, gazing piteously in the other's face. "wait, dear." "but sir cheltnam?" "you must try and avoid him till your father has recovered his strength, and can bear to hear adverse matters." "but if i saw him, and spoke to him gently, and appealed to him?" "in his condition anything like opposition might bring on a serious attack, dear. even trifles make him so angry that your brother fears he may sometime have a fit. he is in a very precarious state, isabel, and a serious matter like this might--i hardly dare tell you what might happen. come; you said you would trust me. i will help you." "but sir cheltnam? my aunt thinks she is doing right, and encourages him to come and torture me. what shall i do?" "wait and trust to me?" "but it so hard." "hush! there is someone in the next room." elisia rose, and entered the bedchamber. "oh, you are there," said aunt anne shortly. "i am quite sure that my poor brother ought not to be left alone so long." "i was in the next room, madam, and if he had spoken a word i should have heard him directly," said the nurse softly. "it does not seem like it, for i have been here some time." "excuse me, mrs barnett, mr elthorne must not be awakened suddenly." "what do you mean?" "speak lower, if you please, ma'am." "really!" cried aunt anne, "this is growing insufferable! my good woman, you quite forget your position here. are you aware that i am your senior by many years, and have had great experience in a sick room?" "possibly, madam. i am not doubting what you say. i am only going by the instructions i received from sir denton hayle. mr elthorne must be saved from everything likely to produce a nervous shock." aunt anne looked her up and down with indignant scorn, and then marched--it could hardly be called walking, the movement was so mechanical and studied-- straight to the door, and went out without a word. "poor woman!" said nurse elisia, softly; "and yet she is a sweet, amiable lady at heart." she went back to the dressing room to tell isabel that her aunt had gone, but the room was empty. chapter nineteen. maria causes trouble. "for two pins i'd have our things packed up and go back at once, dan; that i would," cried saxa lydon, as she stood before the long cheval glass in the best bedroom at the elthornes'. "here, you, give me that pin off the dressing table." the first words were in a low tone to her sister, the latter to maria bell, who was playing the part of lady's maid to the two visitors dressing for dinner; but from a keen interest in the state of affairs, maria's ears were preternaturally sharp, and she heard the first words as well. a handsome diamond pin was fetched and handed to the speaker, who thrust it into the knot of abundant hair, where it glistened like so much dew. "the place doesn't seem the same," said dana, who had finished dressing and lay back in a chair, arranging and rearranging the folds of her dress. "hold your tongue," whispered her sister. "we don't want everyone to know." she looked significantly at the maid, who, with a most discreet air, ignored everything and went on folding and hanging up dresses in the wardrobe. "i don't care who hears!" said dana. "i'm sick of it. i wouldn't have come if it hadn't been for the poor old man." "nor i," said saxa, whose anger was getting the better of her discretion. "anyone would think we were perfect strangers; why, burwood is ten times as attentive." "to you," said dana spitefully. "no, he is not; it is to you. if i were you, i'd give master alison such a lesson to-night! i'd flirt with burwood till i made him half mad with jealousy." "that's the advice i was thinking of giving you," said dana with a sneer. "he is always at your heels, or wanting to help you mount or dismount." "oh, come, i like that," said saxa, whose face was now scarlet, and she frowned as she gazed at her sister's reflection in the glass instead of at her own and the bracelets she was attaching to her well-shaped arms. "he was riding by your side all day yesterday." "look here," said dana coldly, "if you want to quarrel send away the maid. i don't want burwood. you can have him." "thank you. but you might tell the truth." "don't be a fool!" said dana, and then, hurriedly, "hush! don't let's quarrel here. but it's too bad; anyone would think we were nobody at all, and that the boys were not at home." "don't be a fool yourself," whispered saxa, leaning forward and offering a cut glass bottle. then, aloud, "scent?" and again, in a low voice, "that minx's ears are like a fox's." "thanks," said dana, taking the bottle and using it liberally. "here, what's-your-name? maria, have a drop of scent?" "oh, thank you, miss," cried the maid eagerly. "no; don't take it now," said saxa, replacing the scent on the table. "you may empty the bottle when you pack up our things to-morrow." "oh, thank you, miss lydon." "got quite well and strong again?" "yes, miss, quite, thank you." "it was this nurse who attended you, wasn't it--at the hospital?" "yes, miss," said maria, tightening her lips and looking vicious. "hallo!" said dana, laughing boisterously. "look at her, saxa. i say, used she to drink your port wine and eat your new laid eggs?" "oh, i don't know what she did, miss," said maria, in a tone of voice which seemed to say, "ask me a little more." "there, i'm nearly ready," said saxa, examining herself in the glass. "i suppose the dinner bell will go directly. maria doesn't like nurse. she's too much of the fine madam--eh, 'ria?" "yes, miss, a deal too much for me." "never mind; she made a better job of you than of the old man. he gets well very slowly." "perhaps nurse knows when she is in a comfortable place, and doesn't want to go back to london," said maria tartly. "very likely," said saxa coolly. "no love lost between you two, i see." "no, miss lydon, indeed there is not." "pity," said saxa laconically. "servants ought to be very happy together." "i don't look upon nurse elisia as a fellow-servant, miss, and i'm sure she doesn't as to me." "likely enough. thinks she is too pretty. there, 'ria, shall i do?" and saxa spread out her dress, and swept across the room and back. "well done, female peacock!" cried dana sneeringly. "you look lovely, miss," cried maria. "pretty?" she continued. "her pretty? p-f-f! why, she's nothing to you two young ladies, only i suppose some people think differently." "eh?" said dana sharply. "what do you mean by that?" "oh, nothing, miss; only i do say it's a pity some people think so much of white faced nurses." "'ria has a sweetheart, and he has been making eyes at the nurse and wishing he was an interesting invalid," said saxa merrily. "oh, no indeed, miss," cried maria viciously; "but if i had, it isn't me as would have such goings on." "ah, well, it isn't my business," said saxa carelessly. "somebody has been paying her attentions then, i suppose; and nurses like them as other people do." maria tightened her lips and said nothing, but dana looked flushed and excited. "look here," she said sharply, as if she were speaking to one of her grooms, "what does all this mean?" "oh, nothing, miss; it isn't for me to say, only i don't like to see such goings on." "what goings on?" "oh, nothing, miss." "but--" "let her alone, dana. what is it to you?" "but i want to know," cried dana sharply, for a faint suspicion had been in her brain for some weeks past consequent upon a sudden change she had noted in alison; and this suspicion, increased by the maid's words, was rapidly growing into a certainty. "well, want to know," said her sister. "i say, why doesn't that dinner bell ring? i'm hungry." "look here, maria; i've always been kind to you when i've come here," said dana excitedly. "yes, miss, always," said maria. "and i always will be, and so will my sister." "that means half a sovereign, 'ria," said saxa merrily. "don't you let her put you off with a paltry half crown." "then tell me what you mean." "oh, i couldn't, miss; i couldn't, indeed." "then there is something," said dana, "and--you shall tell me," she cried fiercely, as, in an amazonlike fashion, she gripped the woman's arm. "now then, you tell me. it's something about the nurse and--" "miss dana, please don't. i'm so weak still," pleaded maria. "there, you as good as owned to it. what is it?" "it's nothing, miss. i only sus--fancied something." "then speak out," cried dana, sharply. "i will know before you go out of this room. then it was them i saw across the park," she exclaimed excitedly. maria's eyes twinkled. "you were thinking something about mr alison?" "o dan, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" cried saxa. "ought i? never mind. it was what i suspected, but i wouldn't let myself believe it. now, maria, you speak out. i will know now." "i dursn't, miss." "you tell me directly, or it will be the worse for you and for him." "i'm sure i don't know nothing, miss," said maria, whimpering, "and you are hurting my arm." "and i'm sure you do," cried dana, loosening her grip and tearing off her glove. "there," she said, taking off a ring set with good-sized pearls, "tell me everything and i'll give you that." maria turned pale with excitement, and her right hand opened and shut. "i dursn't, miss," she whispered hoarsely. "it's more than my place is worth." "if anything comes of what you tell you shall be maid to us, so speak out honestly. there, take the ring." "dana, i'm ashamed of you," whispered saxa, as maria's fingers closed upon the valuable jewel. "it's disgraceful." "i don't care. he's playing fast and loose with me, and i'm not going to put up with it, so i tell you. now then, i'll speak plainly, maria, and you've got to speak plainly, too. mr alison has been making up to that nurse!" "you won't tell on me, miss?" whispered maria, in whose palm the ring seemed to burn as if the chaste, pale pearls were fiery rubies. "no; i'll hold you safe." "then it is true, miss. he's always after her, and has been ever since she came." "you lying hussy!" cried saxa hotly. "if i were my sister i'd lash you with my riding whip--i mean shake you till you went down on your knees and owned it was out of spite." "lying hussy, am i?" cried maria viciously, "when every word's true, and that isn't all, miss; mr neil's as bad or worse." there was a sharp sound in the room, for saxa had flashed up with rage and struck the woman sharply across the mouth with the back of her hand. "a lie!" she cried. "mr neil elthorne would not degrade himself by noticing such a woman." "a lie, is it?" cried maria, with her hand to her lips. "then you shall have it now without paying me for it. it's a lie, i suppose, that he was going on with her all the time i was in hospital, and when he was down here and obliged to stay because of poor master's hurt--plotted and planned to get her down here, too? that's a lie, i suppose, miss? i'm not blind. i've seen a deal too much, and if that woman isn't soon turned out of the house i'm not going to stop." "it--is--not--true," cried saxa hoarsely. "and poor dear master lying there all helpless, and being cheated by 'em both. it's shameful; and how you young ladies can put up with it--" "it can't be true," said saxa furiously. "very well, miss, you know best," said maria; "but i'm not going to stay here to be knocked about by the best lady as was ever born." "stop!" cried saxa fiercely; and she caught the malignant woman's arm as she was making for the door. "i--i beg your pardon. tell me, is all this true?" "yes, miss, it's true enough," said maria, beginning to sob; and then, as her arm was loosened, she made for the door, trembling and frightened at what she had said in her bitter dislike to the woman who had almost saved her life. "you had better go," said dana, who was startled at the change which had come over her sister's face. maria waited for no more, but, repentant in her alarm, hurried out of the room, leaving the sisters alone. just then the great bell in the turret over the hall began to clang out its summons for dinner. chapter twenty. "very bad news." "saxa! what is it? i say, don't stand looking in that stony way," cried dana, seizing and shaking her sister by the shoulder. "don't, dan," she said in a low, hoarse voice. "but you look so strange." "yes; i've come a cropper," said saxa, with a hard, set look in her handsome face. "is--is it all true?" "yes," said dana fiercely. "i can think of a dozen things now which go to prove it. i've had a faint suspicion for some time." "i hadn't," said saxa in the same low tone. "i did not think he cared much for me, but i thought him too much of a gentleman, and too loyal." "they have both neglected us shamefully." "yes, sis, they have," continued saxa slowly, "but i didn't mind so very much. i never cared for him a deal. i never felt that it was what people called love, but one has gone on for years with the idea that one was to marry neil elthorne, and i feel now as if i had come down heavily all at once, horse and all." "yes; they've fooled us both," cried dana, and there was a deep silence in the house now, for the dinner bell had ceased to clang. "what are you going to do? we can't go in to dinner now." "do?" "yes, we can't pass this over in silence." "no," said saxa slowly, and as if she were thinking out her words before she spoke them. "i'm going in to poor old daddy to tell him how we've been thrown off the scent." "it will half kill him." "no, it will rouse him, i say. he shall know everything we have heard, and then we shall have the truth from those boys. oh, if i had only known before!" she drew herself up--pale now--with wounded pride, and the agony of spirit which made her speak through her set teeth. there was a sharp tapping at the door. "may i come in?" cried a familiar girlish voice. "yes," said dana; and isabel came quickly into the room. "come, you two," she cried. "we're waiting dinner. oh, i see," she added merrily; "dress. saxa! dana! what is the matter? have you had bad news?" "yes, baby dear," said saxa solemnly; "very, very bad news." "oh!" cried the girl wildly, as she turned ghastly pale. "news! tom's ship?" she reeled and would have fallen, but saxa caught her, and kissed her affectionately. "no, no, little one," she cried hastily. "it isn't that." "ah!" gasped isabel, "i thought--then you two are in trouble." "yes, dear. who is with daddy?" "with papa? only the nurse." "go and send her away, little one. we must go in and speak to him quite alone." "then it is some great trouble." "yes, dear. you will know quite soon enough. now go." isabel, who had looked upon them both as elder sisters, whom she must obey, almost from a child, left the room without a word. "will it be best to go to him, saxa?" said dana hoarsely. "yes; we may be girls who have been laughed at through the country for our love of horses and the hunt," said saxa firmly, "but we have always been ladies, and we will show these men that we are not to be treated as if we were already their wives and slaves." "papa is quite alone now, saxa," said isabel, reappearing at the door. "o saxa, dear--dana--can't i do anything for you?" "no, dear," said the elder sister gravely, "it is not your fault." "nurse said you must please not say anything to agitate papa," said isabel gently. saxa looked at her half pityingly, and then went slowly out, followed by her sister. "nurse!" she muttered in a contemptuous whisper, as she went along the corridor to mr elthorne's door. "o dan, quick; let's take the leap, and have it over, for, after all, it can't be true." she turned the handle of the door, and a cry of welcome arose from the couch. "ah, my bonnie dianas," cried the old man; "this is good of you to come and see me before you go down. why, how bright and handsome you both look." saxa went straight up to the couch, took the two hands extended to her, and bent down and kissed the sufferer; and for the first time now the hardness of her task became plain, and she began to shrink from hurting the poor weak invalid, lying so helpless there. "dana, my pet," he said, kissing the younger sister in turn; and then excitedly: "why your hands are damp and cold. what is it? there is something wrong." they looked at each other as if to say--"you tell him." ralph elthorne saw it, and his facial muscles twitched, and an angry look came into his eyes, but he passed it off with a forced smile. "now, now," he cried; "none of that, my dears. it's nothing. we've had many a run together, and i've only had a fall. don't you two begin any of that nonsense. i was a bit hurt, but i'm ralph elthorne still: daddy to you, my darlings, in name only yet, but it's going to be real before long, you know. i'm not ill, only a bit crippled for the present. i'm not an invalid, my dears, so out with it--what is it?" there were words in his little speech which made their task more difficult still, and they glanced at each other again. "come, saxa," he cried--"come, dana, let's have it. you don't want to make me angry?" "no, no," cried saxa, and she sank upon her knees by him, and laid her head upon his shoulder. "then speak out. there's something serious on the way. ah, i see! isabel! she has not gone--absurd! she was here just now." "no, no, sir; it is not that." "hah!" he ejaculated. "she would not dare. well, then, what is it? you, dana, speak, my child." dana was silent, and he turned angrily upon saxa. "you are the elder girl. tell me at once. i know: it is something about one of the boys." "he must know, dan; speak out," said saxa firmly. "why do you put it on my shoulders?" cried dana angrily. "very well, then, if i must. daddy, it isn't my fault, but that's all over now." "what is, my girl?" "all that with alison; and we've come to say good-bye. we are going back home." "what?" he cried. "nonsense! rubbish! some silly lovers' tiff. what has he said to you? bah, my pretty one! go down and box his ugly ears, and make him beg your pardon; you can do it, i know." "and is saxa to do the same?" she said bitterly. "what! you are not in trouble, too, with neil?" saxa was silent. ralph elthorne made an effort to raise himself, but his head fell back heavily, and he uttered a low moan at his helplessness and wiped his face. "look here," he said in a low trembling voice; "i know you two girls love me, and always have, since you were little bits of things, and it all increased when your poor dying father and mother begged me to act as your guardian. come, now; i've done my duty to you both." "always, dear," said saxa tenderly. "then now, both of you do your duty by me. you, saxa, my child, speak. you came here to stay for a day or two. i wished it so that you and the boys might see more of each other. i see; you have quarrelled." "not yet," said the girl firmly. "there is no need to quarrel; all that is at an end." "what?" "yes, at an end, guardian," said dana. "if alison prefers another woman to me, he may have her." "alison? another woman? has he dared to trifle with you? to oppose my wishes? no; it is a mistake. and you, saxa, my girl--what is wrong with you?" "i say the same as my sister, sir. if neil elthorne prefers to marry your nurse, let him; everything between us is at an end." ralph elthorne's jaw dropped, and he looked helplessly, vacantly, from one to the other. then, raising his hands wildly, he seemed to be fighting for his breath, his convulsed features horrifying the two girls, who were strong-minded in their way, and accustomed enough to scenes of human suffering to look on unmoved, as a rule. but the aspect of their guardian startled them; the callousness produced by their rough, outdoor education dropped away, and they were gentle women once again in the presence of the old man's agony. "i'll ring for help," panted dana, and in her confusion she ran to the wrong end of the room to find the bell pull, while saxa threw herself on her knees by the couch, and caught one of the fluttering hands. "oh, daddy! dear old daddy!" she cried, "what have we done?" then excitedly, "dan, we were selfish fools to speak. dear, dear old guardy--we've killed you!" chapter twenty one. a forced confession. "no, no!" panted elthorne, in a low, husky voice. "stop! don't ring! better--soon." he held up one hand firmly now, and dana turned uneasily toward the other side of the couch. "let her call for help, dear," whispered saxa. "no," said the stricken man feebly, as he battled hard to recover his equanimity; and the sisters trembled, repentant, over their work. "water, please." dana flew to the side table, and the hand trembled so that the carafe clattered against the glass she filled, and the water splashed over the side and on her rich dress as she bore it to the couch. "take it, saxa," she whispered, and the kneeling girl held the glass to the invalid's lips. "hah!" he sighed, after drinking a little, and signing to his ward to take back the vessel. "i can speak now." "no, no, dear; not now. we ought not to have spoken to you," said saxa, pressing her lips to his brow. "it was very thoughtless, but we were so angry and could not keep it back." he nodded, looked at her proudly, and drew her hand to his lips. "good girl!" he said. "i'm not angry; only weak. hush! wait a little." "yes," said dana quickly. "we'll go now, and write in a few days." "no. wait," said the old man in a low voice, but one full of decision. "i must clear all this up. you cannot go." they waited for some minutes before he spoke again, thinking the while of the terrible helplessness of the man who had for so many years ruled like a king in their district, and who, even now, was fighting hard to sway his social sceptre still. "hah!" he ejaculated at last. "absurd to be so weak. better now. it was sudden." "daddy, dear," said saxa tenderly, "don't revive it. let it all wait." "no; not a minute," he said with decision. "i'm strong again now." he stretched out a hand to each, and smiled at them in turn. "there," he said; "it's quite a triumph for you girls to see how weak a man can be. now, then; let's clear all this up--this absurd nonsense about the boys." "you can't bear it now, daddy," said saxa, with tears in her eyes. "i can bear it, little woman. now, come, my darlings, what silly jealous nonsense is this you have got in your pretty heads? but i'm glad--very glad. you can both be very soft and gentle, i see, when the proper time comes. but fie! saxa. shame! dana. it is madness. neil? the nurse? why, my darling, i did not think you could be so fond of my great, solemn, dreamy boy. but--jealous--and of my good, patient, gentle attendant! oh, tush! nonsense!" he laughed feebly, looking from one to the other, as if seeking for a confession that their charge was only the result of a little pique due to inattention on the part of his sons. but saxa and dana remained by his couch, stern and hard of countenance; and as he watched the frowns gathering on their brows the feeble laugh died away, and his right hand began to tremble again. "speak," he said at last, after a painful pause, and he fixed his eyes on the elder sister, whose voice sounded deep and sonorous as she said slowly: "i'm sorry i spoke, dear," she said. "it was in my passion." "and it is all folly," said elthorne hastily. "no, daddy," cried saxa, with a flash of mortified pride in her eyes; "it is all too true." "what!" cried elthorne, turning his eyes on dana. "yes," said the latter, repeating her sister's words; "it is all too true." "it has been going on for months past," continued saxa. "at the hospital in london, dear," added dana, "as well as here." ralph elthorne drew in his breath with a sharp, hissing sound, and lay back staring straight before him, but the sisters, in their returning anger, paid no heed to the change in his countenance, as a spasm passed over it, but left him calm and firm again. "i wouldn't have believed it," cried saxa, "but i must--i must. it is true." "what? neil? my boy neil?" said elthorne hoarsely. "my quiet, obedient, straightforward son, whose word every man trusts? and nurse elisia? i will not believe it." "very well, daddy," said saxa gravely. "you will see." "bah! nonsense, girl. someone has been poisoning your ears against as true and good a woman as ever breathed." saxa rose slowly from her knees, and stood gazing frowningly down in his eyes, as the old man went on in stern tones of reproof. "shame on you, saxa! my boy neil is too noble and high-minded to even dream of such a thing. he--the great surgeon who is growing famous! why, it would be a crime against you, and an insult to his father. my darling, you should not let such a degrading notion harbour in your brain." the girl's stern look intensified. "there, my child," he continued, "i'll speak gently to you. she is a dear good woman, this nurse, and of course poor neil has been thrown with her a great deal--as doctor and nurse, of course. come, my dear, let it go. i tell you, as his father, it is not true. and now you, dana--have you caught the complaint? has al laughed and joked with one of the keepers' daughters?" "no, sir, but he has made and kept assignations with nurse elisia in the woods." "what? it is not true, girl. i could--no, no, i will not be angry. i must not; but i am angry with you, my dears, and yet i'm not, for i'm glad to see more depth in your affection for the boy than has been apparent on the surface. tell me now: you have not accused them--made this silly, reckless charge?" "it is of no use to beat about the bush, daddy," said saxa sadly. "we have not seen the boys; and we will not see them, dear. we are going back home at once." "you are not going back home at once," cried their guardian, "and you are going to see them. dana, ring the bell." "no, no, sir," said saxa, "there is no need to get up a scene. we'll go away quietly at once." "ring that bell!" "but, daddy--dear guardian--mr elthorne!" cried saxa imploringly. "ring that bell, i say," cried ralph elthorne, with the veins starting in his temples and his face becoming purple. "do you think i am going to lie here and let my two boys be maligned by that silly piece of scandal you hare-brained girls have got in your heads? my son neil would not degrade himself like that. my boy alison would not be such a scoundrel. ring, i say, ring, and they shall confront you, both of them, and tell you it is a lie." "very well," cried dana, and she gave the bell a sharp snatch. "who has told you this--one of the servants?" before he could be answered the two doors of the room flew open, nurse elisia entering hurriedly by one, neil by the other. neither spoke; they read the trouble at a glance. "where is alison?" said ralph elthorne, speaking as if his son were a little boy about to be punished. "fetch him here." "my dear father," said neil firmly, "you are exciting yourself. i must insist--" "fetch alison." the command was so fiercely given that, seeing it would be better to comply than oppose his father and, perhaps, bring on some terrible seizure, neil frowned and withdrew, while his father turned to nurse elisia. "go to your room now," he said. "i will speak to you presently. my sons first." "mr elthorne--for your own sake--pray be calm." "to your room," he cried hoarsely. "wait." the nurse looked wildly from one sister to the other, and a pang of jealousy shot through them as they saw it was no common woman who had stepped between them and the smooth, even course of their fate. then, after another imploring glance at elthorne, she slowly left the room. there was a deep silence, only broken by the heavy, stertorous breathing of the invalid, till steps were heard, the door was opened, and the brothers entered, neil closing the door behind them. "come here," said elthorne, in an unnaturally calm voice, as if it were the father speaking to two erring boys. the young men advanced, and, after a quick glance, neil said firmly: "as your medical attendant, sir, i must insist upon your being perfectly calm." "as your father, sir, i insist upon your waiting till i have spoken. i know my strength better than you can tell me." neil made a deprecating sign, and moved to the other side of the couch, looking sorrowfully at saxa, who met his eyes for a moment, and then scornfully averted her own. "now, alison," said elthorne slowly, and in a voice that sounded wonderfully composed. "yes, sir, what is it?" replied alison quietly, and at that moment the brothers' eyes met and an angry look was directed at the elder. "this, my son: you are engaged to marry dana lydon." "am i?" said the young man scornfully, and he gazed at her now defiantly, while neil's heart sank in his breast with a terrible feeling of despair. "yes, sir, you are," said his father firmly. "at my wish. it is an old engagement, and i have just heard a charge against you of insulting this lady by attempting to carry on a contemptible flirtation with a woman serving as a menial in this house. tell dana it is not true." there was no reply. "tell dana lydon, the lady to whom you are engaged, that it is not true." still there was no reply. "do you hear me, sir?" thundered ralph elthorne, and neil took a step forward in alarm, as he saw the change in his father's countenance, but the old man fiercely motioned him back. "i am not a boy," said alison haughtily, "and i reserve to myself the right to marry whom i please." "that is not an answer, sir," cried elthorne sharply. "i say, is the charge true?" "ask me when we are alone, sir. i refuse to be cross-examined and treated like a school-boy before the misses lydon." ralph elthorne's brow grew black with rage, and neil again pressed forward till his father motioned him back. "father! for heaven's sake, be calm," he whispered. "silence, sir!" roared elthorne, whose aspect now was startling to those who watched him and trembled for the end. "i am fighting, weak as i am, for the honour of my house--for the honour of my two sons, to prove to these ladies that they have been tricked and cheated by a contemptible, false report. this obstinate fool refuses to clear himself, but you, my boy--my eldest son--you are a gentleman. you will not let any weak vanity prevent you from speaking out and proving to saxa here--your betrothed--that a miserable, lying scandal has been set afoot. that you are not one--you, the student and man of reputation--to degrade yourself by stooping to a pitiful intrigue which would disgrace you and me in the eyes of your betrothed. come, let us end this painful scene. speak out, and then take my child saxa's hand, and she shall humble herself to you and ask your pardon for doubting you, as i know she will." "yes," said saxa, as he turned to her, and she fixed her eyes firmly upon neil, "as i will directly, neil elthorne." "there," said the father. "you hear, sir? now, then, speak out and deny it." "deny what?" said neil slowly. "that for a long time past you have been carrying on a contemptible flirtation--bah! the wretched word!--that you have been behaving toward nurse elisia as the man does to the woman he means to make his wife. i have told saxa that it is not true." neil remained motionless, forgetting his position on his intense dread regarding his father's state. "come!" said the old man; "this needs no hesitation. speak out." still neil remained silent, with something seeming to murmur in his ear: "deny it. if you speak the truth you will kill him. he could not bear it. she does not love you--she cares for your brother. you must not own the truth and disgrace yourself forever in saxa lydon's eyes." "neil!" he remained silent still, and the voice seemed to whisper again: "deny it. the avowal will kill him. you know that in his state it would be his death. you must not--you cannot speak." "once more i ask you, boy, to clear yourself before your betrothed. tell her it is a lie." the change was so terrible in the old man's face that saxa uttered a low cry. "no, no!" she said. "neil! look at him. look!" "silence, girl," cried the old man hoarsely, and with his face working. "father, for heaven's sake," said neil, bending over him; but the old man waved him back, and he shrank away, ignorant of the fact that saxa's cry had brought nurse elisia to the door, where she stood appalled at the old man's aspect. "tell saxa it is a lie." "i cannot, sir," said neil firmly. "you force from me the truth." "what!" panted elthorne. "it would be deceiving saxa lydon, and lying against elisia, the woman i love hopelessly, but with all my heart." "you have killed him!" chapter twenty two. "the woman is a witch." it was saxa lydon who said those words, for the old man's face became suddenly convulsed; his head dropped back, and, as neil sank on one knee and passed his arm beneath the neck, it turned sidewise, with the eyes seeming to gaze reproachfully into his, but there was neither sight nor understanding then. the grey dawn was creeping into the room when ralph elthorne recovered consciousness, and looked up questioningly in his son's face. but he did not speak for a time, only let his eyes wander about the room, and they saw that he appeared to be noting who were present, his gaze resting long on both his sons, his daughter, sister, and the nurse. at last he spoke. "isabel." she ran to his side, and sank upon her knees. "the girls?" he said feebly. "saxa--dana?" "they went home, papa, dear, about two," whispered isabel; "but don't try to talk, now. look at me, and i'll try to understand what you mean." he took no notice of her prayer, but closed his eyes, and lay apparently thinking, his next words indicating that he recalled what had taken place. "yes," he said gently; "they could not stay here. tell alison and your aunt to go and then you go too." neil advanced just then to watch his father narrowly, but the old man made no sign of anger. he lay quite calm and still, as if utterly exhausted, but his son noted that he watched until aunt anne and alison had gone, when he unclosed his eyes fully, and whispered to isabel to leave. "may i not stay, papa? i may be wanted." "no. you have been here all night. kiss me and go--" isabel bent down weeping, pressed her lips on her father's brow, and then left the room, with nurse elisia and neil both watching patiently as the stricken man's eyes remained fast shut. but he was quite conscious, for upon neil approaching the couch after a time, his lips parted. "i am not asleep," he said, gently, "only very weak. you need not both stay." neil looked at his father wonderingly, and with something of dread, the old man seemed so passionless and strange. just then the invalid opened his eyes and gazed full at his son. "i know what i am saying," he said quietly. "i recollect all that has passed, but i am too weak and helpless to speak much. nurse!" she went to his side. "let him stay with me. you can go for an hour or two. i am not going to die--yet." she looked at him keenly, and then at neil, as if to question him, but she did not speak. "the danger is past," he said quietly. "you can safely go for a time." "then set me free, sir," she cried, quickly, her woman's nature asserting itself now above the habit of the passionless trained nurse. "if there were danger, i would stay, but you say it is past; and it is impossible for me to stay here after what has happened." "there is no reason now, madam," said neil coldly. "i am doctor, and you are the nurse. you need not fear that i shall speak again. you cannot leave my father yet." she looked at him wildly, and then, growing momentarily less self-controlled, she avoided his eyes and turned to the invalid, bending down over him gently. "mr elthorne," she said; "you have heard your son's words as regards your state. i cannot stay here now. give me your permission to go." he looked at her sadly, and feebly shook his head. "no, nurse," he whispered huskily. "you cannot go. not yet--not yet." she started, for he raised his hand, took hers and held it while he gazed half wonderingly in her face, as neil, unable to conceal his feelings, hurried away to his own room. "i am not fit to be left, nurse," said ralph elthorne gently. "you know how ill and weak i am." a sob rose in her throat as she tried to be calm, while he gazed intently in her face, scanning each feature. "so weak, so helpless," he muttered, as if to himself, but she heard every word; "and i never thought of this, i never thought of this. yes, anne. you wish to see me?" "yes, dear," said that lady, who had entered now unannounced even by a tap on the door. "yes, ralph. i want to speak to you very particularly." he turned to nurse elisia, and spoke in an apologetic manner, and very feebly. "leave us, please, nurse," he said. "i will talk to you later on." "no, sir," she whispered. "give me leave to go." "not yet, not yet," he replied. "i will lie here and think. it is all so sudden." then, with a sudden flash of his old manner, "no; you are not to go until i give you leave." she glanced at aunt anne, who had ignored her presence entirely, and then she went slowly to the room set apart for her use, asking herself how all this would end, and whether it would not be wiser to leave the house at once, and end the painful position in which she stood. "well, anne, dear," said mr elthorne feebly. "you want to speak to me?" "yes, ralph, i must speak to you now." "speak gently, then, dear; i am much weaker. not so well to-day." "and never will be well again, ralph, with the house in this state," cried aunt anne, ruffling up, and speaking excitedly. "what, what do you mean?" he faltered; and it was like the shadow of his former self speaking. "what do i mean, ralph? i mean that the place has not been the same since that dreadful woman came." "you are wrong, my dear, you are wrong," he said querulously. "so good and attentive to me. i should have been dead before now if it had not been for her." "oh, my dear brother, how can you be so blindly prejudiced! can you not see the woman's cunning and artfulness?" "no, anne, no. she has been very good and kind." "yes; that is it, ralph dear, playing a part. she has won those two foolish boys to think of her only, and insult poor saxa and dana; and now she has ended by winning over poor isabel, who is in a state of rebellion. i have had a terrible scene with her. she actually takes this dreadful woman's part." "poor little isabel!" sighed the sick man. "and she's behaving shamefully to poor sir cheltnam." "ah!" "yes; shamefully, ralph, shamefully." "and you came to tell me that, my dear?" said elthorne quietly. "yes, ralph, and it has come to this." she stopped short, and dabbed her face with her handkerchief. "yes, my dear, it has come to this? tell me. i am tired. i must sleep again." "that this woman, this nurse must leave the house at once." "leave? nurse elisia leave?" said elthorne with a faint smile. "no, my dear, you do not wish to kill me." "heaven forbid, ralph! i will nurse you now, and isabel shall relieve me from time to time." "no, my dear, no," he said gently. "you are very good and kind, but you do not understand." "not understand nursing?" she cried angrily. "not such nursing as i require. no, my dear. she cannot go." "then i shall," cried aunt anne angrily. her brother laughed softly. "no," he said; "you will not go. the house could not exist without you, sister." "am i to keep your house, then, or not, ralph?" "to keep it? of course, dear, as you always have done." "i am mistress here, then?" "yes, my dear, yes." "then that woman goes at once," cried aunt anne emphatically. "no," said ralph elthorne quietly. "but i say yes, ralph. i am mistress of this house, and it is my duty to send her away." "and i am master, dear, feeble and broken as i am. she stays till i bid her go." "ralph, must i tell you everything i know?" "there is no need, sister." "but the woman's antecedents? maria was at the hospital, and saw all her dreadful goings on with the students, and with poor deluded neil." "maria? pish!" said elthorne with a contemptuous smile. "nurse elisia's face tells something different from that, my dear. i would sooner believe her candid eyes than maria bellow's oath." "ralph! has this dreadful woman bewitched you too?" "enough!" he said feebly. "go to your cupboards and your keys, anne. you are a good, true woman, but you have always been as blind and prejudiced as your brother has been overbearing and harsh. this illness has brought me very low, dear, and taught me much. go now, and remember: i owe nurse elisia my life. she is to be treated with respect, and i shall send her away when i think good." "the woman is a witch," muttered aunt anne, as she left the room. chapter twenty three. discussing the past. a fortnight's watching, and the accompaniments of care and skill, had been needed to save ralph elthorne from sinking slowly into his grave. the shock of his seizure had wrought terrible havoc, but the worst was now over, and he was weak, but recovering fast. there had been no further talk of the nurse leaving, and matters had remained in abeyance. sir denton had been down twice and given his instructions, and she had resigned herself to her position--knowing that the invalid depended upon her for everything, refusing even to take his food from other hands, and that if she persisted in her wish to go, the consequences might be terrible. it must have been a terribly lonely life, for she seemed to be avoided by all in the house. she saw neil, of course, frequently in the sick room, but few words passed, and those he uttered with formal respect, as he gave her some instructions. alison she saw from time to time, evidently watching her window, and from him came flowers and fruit daily, maria being the bearer, and setting them down with an insolent sneer, which would have roused one less dignified and patient to some retort. but nurse elisia had her consolations in the progress of the patient and the grateful looks he gave her, while, regularly now, stealing in hurriedly, and as if she were performing some guilty act, a little figure crept in, last thing, to pass its arm about her neck, kiss her, and say "good-night." it was then at the end of a fortnight, and ralph elthorne, terribly changed, but recovering now fast from the shock, lay near the window, while nurse elisia sat close at hand, working, and ready to attend to his lightest wish. he had been lying there very silent since his son's last visit to the room, when he suddenly raised one thin white hand, and beckoned. elisia was at his side in a moment. "what can i get you, sir?" she said gently. "nothing. come and sit here. i want to talk to you." "do you feel strong enough, sir?" "yes." she brought her work and sat near him, but he signed to her to put the work away. "i want to talk to you seriously about the past." she glanced at him quickly, and he went on. "yes--about the past. i have not said a word till now. i have been too weak, and it is only just within the last day or two that i have grasped it all thoroughly." "pray leave it still, sir," she said, with some show of agitation. "no, i must get this all off my mind. now, tell me--you heard what my son said on the day of my seizure--my son neil?" she bowed her head. "well, has he made further advances to you?" "no, sir, we have only spoken in your presence." there was a pause, and then, gazing at her curiously, he continued. "did you--know--what he expressed--before you came down here--at the hospital?" "yes, sir, perfectly well." "ah! then ought you to have come?" "it was my duty sir," she said with animation; "it was sir denton's wish--almost his command; and, knowing what i did, i felt that i might come." "knowing what you did? what was that?" "i could trust myself, sir, to let mr neil elthorne see that what he wished was impossible." "ah, but he offered you his hand?" "yes, sir, and i refused." again there was a pause. "you do not like my son neil?" "like him, sir!" she cried, with her face flushing; "i think him the truest, noblest gentleman i ever met." "ah! and yet, feeling like that, you refused him?" "yes, sir, it is impossible." ralph elthorne lay watching her, and she met his searching gaze without blanching, her soft grey eyes slightly clouded by the tears which rose and gathered till they brimmed over and one great drop slowly trickled down her cheek. "and my son alison?--he was attracted by you too. what of him?" "mr alison elthorne has followed me from the day i came, sir, and proffered his love." "and you have turned a deaf ear to him as well?" "of course, sir," she said coldly. "and he, too, has given up, i suppose?" "no, sir." "it is no more than i expected from such a woman as you, nurse," said elthorne, after another pause. "but there is a reason for all this. forgive me: it is an old and broken man who speaks; there must be a reason." "yes, mr elthorne," she said, and her clear musical voice seemed to fill the room; "there is a reason--a good reason--for all this." "may i know it?" "yes; why not? some women love but once." "ah!" he said, and he took her hand. "then you have loved--in the past?" "yes." she paused in turn, while he waited patiently, expectant that she would continue. "ask me no more, mr elthorne. i gave my trusting, girlish heart to one i believed good and noble, but i was rudely awakened from my dream; and, after a long illness, i devoted myself to the task of trying to help those in sore need of a woman's hand, sometimes to nurse them back to life, sometimes--ah, too often!--to close their eyes in death. ask me no more." he raised her hand reverently to his lips, and then let it fall. "i will ask you no more," he said gently; and they sat in silence for a time. "_l'homme propose, et dieu dispose_," he said at last thoughtfully. "i have spent much of my time in planning, but too often my plans have been brought to naught. nurse, i give up now; i will only try to do what is right while i stay. it will be a grief and will bring more suffering to me, but it is not just to you that i should keep you here." "no, sir. i am waiting patiently, hoping that i may soon be set free to return to my work. you are well enough now to require only the assistance of your child and your sister. give me leave now to go. i would gladly stay longer, but there is no need." "no," he said after a time, "there is no real need. you must go." she rose and stood before him, gazing down at him pityingly, as he lay there, aged by ten years since she came. "good-bye, sir," she said softly. "what!" he cried, "going now?" "better that i should go at once, sir. you will soon become accustomed to another hand. let me take yours once, and thank you for all your kindness. i think you understand me, though i have failed with your sister. good-bye." she held out her hand and he clutched it with both of his, clinging to it spasmodically as his face began to work. "mr elthorne!" she cried, startled by the change. "water," he whispered, and he loosened one hand only as she reached to the table and then held the glass to his lips. "thank you," he whispered; "thank you. i thought i was stronger. hah!" he lay back in silence for a time with his eyes closed, but still retaining one of nurse elisia's hands. at last he opened his eyes. "weak now as some poor fretful child," he whispered. "it came home then when you spoke. it cannot be for long, my child. i am only a poor broken man now, against whom his sons rebel, whose daughter is disobedient, and whose sister is ready to trample him down. don't leave me," he pleaded. "have pity on me, my child. i could not bear it. i-- i should die." nurse elisia looked at him wildly. "no, no," she said hastily. "you feel low and weak to-day. in a short time you will have forgotten all this. i cannot--indeed i cannot stay." but even as she spoke she saw that her patient believed the words he had uttered, and, trembling for the consequences to one in his weak, imaginative state, she hastily promised to give up all thought of going for the present. "thank you--thank you," he said, trembling as he clung to her hand. "you see how weak and childish i am. only such a short time back and i was strong, and people hurried to obey my word or look. now it seems as if everyone were falling away from me--even you." "oh, no," she said soothingly; "and, besides, what am i to you? only the hired nurse." "yes," he said, gazing up at her piteously, "only the hired nurse; and yet you have tended me as if you were my child. but you will stay? you are not trifling with me?" "no, no," she said. "there, it is time you had your sleep." "yes," he cried bitterly, and with a suspicious look in his eyes. "you are treating me as if i were a child. go to sleep, so that i may awake by and by and find you gone." she bent down and laid her hand on his, as she smiled sadly in his face. "have more confidence in me," she whispered. "have i ever deceived you in the slightest thing? i tell you i will stay till you are more fit to leave." he uttered a low sigh and lay with his eyes half closed. "it is so hard to have confidence when one is helpless as i am. people try to cheat me, and say to themselves, `it is for his good.'" "you may trust me, mr elthorne," she said gently, "trust me in everything. sleep now--that is for your good. you shall find me here, or within call, when you awake." he looked at her sharply once, and then closed his eyes, dropping off at once into a heavy sleep which lasted some hours, but to awaken with a sharp start, and a wildly suspicious look around. the chair, where it seemed to him only a minute before he had seen nurse elisia seated, was empty, and he uttered a low, despairing cry. "it is my punishment," he groaned, "for a life of arrogance and pride. it has been a kind of tyranny to them all, and now i am to lie here, helpless, deceived by everyone in turn. my punishment--my punishment! better that i had never awakened to my wretched state." at that moment there was the faint rustling made by a door being softly opened and passing over a thickly piled carpet, and directly after a faint shadow fell across his couch, then another, and there was a faintly heard sob. "hush, dearest; he sleeps more lightly now." ralph elthorne's head was turned away from the speaker, but he knew the gentle voice, and he repeated to himself the words wonderingly, "hush, dearest; he sleeps more lightly now." to whom was nurse elisia speaking so tenderly? the answer came at once. "oh, nurse, dear nurse, is he never to be well and strong again?" the words came from the speaker's heart so full of love and sorrow that there was a stifling sensation in the listener's breast, and when, directly after, he felt warm breath upon his cheek, and a kiss, light almost as the breath itself, his arms clasped isabel to his breast. "papa! papa!" that was all; but as nurse elisia turned away to the window, it seemed to her that father and daughter were closer together in heart than they could have been for years. chapter twenty four. aunt anne harassed. many days had passed, and life went on at hightoft in the same sad way. it was the "master's" desire that the nurse should stay, but there was rebellion among the servants against "master's favourite," and poor aunt anne's breast swelled with anger against her niece, who had ventured to tell her that she was unjust. "but i shall say nothing, isabel, only that some day you will come to me repentant, asking my pardon. i always have been ready to ridicule all superstitious things, and have laughed at table turnings, and talkings, and hypnotisms, and mesmerisms, and all the rest of it, but that woman has something of the sort in her, a kind of power for influencing weak people, for she has literally bewitched you all. if she had lived a hundred years ago, she would have died." "why, of course, aunt dear," said isabel smiling. "it is nothing to make fun of, my dear. she would have either had her toes tied together, and been thrown into a pond, or been burned at the stake. that was the fate of all these witches then." "poor nurse elisia!" said isabel smiling. "i'm glad she did not live then." "maria tells me," continued aunt anne, "that it was just the same at the hospital. that woman used to turn all the other nurses and the students round her little finger; and as for sir denton--well, they may call him a great surgeon, but if ever the carriage overturns, and i am badly hurt, no sir dentons for me. i call him a weak, silly, infatuated old goose. maria only yesterday told me that once--" "aunt anne," said isabel quickly, "does it ever strike you that it is very undignified and degrading to listen to the wretched tattlings of an ignorant, spiteful woman, who returns all nurse elisia's kindness to her by telling falsities and distorting simple matters that happened in the past?" "isabel!" cried aunt anne, starting bolt upright in her chair, "you surprise me!" "do i, aunt?" "yes, you do. you, assuming the tones and manners of your poor father, and speaking to me, the mistress of the house, like that!" "but you are not the mistress of the house, aunt." "i beg your pardon, child. your father has delegated all authority to me, and he renewed the charge only a few weeks back." "then you ought to do your duty, aunt," said isabel. "isabel, you do surprise me, you do indeed!" cried aunt anne, who looked quite aghast at what was, in her eyes, rank rebellion by a child against her authority. "do i, aunt? i am very sorry," replied isabel quietly. "i was only thinking that if i were mistress here, i should consider it my duty to send maria away at once." "and i do not," cried aunt anne. "my idea is that it would be my duty to discharge that dreadful nurse." "but poor auntie cannot," thought isabel, "and consequently she is not sole mistress of the house." "and now, as i have occasion to talk to you, isabel," continued aunt anne, drawing herself up, and gazing very sternly at her niece, "i will not reprove you for your very flippant, disrespectful treatment of your poor father's sister." "oh, auntie dear," cried the affectionate girl, jumping up from her place to go behind the elder lady's chair, and place her arms about her neck. "isabel, i beg you will not do that," said aunt anne. "it is not prompted by genuine affection." "oh, yes, auntie, it's quite true," said isabel. "it cannot be, my dear; but, as i going to say, as i have found it necessary to reprove you, i must remind you that your conduct is not what it should be to your friends saxa and dana." "but, aunt dear, they went off to lucerne without a word to me, and you know that i never felt that they were great friends of mine, in spite of all. they always looked down upon me because i did not care for horses, and dogs, and grooms." "i am not going to say any more about those two poor girls who have been expatriated by your brothers' base conduct." "auntie! it was not base if the boys did not love them." "they did love them, and they do love them, my dear," said aunt anne sternly. "all this is but a passing cloud, spread by that wicked woman, which blinds them. but it was not about that i wished to speak to you." "what, then, auntie?" said isabel, looking at her suspiciously, and thinking of a visit she had paid a few days before to a certain invalid vicar who had lain back in his chair to proudly read aloud portions of a letter he had received by the last mail. "sir cheltnam burwood was here yesterday. now, it is of no use for you to pretend that you did not know he was here, for i am certain that i saw you stealing off down the laurel walk, on the pretence of going to visit some of the poor, and i dare say, if the truth were known, you went to the vicarage." "there was no pretence about it, aunt dear." "but indeed there was, isabel, and _i_ was obliged to entertain him, instead of you. naturally enough, he complained very bitterly of your treatment, and i must say that for a young lady engaged to him it is most icy, almost paralysing." "papa will not persist," thought isabel; "he has grown so kind and loving to me. he will not make me say yes, when he knows that it would break my heart." "now, it is of no use for you to turn sulky, my dear, and take refuge in silence. that is very childish and unbecoming in a girl like you. for you are no longer a child, and if you cannot do what is just and right, you must be taught. i have invited sir cheltnam to dinner on tuesday." "aunt!" "yes, my dear, and i am sure your papa will highly approve of my plan. it is absurd to go on as you do, though your conduct is no worse than your brothers'. i declare, the house is quite wretched: neil shut up always in the library, pretending to study bones, and alison sulking about in the gunroom, and scowling at neil whenever they meet. all i hope is that nothing worse will come of it." "oh, aunt, what could come of it?" said isabel uneasily. "ah, you speak like a child. when you have had my experience of the world and man's angry passions, you too will have fears." "it is all very sad and a great pity," said isabel. "yes, and a greater pity that those two misguided young men's sister should go on as she does, making a devoted friend of the cause of all the mischief." isabel winced. "i'm sure we've quite trouble enough in the house without having a parricide." "auntie! a parricide?" "don't be absurd, isabel. i said a fratricide." "aunt, what a dreadful idea! oh, for shame!" "dreadful enough, my dear, and i'm sure i sincerely hope there never will be anything of the kind, but cain never could have looked at abel worse than alison did at neil only yesterday." "aunt!" "oh, it's true, my dear. it sent a cold chill all down my back; and ever since i've felt quite a presentiment of coming evil. i do hope they will not quarrel, and really i think it would be better if neil went back to town." "aunt, dear, such ideas are too shocking. just as if neil would be likely to degrade himself by quarrelling with alison. i am sure he has too much self-respect." "ah, young inexperience!" cried aunt anne pityingly. "young men forget all their self-respect when they have been blinded by such a siren as that nurse." "oh, aunt, you ought not to speak of nurse like that." "you think so, my dear; i do not." "but you will some day," cried isabel passionately, and with the tears of vexation in her eyes. "she is all that is amiable, and good, and ladylike." "ladylike, child!" "yes, aunt. if she were not, i'm sure poor dear neil would not have cared for her as he does." "ah, well," said aunt anne, preening herself like a plump bird, "we shall see, i dare say. i will not call her an artful woman, but mark my words, isabel, she will not rest till she has deluded one of your poor brothers into marrying her." "aunt! and she avoids them, and is as distant as possible to poor neil." "all feminine cunning, child. oh, isabel, i wish you would not be such a baby! can you not see that it is to lead him on, while she is playing off one brother against the other?" "i will not argue with you, aunt," said the girl indignantly. "no, my dear, i beg you will not. wait and see, and then come to me humbly, and own how wrong you have been." isabel was silent, and aunt anne went leisurely on with some fancywork of a very useless type, till an idea occurred to her, and she looked up. "isabel, my dear, what wine was that sir cheltnam praised so, last time he dined here?" "really, aunt, i do not know." "no, child, you never know anything. it is very tiresome. i should like the dinner to go off well, and that wine has quite slipped my memory. now, was it the hock, or the champagne? he would like the compliment if i had the forethought to have it served." isabel shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "it is very tiresome," continued aunt anne. "he praised one of them, and made a face at the other; but perhaps i shall recollect by and by. i wonder that i remember anything, harassed as my poor brain is with worry and trouble, and you never trying in the least to help me, but rather setting yourself in antagonism." "oh, aunt, you are too hard." "not a bit, child. and i am surprised at your giving so much as a passing thought to young mr beck. tom! gracious, what a name! only fit for a groom, or one of the men about the farm." "really, aunt," began isabel. "now, pray do not interrupt me, isabel. the name is common and absurd. now, cheltnam--sir cheltnam--sir cheltnam burwood! it is old, aristocratic, and refined. a name to be proud of. but beck--tom beck! faugh!" "it sounds honest, auntie," said the girl with spirit, "and does not suggest drinking the cheltenham waters, which i believe are very bitter." "now that's absurd and childish, isabel, and you know it is. i did hope that now young beck has gone, you would come to your senses. but i will be fair, and say that your brothers are worse than you. i suppose i shall have to beg and pray of them to come in to dinner, and behave like christians, and not let sir cheltnam think he is going to be brother-in-law to a couple of young men with malice and hatred in their hearts. all your beautiful nurse's doing, my dear, all her fault. well, really! to jump up and run out of the room like that!" cried aunt anne, staring in amazement at the last fold of her niece's dress, as the poor girl hurried away, unable to bear the long flow of annoying prattle, and to hide her chagrin in face of the ordeal to which she was to be submitted at the dinner projected by her aunt. she hurried up to her room, to sink upon her knees by her bed and bury her face in her hands. "crying, isabel? what is the matter, dear?" she had not heard the door opened, and she started to her feet to throw herself upon nurse elisia's breast, sobbing out her trouble, and dread of the meeting on the following tuesday, when she knew that in her mistaken notions of duty, aunt anne would contrive that she and sir cheltnam should be left alone. chapter twenty five. a counterplot. neil elthorne's absence from the hospital was rapidly extending to a term of months, broken only by a weekly visit, during the last of which sir denton, after hearing the report upon ralph elthorne's health, had said quietly: "never mind if you have to be away from here another month, my dear boy. you are not right yet yourself. you look careworn and anxious. i am managing very well, and i want you to be quite strong before you return. by the way, i have not filled up that post yet. i have had three men engaged one after the other, but they have all turned tail--backed out of it. you will not alter your mind? fine opportunity for a brave man, elthorne." "no, i cannot leave england," replied neil firmly. "there are reasons why i must stay." "a lady, of course," said sir denton to himself. "i did once think--but never mind. he knows his own affairs best." neil was back at hightoft after his last visit to town. his father was very slowly mending, and the nurse, as he could see, was indefatigable, her actions in the sick room disarming to some extent the young surgeon's resentment as he brooded over the fact that alison was constantly watching, and obtained interviews with her, he felt convinced, from time to time. he used to muse over these matters in the library, where he had surrounded himself with various works into which he plunged deeply, trying hard to forget his troubles in hard study of his profession, but too often in vain, for he was haunted by nurse elisia's calm, grave face in all his waking hours. "she has a right to prefer him," he would say, "and i have none to complain; but it is hard, very hard." he visited the sick room regularly four times a day, and his behaviour there was that of a surgeon who was a stranger. the nurse was always present, and she received his orders in the same spirit, a coldness having sprung up between them that was very nearly resentment on his part, but always on hers the respect of nurse to the doctor who had the patient in charge. several little things had made neil satisfied that there was a quiet understanding between his brother and elisia, trifles in themselves, the most important being alison's manner when they met at meals. for there was always a quiet, self-satisfied look in the young man's eyes which indicated triumph, a look that roused a feeling of rage in his breast that he found it hard to control. neil felt that if they were together a quarrel must ensue, an encounter the very thought of which made him shudder, and after visiting his father he would hurry back to the library, and try to forget everything in his books. it was with affairs in this condition that the day on which sir cheltnam was to dine there came. neil had paid his customary morning visit, and paused at the door as he entered quietly, feeling almost lighthearted as he saw the look of returning vigour in his father's face. the old man was talking eagerly to the nurse, whose back was toward neil, and there was a glow of satisfaction in the young surgeon's heart as he owned to himself that it was almost entirely elisia's work, her devotion to his father, which had wrought this change. the group, too, at which he gazed pleased his eye: the invalid looking up, full of trust, in his graceful attendant's face; and the crushed-down love in neil's breast began to revive again, as he thought that if he could win her his father would be ready to take her as a daughter to his heart. then all came over black. the scene before him was clouded, and a sense of despairing misery filled his breast. they were talking about alison, for his father mentioned the young man's name, and elisia was evidently listening with attention to his words. neil drew back quickly to hide his emotion, for he felt that he could not face them then; but the door clicked as he closed it, and before he was at the head of the stairs it was reopened by nurse elisia, who said quickly: "you need not go back, sir. mr elthorne is quite ready to see you." he turned once more, and as he gazed sharply in the nurse's face, he detected a faint flush in her generally pale cheeks and a suffused look in her eyes which strengthened him now in his belief. "even my father is working against me," he thought to himself, as he passed on and took the chair by the side of the couch. "yes, boy, my yes," said his patient with some display of animation, "i certainly am better this morning. helpless as ever, of course--i am getting resigned to that. i feel more myself, and i shall soon be asking for my invalid chair or a carriage ride." "have them as soon as you can bear them, sir," said neil, laying his father's hand back upon the couch. "yes, you are decidedly stronger this morning, and i think you can now begin to do without me." "without you, my boy? yes, i think so, but not without nurse. i am very weak yet, my boy." "but that will soon pass off," said neil coldly. "you must keep your attendant, of course." "yes. yes, of course, neil, of course." "then to-morrow or next day i shall go back, and come again, say from saturday to monday, and then give you a fortnight's rest, so as to break off by degrees." "you want to go back, then, neil?" "yes, sir. the hospital has hardly known me lately. i ought to go now." "true; yes, i ought not to keep you longer, my boy," said his father thoughtfully. "but you 've done a wonderful deal for me, neil." "the best i could, father; and, thank god, we have saved your life." "thank god, my life has been spared!" said the old man fervently; and he closed his eyes. neil left them soon after to return to the library, but not to resume his studies. his heart burned with anger against everyone in the place, and he paced the room thinking bitterly. "yes," he said to himself, "my work is done, and i may go. he said nothing, but his manner betrayed the whole wretched story. they have prevailed upon him. dana is away and forgotten. yes; of course. alison was with him two hours yesterday. there: the dream is past, and i am fully awake again." he stood with his teeth set, and his hands clenched for a few moments, and the muscles of his face worked painfully. then, drawing a long, deep breath, he suddenly seemed to grow calm. "well, why should i repine? only one can win the race. i ought to say, `heaven bless them!' she has won her way to my father's heart, and yes, heaven bless her! i will try and take her hand by and by, and kiss her, and say, `dearest sister, may you be very happy with the man of your choice!' yes; we must be brothers once again. but i must go soon. i am too weak to bear it now." there was a tap at the door. "yes. come in." the door opened, and aunt anne entered cautiously. "ah!" she cried, "not reading. i was so afraid of disturbing you, my dear. you have grown such a learned man i'm quite afraid of you." "nonsense, aunt dear. a surgeon must keep himself _au courant_ with what is going on in his profession abroad." "of course he must, my dear, but he must not starve himself to death." "no fear, aunt," said neil pleasantly. "i have no intention of trying any such experiment." "oh, but you are always trying to live without food, my dear, and you look pale, and your hair is beginning to show grey. why, you look fifteen years older than alison, and you are only four." neil winced. "he looks brown, and hearty, and handsome, while you--" "look like an old professional man, aunt," he said, laughing, but with a touch of bitterness in his tone. "so much the better for me. the world goes by appearances. it does not like boyish looking surgeons." "ah! it's a very foolish world, my dear. but now, look here. i am going to have a little extra dinner to-day because sir cheltnam is coming, and i want you to promise to come and take your father's place." "ask alison." "no, my dear; you are the elder, and i ask you. time after time i've had nice things got ready, and you have refused to dine with us. now promise me you will come this evening." "oh, very well, aunt, if it will please you." "thank you, my dear; that's very good of you. it will please me very much." "that's right, then. and, by the way, aunt, i shall be going back in a few days." "going back, my dear?" "yes; my father can be left now." "then the nurse will go with you?" she said, with a look of suspicion in her eyes. "no, aunt," he said coldly. "nurse elisia will stay here as long as my father desires to have her at his side." "oh, very well," said aunt anne, rustling her dress; "it is just as your father likes. you are a terribly headstrong race, you elthornes." "including yourself, aunt?" "oh, no, my dear. i take after my mother's family. but it is nothing to me. i am not going to interfere. all i say is that i hope everything is for the best." "and i hope the same, aunt," said neil cheerfully. "it's all self-denial through life, eh?" "always, my dear. then you will dress to-night, and come?" "oh, yes, aunt; i'll come." "then we shall have a decent dinner," thought aunt anne, as she went back to the drawing room. "i'm sorry that woman is not going, but i'm glad she is not going up with neil. now suppose, after all, he is giving her up! oh, if i could only get poor alison to be as sensible, instead of growing more infatuated by that creature every day!" neil settled down to his books at once, seeking in study for the cure of his mental pains, but he had hardly begun to forget the events of the morning in an abstruse theory of muscular disease, when there was another tap on the panel, and in obedience to the cry, "come in!" isabel hurriedly entered and closed the door. "ah, my dear!" he said; and she looked at him wonderingly, his tone and manner were so different to their wont. this gave her encouragement, and begat her confidence, so that she ran to him, sank on her knees by his chair, and took his hands. "why, what's this?" he cried. "anything the matter?" "yes, neil, dear," she said. "i'm in trouble, and i want you to help me." "trouble? help? well, what is it, baby?" "don't laugh at me, neil," she whispered in a broken voice. "sir cheltnam burwood is coming to dinner." "yes. aunt has just been to tell me. what of that?" "what of that?" she cried piteously. "oh, neil, dear, you don't see all this as i do. it is so that he may see and talk to me. it is aunt's doing, and she says it is only carrying out poor papa's wishes." "ah, yes," he said thoughtfully. "i had almost forgotten that." "forgotten it?" she cried reproachfully. "oh, neil!" "i'm a selfish fellow, little one," he said, bending down to kiss her, when her arms were flung round his neck, and she buried her face in his breast and burst into tears. "come, come, come!" he whispered soothingly; "what is it, bel darling? there, wipe your eyes and tell me all about it, and let's see if something cannot be done." "yes, neil, dear. it's very weak and foolish of me, but sir cheltnam's coming, and he quite persecutes me with his addresses, and if i am angry he only laughs. he talks to me as if i quite belonged to him now." "does he? well, we must stop that, bel. you are not his wife yet." "no, dear; and i've no one to come to but you and nurse elisia. she is so kind, but what can she do?" neil frowned. "ah, yes," he said huskily, "what can she do?" "i believe i should have broken my heart if she had not been so loving and kind to me." "loving and kind?" "yes; i used to hate her, neil, but she is so good and dear." neil half turned away his head. "neil, darling, you can help me to-night. when papa is quite strong enough i am going to beg and pray of him to let me stay at home and be his nurse and attendant. i love tom, but i won't ask to marry him if papa says no. but i can't marry anyone else. i don't want to, and it would kill me to have to say `i will' to that dreadful man." "poor little darling!" he said tenderly. "then you shall not. father must listen to reason by and by. i can think about you now, and i will." "oh, neil, you have made me so happy," she cried ecstatically. then, changing her manner directly, "but he's coming to-night." "well, what of that? you must be cool to him." "but he does not mind that, and aunt is sure to arrange to leave us alone. i know she has planned it all with him." "ah!" "yes, i am sure of it; and if you would watch for me, and as soon as aunt has left us alone come and put a stop to it by staying with me, i should be so grateful." "what a duty for a surgeon, bel!" "it is to heal a sore heart, neil," she said, smiling through her tears. "is it, pet? well, then, i will try what i can do. some people ought to be made happy in this weary world." "but it isn't a weary world, neil," she cried enthusiastically. "it's a lovely world, and i could be so happy in it, if--" "yes, bel," he said sadly; "and i could be so happy in it too, if--" "people did not make it a miserable world," cried isabel. they were silent for a few minutes, and then the girl continued: "you will help me, neil?" "by not letting you be alone with our gallant, foxhunting baronet?" "yes, dear." "i promise you," said neil half sadly, half playfully. "i will watch over you while i stay down here like a lynx." "oh, my darling brother! but you are not going soon, neil?" she cried, as she kissed him. "yes, very soon, dear. i must get back to my poor people and work. but i will work, too, to try and make my little sister happy." "thank you--thank you--thank you, dear neil!" cried the girl. "you've made the world seem so bright and happy again; and--and i'm not afraid to meet sir cheltnam now--and--and--oh, neil, neil, i must go upstairs and have a good cry!" she ran out of the room before he could stop her. "poor little sis!" he said, as he looked at the door through which she had passed. "well, i can make someone happy if happiness is not to come to me." he looked sadly about him for a few moments, and then half aloud he whispered, as he formed a mental future: "and i could be so happy, too--if--" chapter twenty six. neil breaks his promise. "just going down to dinner?" said ralph elthorne, as his son came into his room the same evening. "that's right, neil. it looks like old times. it does me good. wait a bit, and i'll join you--as of old. not quite," he added, and his lip quivered--"not quite, my boy. but i can be carried down, and i shall not be an invalid." "no, sir," said neil, "no invalid, and you will soon forget your lameness." "yes, yes, neil, i shall try hard to do that. there, i will not keep you. i'm getting independent, you see. ask nurse to come and sit with me as you go out." there was no need, for as neil rose to go down, the nurse entered, book in hand, but drew back till the young surgeon had left the room to go thoughtfully downstairs, for he was forcing himself to think out what it would be best to do respecting his sister. he shrank from disturbing his father's mind, now that he was so much better and free from disturbing elements. a subject like that might bring on a fresh attack, or at least retard his progress, and by the time neil had reached the drawing room he had planned that he would speak firmly to burwood; but he paused at the door, for he foresaw that such a proceeding would very likely drive the baronet to speak to his father, when the agitation would only be coming from another source. "bel must fight her own battle," he said to himself. "a woman ought to be able to cool a lover's courage. there the matter must wait. like many more of the kind, give it time and it will settle itself." he entered the room, to find the objects of his thoughts all there and waiting his coming. aunt anne was radiant, and burwood, who was chatting with alison upon the everlasting theme of the horse, came and shook hands in the warmest manner. "i can't quarrel with him," thought neil. "it must be done by diplomacy or scheming." the dinner was announced directly after, and as neil took in his sister, she pressed his arm. "please, please, dear, don't let me be out of your sight all the evening," she whispered. "impossible to do that, little one," he said quietly. "you ladies will leave the room, you see. suppose i keep burwood in sight all the evening, will not that do as well?" "oh, yes," she whispered eagerly. "of course." the dinner passed off wonderfully well, everyone seeming to be on the _qui vive_ to keep off anything likely to trench upon the past and the troubles in the house. aunt anne did scarcely anything but beam; sir cheltnam related anecdotes; and alison entered into conversation with his brother. in due time the ladies rose, and the three men were left together over their wine, when the conversation went on as easily as if there had been no undercurrent of thought in either breast. "it will be easy enough to keep them apart," thought neil, as he sipped his coffee. "when we go into the drawing room bel shall sing some of the old ballads." a calm feeling of restfulness had come over neil elthorne, and it was as if his efforts at self-mastery were already bearing fruit, when after a quick glance had passed between burwood and alison, the latter rose, went to the window, and looked out, taking the opportunity to glance at his watch. "very dark," he said. "nasty drive back for you, burwood. want your lamps." "oh, the mare would find her way home if it were ten times as dark," said burwood laughingly. "i think i could get safely back without reins. she always turns aside if we meet anything." "nothing like a good, well-broken horse," said alison, looking furtively at his watch. "what do you say to joining them in the drawing room?" "by all means," cried burwood, rising. at that moment the butler entered, and went straight to neil's chair. "beg pardon, sir," he whispered. "you are wanted in master's room." neil started to his feet, and turned to their guest. "you'll excuse me for a few minutes?" he said hurriedly. "doctors need no excuse," replied the baronet, and neil hurried out and upstairs to his father's room, expecting and dreading some fresh seizure, but, to his surprise, he found his senior lying back calmly on his couch, ready to salute him with a smile. "i was afraid you were unwell," cried neil. "no, my boy, no; i've been lying very comfortably. in less pain than usual." "but you are alone." "yes. nurse has just gone. you might have met her on the stairs. a message came for her--from isabel, i suppose. i don't mind. i told her not to hurry; i want to inure myself to being more alone." "and you wanted me, sir?" "yes, my boy," said elthorne. "not particularly; but i knew that you had been seated over your wine for some time, and i thought you would not mind coming up to me for a little while. i get very dull sometimes, my dear boy. you do not mind?" "no, sir, of course not." "well, don't look at me like that, neil. it is the doctor examining me to see how i am. i want you to look like my son." neil smiled. "ah, that's better. sit down close up here for a while. burwood and alison will have a cigar together, and not miss you." "oh, no," said neil rather bitterly. "they do not care much for my society." "why not?" cried his father sharply. "you are an able, cultured man--a clever surgeon." "but not a veterinary surgeon, father," said neil, smiling. ralph elthorne nodded and smiled. "no," he said; "you are right. they do seem to think of nothing but horses. i was the same once, i'm afraid, my boy. perhaps i shall think a good deal of horses still; but," he continued sadly, "from a very different point of view to that of the past." "never mind the past, father," said neil quickly. "think of the future." "a poor future for me, neil," said elthorne, shaking his head. "by no means, my dear father. there is nothing to prevent your living another fifteen or twenty years." "like this?" replied elthorne despairingly, as he glanced down at his helpless limbs. "like this, sir. you are a wealthy man, and can soften the hardships of your state in a hundred ways." "ah, well, we shall see, my boy, we shall see." "have you been reading?" asked neil, glancing at a book on the little table by the side of the couch. "no. nurse elisia was reading to me when maria brought her a message." "shall i go on reading where she left off?" said neil, taking up the book and feeling a kind of pleasure in holding the little volume so lately in her hands. "no, no, i am tired of poetry and history. what are you writing now?" "only some notes on a case that is taking up a good deal of attention just now." "ah!" said the elder man eagerly. "i should like to hear that." "it is very dry and tedious, i'm afraid; only of interest to the professional man." "but i take an interest in such things now. will you read it to me, neil?" "of course, sir. i'll fetch it," said neil, smiling at his father's eagerness about matters that he would be unable to comprehend. "that's right, my boy. but you are sure that you will not think it a trouble?" "my dear father," cried neil, taking his hand, "i wish you would try to understand me better. i'm afraid you do not." "yes, yes, my boy. i do understand you, indeed i do. don't think because i have lain here, querulous and complaining, that i have been blind as well as helpless. god bless you, my boy, for all you have done!" "only my duty, sir," said neil gravely, "and i only wish that--" he stopped short. "yes--yes--what?" said his father eagerly. "that i could have followed out your wishes in another way." he rose and went out of the room, leaving the helpless man gazing sadly after him. "the tyrant's reign is over," he said sadly, "and i must be resigned to all that comes." neil went hurriedly down to the library, to stop short as he reached the door, for there was the low murmur of a man's voice within, speaking in appealing tones. "poor bel!" muttered neil, as the recollection of all that had passed that day came back, and his promise--entirely forgotten--to keep burwood with him, came like a flash. it was only a dozen steps to the dining room, and he hurried there to throw open the door, and, as he feared, find it empty. angry with himself for his carelessness, though hardly at the moment seeing how he could have acted differently, he hurried back to the library, entered suddenly, and then stopped, as if paralysed by the pang which shot through him. for he had entered angrily, feeling ready to interrupt a _tete-a-tete_, which burwood must have contrived to obtain with his sister; and he found himself in presence of alison, who was tightly holding nurse elisia's hands, which she now seemed to wrest away, as she turned suddenly, looked wildly in neil's face, rushed by him, and hurried out of the room. "well?" said alison, as soon as he could recover from the startling effect of his brother's interruption. "you might have knocked." neil made no reply, but stood there pressing his nails into the palms of his hands, as he fought hard to keep down the sensation of mad, jealous hatred gathering in his breast. then, turning upon his heel, he staggered more than walked out of the room, across the hall and upstairs to his father's chamber, but only to pause at the door. "i have no right--i have no right," he said; and going down once more, forgetful of everything but his own agony of spirit, he took his hat from the stand, passed out through the hall door, and walked swiftly away into the black darkness of the night--onward at a rapidly increasing pace--onward--anywhere so that he might find rest. for the feeling was strong upon him that he and his brother must not meet while this mad sensation of passion was surging in his breast. chapter twenty seven. maria's deceptive message. "don't read any more, my dear," said ralph elthorne gently. nurse elisia looked up from her book and found that the patient was gazing at her. "ah," he said, with a faint smile on his pinched lips, "i said `my dear.' yes; not the way to address one's nurse. it was to the sweet, gentle woman who has tended me with all the patient affection of a daughter." "oh, mr elthorne!" she cried, her eyes brimming with tears, "i have only tried to do my duty as your attendant." "and you have done much more," he said, as he still gazed at her thoughtfully. "you have set me thinking a great deal, my child--a great deal, and--no, you must not talk of leaving here again for a long time-- a very long time." she shook her head. "i have duties in london, sir, which call me away." "and a duty here which keeps you," he said, smiling. "you would not be so hard-hearted as to leave such a broken old fellow as i am--helpless." "but you will not be so helpless soon, sir." "ah, well," he replied, "there is time enough for that. we shall see-- we shall see. yes. come in!" he cried querulously, for there was a tap at the door. "no, do; don't come in. see who it is, my child. if it is isabel, she may come. if it is my sister, tell her i cannot see her to-night, and that she must stay with her visitor." "and it will make her more bitter against me," thought elisia, as she crossed the room, to find that it was maria bell. "miss isabel wants you in the lib'ry, nurse, in a quarter of an hour," said the woman shortly; and she turned her back and went down. "what is it? what is it?" said elthorne sharply. she told him. "now what can she want that she could not have come and said to you herself? in a quarter of an hour, eh?" he continued, turning his eyes to the little carriage clock standing on the table. "yes: they will be out of the dining room then, and the gentlemen will be sitting over their claret--as i used to be over my glass of port--as i used to be over my glass of port." "shall i read to you again for a while, sir?" said the nurse, to divert his thoughts from the past. "no, not now," he said shortly. "hah! how little we know of what is in store for us. such a hale, strong man as i was, nurse. and now, a helpless baby--nothing more." "nothing more, sir? with mental powers such as yours?" "hah! yes. a good reproof, but it is impossible not to lie here and repine. mental powers such as mine! that was not meant as flattery, eh?" "i think you know i would not be so contemptible, sir," she said. "yes, i do know. thank you. another reproof. why, nurse, my accident must have done me good. i should have resented reproofs once upon a time. but i've paid dearly for my lesson--very dearly indeed, and there is so much more to pay--all my life. yes, all my life." he closed his eyes and lay thinking for some time, not opening them till the quarter of an hour had nearly sped, when he looked sharply at the little clock. "time you went down," he said sharply. "tell isabel to come and see me a little sooner to-night, to sit a quarter of an hour before she goes to bed." elisia placed a glass close to her patient's head; saw that the cord was within reach, in case he should want to ring; and then, conscious that he was attentively watching her every act with a satisfied look in his eyes, she passed out into the corridor, and then drew back slightly, for aunt anne had just passed the door, and was going on to her own chamber with her dress rustling loudly as it swung from side to side, and threatened to sweep some of the valuable ornaments from the side tables and brackets arranged here and here. then, turning into her room, the door was closed and elisia went on down. as she reached the hall, voices could be heard plainly in the dining room, where she judged that the gentlemen would still be sitting over their wine. she half stopped as one voice rose louder and sounded deep and hoarse, and for the moment it seemed as if, in dread lest the door should be opened and the occupants of the room appear, she was about to retreat upstairs; but, recovering her confidence, she passed on toward the library, the softly subdued notes of a piano reaching her ear from the drawing room, so that she was in no wise surprised, on turning the handle, to find that the library was lit up but vacant. the door swung to as she entered and glanced around the massively furnished room with its heavy bronze figures on the mantelpiece, each bearing a globe lamp which threw a subdued light around, while a broad, green shade spread a circle of light on the book covered table. elisia took a few steps forward into the room, rested her hand upon the back of one of the heavy leather-covered chairs, and sighed as she stood thinking. for the place, with its calm silence and softened light, evoked thought, and the disposition to recall the days when life seemed opening out before her in one long vista of joy. at that time it was as if there were no such element in existence as sorrow; and yet of late hers had been permeated by incessant grief, and a despondency so great that there were hours when she lay sleepless, thinking that death when it came would be no trouble, only a great and welcome rest. she sighed again as she stood there crossing one hand over the other, and half resting on the great chair back. and now a smile faintly dawned upon her lip, as she began to think of her mission there, and of how long it would be before isabel came. for it was pleasant to think of the fresh, innocent, young face, which had now grown to light up when they met, as its owner became more trusting and affectionate day by day. then, as she thought that the girl would come as soon as the piece she played was finished, the tears rose to her eyes. for the melody she heard, like every air that has once made its way to the heart, evoked old memories of scenes years before, when she had played that old air. it had been a favourite of hers, and used to sound bright and joyous, but now it was full of sadness. "why is it," she thought, "that as time glides on, all these old airs grow more mournful in their tones?" the answer to this has never come, but the fact remains the same; and why should they not sound more sad to us who heard them in our youth, and love them better in our riper years when they are blended with memories, and softened by time, even if the hearing of the strain does produce a mistiness of vision and a disposition to sigh? even as elisia stood and listened, the tones of the piano seemed to float to her, and it was not until there was the faint sound of a closing door that she awoke to the fact that there was no other sound vibrating in the air, and that all was very still where she waited. but her heart beat more quickly, and her hand was raised to her breast in the fancy that she might stay its throbbing, for the step she heard was familiar--that hasty, decided pace, crossing the marble floor, as if bound on some important mission. her lips parted and there was a hunted look in her eyes as she looked sharply round for a way of retreat. "he is coming here," she said in a hurried whisper, and she glided toward a folding screen between her and one of the great book cases; but before she reached it the plainly heard steps ceased, and she knew that they were hushed on the thickly carpeted stairs. "gone to his father's room," she said with a sigh of relief, and walking back to the chair, she rested one elbow upon it and let her face drop down upon her hand, her tears welling forth, and one glistening between her white fingers in the soft light. "no--no--no," she said quietly. "it cannot be now. it is all a painful dream. all that is dead." she tried to picture in her mind isabel in the drawing room playing the last chords of the familiar old air, and then leaving the music stool to join her there, but another figure forced itself to the front, and she saw the dark form of neil elthorne as vividly as if she were watching him from close at hand. she could picture him passing along the corridor, then opening the chamber door, to see him more plainly as the soft light from the room shone out like a golden glow, and lit up his pale, thoughtful face. then she seemed to see him close the door, cross the room, and go to his old seat beside the couch. and how familiar that attitude had become, as he bent forward to take and hold his father's hand. she was mentally gazing on father and son when the scene changed, and once more there was the old man's flushed and distorted face, with the veins starting and eyes wild with anger as he realised that his long cherished plans had been so rudely overset. the scene was very plain to her imagination. there, too, were the handsome, masculine looking sisters, whose eyes flashed at her scornfully, as she saw herself standing there, pale and shrinking, in her plain black dress, and then meeting ralph elthorne's searching gaze. she remembered her effort to be firm and yet how she had trembled in dread of the man's fierce anger. and without cause, for from that moment he had spoken differently to her, he had grown more kind and gentle; in fact, there had been times when she had fancied in her dread and shrinking that his words even sounded fatherly. it might be imagination, she knew, but his manner had ended in evoking thoughts which had grown stronger than ever that night, and over which she brooded now. minute after minute passed unnoticed as she stood in the old library, and she gave quite a start, and her hand fell to her side, as a door opened again, and this time she heard voices. "has isabel forgotten me?" she said to herself, as steps crossed the marble floor again, another door was opened and closed, and she stood listening and expectant. then there was a quick, light step, the library door was thrust open, and she turned eagerly to greet isabel, but started back in alarm on finding herself face to face with alison, who quickly shut the door and advanced toward her with a meaning smile upon his countenance, which she could see was slightly flushed by the wine of which he had partaken freely. a minute later neil entered the room and seemed blinded by the passion which surged up in his labouring breast. chapter twenty eight. sir cheltnam exposed. "what will he do? what will he say?" panted elisia, as she hurried across the hall to reach the stairs. her customary calmness was gone, and one moment she was wild with excitement, the next her heart was sinking in despair. "i'll run back," she thought, as she stopped short. "it was cowardly to go and leave him." she took a couple of steps back, for a great dread had assailed her; those two brothers were face to face! what might not happen! and she the cause. she was half way back to the library, when a hand was laid upon the door, and in her dread she stopped short, turned, and was making for the stairs, but, feeling that she would be in full view of whoever left the room, she ran swiftly over the marble floor to the large _portiere_ at the end of the hall, and entered the great conservatory which ran all along that side of the house, library and drawing room opening into it as well. with her heart beating heavily, she had hardly found refuge among the broad leaves of the great exotics when she heard a quick step crossing the hall, and she shrank farther away. "neil," she said to herself; "and he is coming to drag me back to face his brother." but even as she thought thus the sound ceased, and she knew that he had once more ascended the stairs. she stood there in the semi-darkness, hardly daring to breathe, till she felt that neil must have reached his room; and then, with a feeling of utter desolation oppressing her,--a misery greater than she could bear,--she turned toward the hall, dimly conscious that someone was speaking in the drawing room, for the voice came through the open window at the far end of the conservatory. but it was nothing to her; only someone to avoid. neil had surprised her with his brother--that was all her brain would bear; and, trying to think what she should do next, she had nearly reached the hall when she stopped short, with her cheeks flushing, and a sensation of anger which mastered everything else rising in her breast. there was no hesitation now in her movements. she walked sharply along the tiled floor, with the great-leaved plants brushing her arm, straight for the open doorway through which a subdued light showed the form of leaf and spray, and stepped at once into the dimly lighted drawing room, where a similar scene was being enacted to that in which she had so lately taken part. here seemed to her to be the reason why isabel had not kept her appointment, for, as she entered, sir cheltnam was standing half way down the room, his back toward her, and holding isabel's hands tightly in his, as, half banteringly, he put aside as folly every appeal and protest uttered by the now frightened girl. isabel was striving vainly to release herself when she caught sight of the dark figure of the nurse, framed, as it were, in the conservatory doorway, and, uttering a cry of joy, she now wrenched her hands away from their visitor's grasp, and before burwood could check her she ran to elisia's side, clung to her, and panted excitedly: "nurse--nurse--don't leave me--pray, pray stay here!" "my poor child!" whispered elisia, as she bent over the hysterical girl, and drew her tightly to her breast. "hush! hush! for everyone's sake try and master it. you are quite safe now." "yes--yes; quite safe now," sobbed isabel. "don't--don't leave me here." sir cheltnam, meanwhile, had stood in the middle of the room speechless with fury, for the interruption had been completely unforeseen. it was understood with aunt anne and alison that he was to win from isabel her consent to an early marriage that very night, and those who had promised their help had carefully arranged that the _tete-a-tete_ should have no one to mar its course. but the little bit of grit had, as is often the case, made its way into the mechanism, and the wheels had so suddenly come to a stoppage that the baronet was for the moment utterly confounded. it was only a few minutes before that, in the dining room, alison had for about the fifth time consulted his watch, and then said quickly: "there, old chap, it's all right now. she will be alone in the drawing room, so off with you, and say all you like." "you think the old man will not make any objection--on account of his illness, you know?" "not an objection. never fear. there, quick; be off." "what a hurry you are in!" "well, you wished me to be," said alison sharply, and hardly able to keep from referring again to his watch. "humph! yes," said the baronet; and they parted, each to follow out his plans, which seemed too well made to fail. "take me to my room now," whispered isabel, as she clung tightly to her protectress, whose face was bent down so that her lips rested upon the girl's wavy hair. "i will not stay here to be insulted," she cried, as indignation was beginning fast to take the place of fear. "it is shameful. it is too cruel of aunt anne. she left me on purpose." "hush! hush, my child! be calm," whispered elisia, in whom a strange sense of elation was growing fast, as she felt the ever tightening clutch of the agitated girl. "there is no need to let others know. you are quite safe now." "yes, i know," cried isabel hysterically; "but where is neil? where is my brother? he promised so faithfully to stay--to keep by me--to--oh, nurse, nurse," she sobbed, as she gave way now to a fit of weeping that was almost childlike in its intensity, "pray, pray go with me to my room." "directly, dear; but try and be calm first. think of the servants. for your father's sake." "yes; i'm better now," sighed isabel with childlike simplicity, as she turned to dart a defiant look at sir cheltnam, who had been fuming with rage and surprise at the interruption, and who had made several attempts to gain a hearing, but had been till now completely ignored. as he saw isabel's eyes directed toward him at last, he took a step or two forward. "you foolish girl," he said, with a forced laugh; "how can you be so absurd? here," he continued; "you are the nurse, i suppose--mr elthorne's attendant?" a thrill ran through elisia's frame, and she started slightly, but she did not change her position--keeping her lips pressed on the girl's soft hair, as she held her tightly to her breast. "do you hear, woman?" cried sir cheltnam. "i am speaking to you. how dare you force your way into the drawing room like this?" she made no answer, but drew a long, deep breath, while isabel clung more tightly. "don't--don't take any notice," she whispered. "how dare he! he has no right to speak to you. don't--don't leave me." a gentle pressure of the arm about her made isabel utter a sigh of relief. "isabel!" cried sir cheltnam. "how can you be so foolish, dear? send this woman away. it is too absurd." "come," said elisia in a low voice; and then, as if to herself, "i cannot speak to him. come, my dear; i will take you to your room." "ridiculous!" cried sir cheltnam angrily, for he caught her last words. "isabel, my child, how can you be so silly? for heaven's sake, have some self-respect--some for me, your affianced husband." he spoke in a low, earnest tone, now, and tried to take one of her hands. "do you hear me?" he continued, with a touch of anger in his tones. "can you not see that this woman is bound to go and repeat all she has seen? you are behaving like a little schoolgirl. this will be the talk of the servants' hall. for your father's sake, do try and be sensible. there, my good woman, you see that you are not wanted here; have the goodness to go." to his rage and astonishment, elisia averted her face more from him, and, utterly ignoring his presence, led isabel toward the door; but, before they could reach it, he interposed, and placed his back against the panel. "stop!" he cried angrily. "isabel, my child, this wretched scene must come to an end. you are making us both too ridiculous. leave this woman, and order her to go. tell her it was all a wretched mistake, and that she had no business to intrude." "no, no," said isabel huskily. "it is not a mistake." then, in a whisper to elisia, "pray, pray don't listen to what he says. why is not neil here?" "am i to ring for the servants, and have you turned out of the room?" cried sir cheltnam furiously. "do you hear me? miss elthorne does not require your presence, and i order you to go." no answer, but the face kept resolutely averted. "you are a stranger here, and i suppose miss elthorne's cry startled you. i now tell you that your interference was uncalled for. i am sir cheltnam burwood, and this lady is to be my wife." "no, no!" cried isabel excitedly. "never, never! this way, nurse. come through the conservatory." she was full of eagerness now, and seemed to have cast off her girlish timidity as she tried to drag her protectress toward the open door. but sir cheltnam was too quick for her. "you foolish girl!" he cried, as he caught her by the wrist, and, by a quick, sharp movement, literally plucked her away from elisia, and stood between them, pointing to the door. "there has been enough of this," he cried angrily. "now, my good woman, go!" up to this moment elisia had not looked him full in the face, but had kept her eyes bent down as at first, and turned away from where the shaded lamps shed their subdued light. sir cheltnam had attributed this to fear, and, blaming himself for want of decision, he now stood in a commanding attitude, expecting that he would be obeyed; but to his astonishment, he saw the nurse slowly raise her head, draw herself up proudly, and step toward him. as her face came now into the light, and he met a pair of flashing, indignant eyes fixed on his, he started violently and loosed his grasp on isabel's wrists, leaving her free to take refuge once more half behind elisia, as she clung to her arm. "you!" he said hoarsely, as he took a step back. "you order _me_ to go, cheltnam burwood!" said elisia sternly. "you, whose presence in this room is an outrage--an insult to an english lady." "you--here?" he faltered. "yes--i--here," she said coldly, as she passed her arm round isabel and drew her close--"here to protect this poor motherless girl from such a man as you. mr elthorne must have been ignorant of your true character when he admitted you to his house, doubly ignorant when he allowed you to address his child." there was a look of tenderness that was almost maternal in her eye as she looked down at isabel, whose eyes sought hers wonderingly. sir cheltnam made a desperate effort to recover himself, but it was so feeble that elisia laughed contemptuously. "who is this woman, isabel, that she dares--" but he did not finish his sentence. the mocking laugh froze the words on his lips, and he gave an impatient stamp upon the floor as elisia went on, with every word she uttered stinging him by its contemptuous tone. "mr elthorne lies upstairs perfectly helpless, but at a word from me he has those who will obey his wishes, and sir cheltnam burwood will be thrust from the door with the disgrace that is his due. go, sir, before i am compelled to speak and tell mr elthorne the full story of your life--of your conduct toward the trusting girl who was to have been your wife. you have no doubt as to mr elthorne's judgment, and what his decision will be." burwood stood glaring at her, with teeth and hands clenched, as if utterly cowed by the eyes which gazed firmly into his. he tried to speak again and again, and his lips parted, but no words came. there were moments when the whole scene appeared to him like a nightmare which, after a time, he would shake off, for it was impossible, he told himself, that he could be awake, face to face with her. her presence was a myth; she could not, he said to himself, be present there in ralph elthorne's house, and in the guise of a hospital nurse. it was all a dream. in his excitement since dinner, as he sat with alison, waiting for the time when he should find isabel alone, he must have unknowingly drunk too much wine, and this was the result--this waking dream--this strange mental aberration which would soon pass away. and as these thoughts crowded through his disordered brain, he threw back and shook his head, as if expecting that this act would clear away the mist which troubled him. but no: there she stood--that woman whom he had sworn to love--fixing his eyes, so that he could not tear them away; and, after vainly and silently fighting for the mastery, striving to beat down that firm, accusing gaze, he muttered an imprecation, turned hastily, and seized the handle of the door. but he snatched his hand away instantly and strove to make another effort as he swung sharply round. "isabel," he cried, "i swear to you--pray listen to me--i vow and declare, dear--this woman--this--" he faltered in his speech, his words trailed off, becoming more and more disconnected, and he stopped short, for the stern, fixed gaze never left him, the beautiful eyes literally mastered him, and after trying to coin some excuse, utter some words which should bring isabel to his side, he ground his teeth savagely, turned, and literally rushed from the room. for a time no sound was heard in the drawing room where elisia stood, clasping isabel more tightly than ever to her breast; and, as they listened, they heard the hurried steps of sir cheltnam crossing the hall, then the great door closed heavily, and the hurried steps were heard again upon the gravel of the drive, growing more and more faint, till finally they died away, and isabel uttered a low, catching sigh of relief. "oh, nurse--nurse elisia!" cried the girl at last, as she looked wonderingly in the proud, stern face whose gaze was still directed at the closed door, "what can i do to thank you?" "thank me with your love." "oh, i will, i will; but," she continued timidly, as if hardly daring to ask--"but you knew him--you knew this man--before--you came here?" "yes, dear, when i was a girl like you, as trusting and as loving. before i became old and hard and stern as i am now. i met him at a famous party; we were introduced, and, in my girlish folly, i thought him all that was chivalrous and noble. he told me he loved me as time went on, and i believed him. we became engaged. the time drew near when he was to have been my husband." "to have been your husband?" said isabel, looking at the speaker wonderingly. "yes; to have been my husband, dear, and the wedding gifts came fast. life seemed so joyous to me then; and in another week i should have been his wife, but i was stayed from that--in time." "from that? in time?" "yes. i say in my blindness i thought him everything that was noble and good, and when the truth was brought home to me i would not believe it then. i defended him against all who attacked him, for i said, `it is impossible--he loves me too well, and i love him. no man could be so base.'" "and you found out--was it true--true?" "you saw him leave us, my child. he wrecked my life. would he have gone like that if my words had not been just?" "nurse elisia!" "no; don't call me that again." "not call you that? what does it all mean?" "i cannot tell you now, dear. think of me always as a very dear friend. i am worthy to be called so, and some day i will tell you all my past." "but--" "no, no; not now. let us go up to your room." "yes, before aunt comes. i cannot meet her now." "no; and to-morrow, if your father can bear it, go to him and tell him what took place to-night--all that i have said. he can easily find out the truth, and he will not allow sir cheltnam burwood to speak to you again." "you think so?" cried the girl excitedly. "i know it, dear. your father has been hard and obstinate of will, but he loves his children as an english gentleman should; and, as a man of honour, when he knows all, he will never sanction that man's presence here." "and--when i tell him, you will speak? it is so terrible. he will want to know all the past." "no: i cannot be sir cheltnam burwood's accuser, even now." "you will not speak?" "my mission is at an end, dear. it is impossible for me to stay. i shall not be here." isabel looked up wonderingly, and then raised her face to kiss elisia's lips as she slowly clasped her neck. the next moment she was passionately clasped to the nurse's heart. "god bless you, darling! good-bye!" was sobbed in isabel's ear, and the next minute she was alone. chapter twenty nine. jumping at conclusions. about half an hour after isabel and elisia had parted, aunt anne came down from her room. she had tapped gently at her brother's door, which was opened by the nurse, who was as calm and self-possessed as ever. "mr elthorne is asleep, madam," she said. "ho!" ejaculated aunt anne, turning sharply round and continuing her way. "ralph always is asleep when i want to see him. i wonder how the lovers have got on," she added, as she reached the drawing-room door, and stood smiling on the mat before she entered and looked round. "in the conservatory, i suppose," she said playfully. "oh, dear; it seems only yesterday when--" she went straight to the open french window, and peeped in among the exotics; then went to one end, then to the other, where the door stood wide open leading out on to the terrace and the lawn. "now that's carrying matters too far," she said to herself. "it is not etiquette. isabel ought to have known better, and sir cheltnam should not have taken her. ah, well, i suppose i must not be too strict at a time like this." she rang the bell for the tea urn, and the butler entered, red hot from an exciting conversation with his fellow-servants, who were in full debate. "you had better tell the gentlemen tea is ready when you leave the room." "i beg pardon, ma'am?" said the butler, as he set down the hissing urn. "i said tell the gentlemen that tea is ready." "the gentlemen, ma'am? they are both out." "both out?" "yes, ma'am. smith, the keeper, just looked in, and said he was on his rounds, and he met mr alison, ma'am, going toward buckley village, and soon after he saw one of the watchers, and he had seen mr neil, ma'am, walking as fast as he could toward pinkley pound." "dear me, how strange!" said aunt anne. "no, no, don't shut the window: sir cheltnam and miss elthorne are just outside. i may as well let him see that i know it, and stop the servants' talking," thought aunt anne. the butler stared. "well, what is it?" "beg pardon, ma'am. sir cheltnam went round to the stables, had his horse put to in the dogcart, and drove away more than half an hour ago." "what?" "and maria says that miss isabel's locked up in her bedroom, and has been there ever so long." "that will do," said aunt anne with asperity; and the butler left the room. "oh, dear me!" she cried; "the foolish girl! there must have been quite a scene. she's thinking still of that wretched sailor, and poor ralph will be so angry when he knows. i suppose i must go and ask her to come down." she went to the bedroom door, but there was no response whatever for some time, and then only a brief intimation that her niece was not coming down that night. "well, i shall certainly give her a very severe talking to in the morning," said aunt anne, as she sat over her solitary tea. "as self-willed as her father, every bit. oh, dear me! how children are changed since i was young." aunt anne retired early. the butler did not, for it was his duty to sit up and admit the gentlemen. alison returned about half-past eleven, and went at once to his room, while the butler once more settled himself down in an easy-chair to wait, and went to sleep, awaking in the morning stiff and unrefreshed to find that his waiting up had been in vain. a couple of hours later, when he took in the breakfast, he had two announcements to make; but he hesitated, as isabel had just entered the room. "you can speak out. what is it?" said aunt anne. "mr neil hasn't been back all night, ma'am." "what?" "and--" the butler stopped. "well, speak, man; there is nothing wrong?" cried aunt anne. "no, ma'am, i hope not," said the butler; "but the nurse was down quite early, ma'am, dressed, and smithers put the horse to in the light cart, and drove her over to the station to catch the early morning train." "oh!" ejaculated aunt anne; and then, excitedly, "was she alone?" "i believe so, ma'am. shall i ask?" "no: there is no need. i thought it all along. eloped. i knew it would be so." isabel rose from her seat with flaming cheeks. "shame!" she cried passionately. "this, before the servants! neil is my brother. nurse elisia is my dear friend. it is not true!" chapter thirty. sir denton astonished. neil elthorne could hardly recall the events of the next twenty-four hours. he had some dim recollection of walking blindly on and on, with his head throbbing from the mental fever within; of the wind beating against him, and the rain feeling cool to his heated brow; and at last seeing lights, entering a station, and listening to the dull, heavy rush of a coming train--sounds which seemed in accordance with the beating in his temples, and the dull, low roar in his brain. then he had faint memories of passing swiftly through the dark night, with the windows of the compartment in which he sat blurred by the rain, and, finally, of gliding into the great, blank, gloomy terminus, an hour before day-break, and staggering through it to where cabs were standing beneath the great glass arch. the rattle of the streets sounded faintly in his ears, and all appeared strange and terrible, as if he were in some fevered dream, from which he awoke at last on the couch in his own chambers in farrow's inn, to find that it was night again, and that he must, like some wounded beast, have mechanically crept back to his lair, there to wait until strength returned or the end should come. he rose mechanically, went out, and made his way to his club, where he was faintly conscious that the waiters who brought up his dinner exchanged glances, and gazed at him furtively. someone came to him, too, and asked him if he were unwell, and then, still as if in a dream, he rode back to his chambers, and lay down again to sleep. the long rest brought calm to his confused brain, and he rose late the next morning from what more resembled a stupor than a natural sleep. but he could think and act now. the madness of his night at home came back to him clearly, and he sent a telegraphic message to his father, begging him not to be uneasy at his sudden departure, and another far longer to his sister asking her forgiveness; that he had been obliged to hurry away, and bidding her appeal to her father for help, as being the proper course. "what will she think of me, poor child?" he said to himself, after he had dispatched his messages. "i must write to her. it was cruel, but i could not stay. i should have gone mad. ah, well," he muttered, after a time, "it is all over. now for work." there was a peculiar set expression in his countenance as he dressed himself carefully--a very necessary preparation after many hours of neglect--and, taking a cab, had himself driven to sir denton hayle's, where he was obliged to wait for some time before he could obtain an interview, and then only for a few minutes. those were sufficient, though. "ah, elthorne, back again? how is the father?" "much better." "that's right. then you have come back to work." neil did not answer for a few moments. "you asked me to take that post, sir denton," he said at last. "yes, my dear boy, i did; but don't say you have repented now it is too late." "is it too late?" said neil sadly. "yes: another appointment has been made, and the man sails in a week." "i am sorry," said neil slowly. "i have thought better of the offer now, and i was prepared to go." they parted, and he went back to his chambers to think, and form some plans for his future. two hours later he was surprised by the coming of sir denton, the old man looking flushed and excited as he entered the room. "you, sir!" "yes, my boy. i have been and seen the man appointed, and he jumps at the chance of getting out of it. he says that he has the offer of a better thing, which is all nonsense. the fact is that he is afraid of the venture. now there must be no trifling, elthorne: it must be a frank, manly yes, or no. stop; let me tell you again what it really means. then you can say whether you will go. first, there is a great deal of risk." "yes, i suppose so." "the coast is a deadly one for europeans; the society is not all that could be desired; and the man who goes must be a bit of a hero in the strife." "then you want a better man." "no: i want you. you are the man, but i cannot let you definitely say _yes_ without letting you see all your risk." "bah, sir denton!" cried neil. "what has a doctor or a surgeon to do with risk? you would not say to a man, `don't go to that house to attend the husband or wife: it is a horribly infectious fever.'" "no; certainly not." "or, `that man who has been crushed by a fall of rock will bleed to death, if a surgeon does not risk his own life by going to his help: don't go.'" "no," replied sir denton quietly; "the world treats us very coolly, and gives us very little credit for what we do." "the world saves all its honours for its soldiers," said neil, smiling. "in uniform," said sir denton, "and does not recognise the fact that we, too, are soldiers, fighting the invisible enemy, death." "there, say no more, my dear old tutor," cried neil eagerly. "i have made up my mind to go, accepting all risks, and i hope i shall fulfill your wishes and prove worthy of your trust." "i have no fear of that, elthorne, my dear boy. i know you too well. you will go, and your going will be the saving of thousands of lives in the future, while as to yourself, disease generally passes by the busy, active, and careful. you will go, then?" "there is my hand." sir denton grasped the young surgeon's hand warmly. "god bless you, my boy, and your work!" he said, with his voice slightly husky. "but now tell me of yourself. this sudden change of front? the lady--she has refused you?" neil nodded and remained silent for a few moments. then, turning, with a sad smile on his face: "it was only a vain dream, my dear old friend. i loved, and forgot, in my blindness, that i was not a frank, handsome man of the world; that i was only a dull, thoughtful student, with few of the qualities that please women. she would have none of me, and perhaps she was wise." "no," said sir denton sharply; "there was no wisdom in the woman who would refuse you. some giddy, dress-loving, shallow creature, who--" neil held up his hand. "no," he said fervently. "the wisest, sweetest, and most refined lady that ever breathed." "ah!" exclaimed sir denton. "i was glad a few minutes ago, for i thought you had had an escape; that, like so many more able men, you had been dazzled by the outside of some bright, fashionable butterfly. now i can condole with you. then there must have been a reason--another was in the way?" neil was silent. "ah, that is bad. well, out of the bad good often comes, my dear boy. you see how fatherly i have grown toward you, elthorne; and some day i may, after all, be able to congratulate you on a happy union." "never, sir." "who knows?" said the old surgeon, smiling. "well, i am no matchmaker, only your old friend and master, and i speak very plainly to you. do you know, elthorne, that there is one woman in the world whom i have often thought should be your wife?" neil looked at him wildly. "a refined, graceful lady, with a heart of gold, if you could win her. i have seen little things, too, at times, which have made me think that my hopes would bear fruit." neil half turned away, and the old man sat tapping the top of his hat with the tips of his thin, white fingers, as he went on dreamily. "i ought not to have given my mind to such matters, but the thoughts came unbidden, and i said to myself, it would be the perfection of a union; and, old bachelor as i am, i would have given her away as if she had been my own child." neil's head began to droop, but the old man's mind was so deeply immersed in the subject nearest his heart that he did not see the change in his pupil's face. "like the meddlesome old idiot i was, i snatched at the opportunity of bringing you together, and insisted upon her coming down to your father's place to tend him." a low sigh escaped from neil's breast. "for i said to myself: the old man will see her and learn her value, and the sweetness of her nature. he will be ready to open his arms to her, and call her daughter when the son has spoken to her; and i thought i was doing right to you both. neil, my lad, you ought to have had more confidential moments with me, and told me that you already loved. i had no right to know, my dear boy, but it would have saved much pain. i love lady cicely very dearly--as much as if she were my own flesh and blood." neil looked up at the old man wonderingly, but he was gazing down at his hat. "yes, bless her!" he continued, repeating his words, "as if she were my own flesh and blood; and this misfortune--i can call it nothing else-- hurts me very much, and i am certain it will grieve her terribly, for she loves you, my boy, i am sure." "my dear sir denton--lady cicely?" cried neil, looking at him as if doubting his sanity. "whom do you mean?" "oh! i had forgotten. of course you do not know--lady cicely, the late duke of atheldene's daughter--nurse elisia--my dear young friend, who gave up her life of luxury and ease to devote herself as you have seen." "sir denton!" "yes, my dear boy, it is so. don't look at me as if you thought i were wandering. that was my castle in the air, neil elthorne, and i am deeply grieved for both your sakes. ah, how easily we clever men, as we think ourselves, are deceived. but, as your old friend, my boy, may i ask--some lady--in your neighbourhood--an attachment, perhaps, of many years?" neil looked at him wildly and his lips were quivering with the agony still so new. "i beg your pardon, my dear boy," said sir denton softly. "i ought not to have laid my hand so roughly on the wound. forgive me." neil remained silent for a few minutes, and sir denton rose to go. "there, then, my dear boy," he said in a different tone, "i consider, then, that the appointment is settled and you will go?" "yes, sir denton. my preparations will be very few. i shall be ready to go by this vessel if the authorities are willing." "and god speed you in your work!" "and god speed me in my work!" said neil solemnly. sir denton grasped the young surgeon's hand, holding it firmly. "come and dine with me to-night, and we'll have a long chat over it. i dare say i can give you a few useful hints. i must go to the hospital now. good-bye for the present." but neil held his hand firmly still. "wait a moment," he said hoarsely. "you accuse me of want of confidence in you. i am not the kind of man who babbles about the strongest feeling of his nature." "no, no, my dear boy; forgive me. and i ought not to have torn open your wound again by my thoughtless question." "i will confide in you now, sir denton." "no, no, my dear boy. leave it all unsaid." "no; there is no time like the present. you ought to know, and i can never revive the subject again. possibly, in the future, the opportunity may never come." "what do you mean?" "i am not blind to the risk of going to such a place. i don't suppose i shall return." "my dear boy, if you are going to take that morbid view of the task," cried sir denton, "you shall not go. but pish! you are low-spirited now from the refusal you have had. work, man, work. _au revoir_." "sir denton," said neil gravely, "you must know the truth now. in ignorance of her early life, i loved nurse elisia very dearly." "then, my dear boy--" cried the old man excitedly. "stop, sir; you were mistaken. i asked her to be my wife." "mistaken? she refused you? impossible!" "no, sir; it is the simple fact." "but--you hinted, or i said--dear me, how confused i am--that the lady you proposed to, refused you--a prior attachment--another gentleman?" "yes; my own brother." sir denton stood gazing in neil's face for some moments before he spoke again, and then in a weary, helpless way he said sadly: "and i have been studying human nature all through my long life, to find myself an ignorant pretender after all. let me go and think. refused you?--your brother? ah, well--till to-night, my dear boy--and after all i thought--there, there, it is only the body i have been studying, not the soul. bless my heart!" he muttered, as he went down to his carriage: "and i felt so sure. ah, dear me--dear me! it takes a cleverer man than i to read a woman through and through." chapter thirty one. the clouds dispelled. neil elthorne was more himself as a cab set him down at sir denton hayle's that evening, where the quiet, old-fashioned butler received him in a solemn, old-fashioned way, and ushered him at once into his master's study, for, though there was a fire and lights in the great first-floor drawing room, they were only for form's sake, when the old surgeon had company; and upon occasions like the present it was almost certain not to be used. sir denton received his pupil as warmly as if he had been his son, and they were soon after seated face to face in the gloomy dining room, where the table was reduced to the smallest proportions to which it could be screwed. it was a thoroughly good, old-fashioned dinner, at which the butler handed very old east india sherry, which was hardly touched; and, after clearing the cloth, left on the nearly black, highly polished table, three massive silver decanter stands, in which glowed, like liquid gems, port, claret, and burgundy. these shared the fate of the sherry, and stood untouched, while, now that they were alone, the important subject of the appointment was discussed, and sir denton gave his views concerning the mission. "yes; it makes me wish i were thirty years younger, neil," said the old surgeon. "people talk about it as a forlorn hope, but i maintain that there is victory to be won, and i am sure that you will win it. people are dying off as we read of their dropping away during the plague. there must be a reason for this, and you are going to discover it, and put a stop to this terrible bill of mortality. ah, i wish i were going with you to work hand in hand, advising and asking advice." "i wish you were going, sir," said neil quietly. "too old--too old, my dear boy--much too old. now tell me, where shall you attack the demon first?" "clean out his den," said neil, smiling. "good; of course. sanitation. an augean task, my young hercules, but that is it. people will not believe it, but dirt is the nursery bed for most of the germs of disease; and the wonder to me is, not that so many people in our more crowded parts are smitten down, but how they manage to live. now where you are going, that deadly fever runs riot. i do not believe it could ever exist if everything possible were done to cleanse the place." "i suppose not," said neil thoughtfully. "it could not. i've been thinking it all over, my dear boy, and i have no fear whatever for you. work will keep you healthy; and now i suppose you would like me to give you a couple of valuable recipes in which i have enormous faith." "by all means," said neil eagerly. "will you write them down?" "no: you can remember them. as to quantities, give them _a discretion_--extravagantly. here they are: pure water and whitewash. they are death destroyers, my dear boy, and--bless me, i did not want to be disturbed this evening." the butler entered the room and went up behind his master's chair. "i am too much engaged to see anyone," said the old man testily. the butler said a few words in a low tone. "bless me! oh, yes; of course. i'll come directly. will you excuse me for a few minutes, elthorne? pray help yourself to wine." "certainly," replied neil, and the old man went hurriedly out of the room, leaving his guest to his thoughts, and he sat there with rugged brow thinking over the past and his future, and asking himself whether he, a surgeon, had done right in accepting the post. his musings were long, for the few minutes extended into an hour, but; he did not notice the lapse of time. there was so much to think about. his father? well, he could have done no more if he had stayed. his sister? that difficulty would settle itself, for, girl as she was, isabel had plenty of their father's will and determination; and he felt sure that she would never marry one man while she loved another. his brother? he drew his breath hard, and the struggle within him was long, but he mastered his feelings at last, and calmly and dispassionately reviewed the matter. there was nothing unfair. his brother had not taken any mean advantage of him. he had been struck by the woman he loved at their first encounter, and what wonder? no: there had been nothing unfair. it had been a race between them, and his brother had won the prize. his duty stood out plainly enough before him, but he was weak, and it was hard to do that duty. some day--it would be years first in this case--he would look her in the face, and take her hand as his sister, and grasp his brother's hand with all due warmth. but not yet--not yet. he must have time, and he felt that he would act wisely in going right away. there was a sad pleasure in reviewing these events of the past, and there was a kind of solace in being alone there in that gloomy room, so shut in that the rattle of wheels in the square outside sounded subdued and calming to his weary spirit. he began thinking then once more of the future, of the great battle he had to fight. "and i will fight manfully," he said softly, as he sat gazing at the fire, "against self as well as against disease. and if i fall--well, better men die daily. i shall have done some good first, and i will fight to the last." his chin sank down upon his breast, and he sat there picturing in imagination the place to which he was going. how long he had been thinking thus he did not know, and he felt half resentful as sir denton's hand was laid lightly on his shoulder. "asleep?" "oh, no: only thinking deeply." "of--of--" said the old man nervously. "of my work, sir? the great work to come? yes." "that's right--that's right, my dear boy; but you have had no wine. i'm so sorry i was called away, but you will forgive me, i know." "don't name it, sir denton," said neil quietly. "i have had so much to think about that the time has not seemed long." "indeed? it has to me. but fill your glass, my dear boy--a glass of port." neil shook his head. "then i think," said sir denton in a hurried, nervous way, "we will go up to the drawing room. it is getting late--the--er--the butler was waiting at the door as i came down--er--to clear away." "and your patient?" said neil, making an effort to take an interest in his host's affairs. "better?" "eh? my patient? yes, yes, i think so. along interview, though." he led the way to the door, and then up the broad staircase of the great sombre old house, but only to halt on the landing. "go in," he said. "i will join you soon." neil entered slowly, and the door was closed behind him, as he went on across the wide, dim room to where a fire glowed. his eyes were cast down, and the place was so feebly lit by the shaded lamps and a pair of wax candles that he had reached the middle before he became aware that a figure in black had risen from a chair by the fire and was standing supporting itself by one hand resting upon the great marble mantelpiece. neil stopped short, with his heart beating violently. then, after taking a couple of steps forward with outstretched hands, he checked himself again. "you here?" he cried hoarsely; and he crossed to the other side of the fireplace. "sir denton did not tell me. i did not know." "i have been here more than an hour," was said in a low voice which trembled slightly. there was a pause, during which neil fought hard with the feeling--half indignation that he should have been forced into such a situation--half despair. "you have left my father, then," he said at last, in an unnaturally calm voice. "yes: my work was ended. there was no need for me to stay." again there was a pause which neither seemed to possess the power to break, and the indignant feeling rose hotter in neil's breast. for a moment he felt that he must turn and quit the room, but the anger passed off, and he stood firm, grasping the edge of the mantelpiece, and mentally calling himself coward and utterly wanting in nerve. "my brother's betrothed," he muttered; "my brother's betrothed!" and he tried to picture her before him as something holy--as the woman who was soon to occupy the position of sister, with all that had passed between them forgotten--dead forever. and that terrible silence continued till there was the sound of a carriage approaching, reaching the house, and causing a faint rattling of one of the windows, after which it passed on with a strange, hollow, metallic sound, which died away gradually, when the silence seemed to have grown ten times more painful, and the failing fire fell together with a musical tinkle. then a few glowing cinders dropped through the grating, and as neil watched them where they lay on the grey hearth, he saw them gradually turn black, and compared them to the passion in his breast. "like the glowing ashes of my poor love," he thought, as the painful silence continued, for still neither felt that it was possible to speak. "if sir denton would only come and end this madness!" thought elisia. "if this agony would only end, i could go back to my poor sufferers--and oblivion." the clock on the mantel suddenly gave one stroke to indicate the half hour, and the clear, sharp ring of its silvery toned bell vibrated through the room, its tones seeming as if they would never cease. then all was silence once again, till, making an effort, the trembling woman spoke in a low, pained voice, which she strove hard to render firm: "sir denton tells me, mr elthorne--" she stopped, for a deep breath escaped from neil's breast, sounding like a faint groan of relief. "i beg your pardon," he said coldly. "sir denton tells me," she said again, but more firmly, for his tone irritated her over-strung nerves, "that you have accepted an appointment to go out to one of the most unhealthy places on the west coast." the spell was broken, and he could speak out now firmly and well. "yes," he said, with a feeling of eager joy that they were off dangerous ground. "i suppose the place is unhealthy, for the suffering there is terrible. it has been full of horrors, but i hope to change all that." "and the risk--to your life?" he laughed--harshly, it sounded to her--and she shrank away at his next words, but still clutched the marble mantelpiece. "this from you?" he said; and she thought it was meant as a reproach, but his next words gave her confidence. "why, you would go into any plague-stricken place without shrinking, or realising the danger." "yes," she said softly, "if it were necessary. i hope so." "well, then, why should i hesitate? i hope i shall not suffer. it would be a pity," he continued, quite calmly now, and his words seemed unimpassioned and dreamy in their simplicity. "if i died, i suppose it would be a loss to the poor people out there, whom i hope to save. they might have a difficulty in getting another man." "yes," she said, with a shudder. "sir denton tells me that he has had great trouble in filling the appointment." "i suppose so. yes: he told me." there was another pause. "ought you to go?" she said at last, and her voice was not so firm. "certainly," he replied rather bitterly. "i have nothing to lose except my life." "you have those at home who love you--sister, father." "poor little isabel! yes, but she has one who loves her. my father is sure to yield to circumstances there. it is of him i think most. i shall ask you to be kind to him, as you always have been. he will grow more exacting, i fear, as the years roll on; but you will see him occasionally. he likes you; his liking will grow into love, and he will take your advice. will you do this for me?" she made no reply, and as silence was gathering round them again, he hastened to break it and fight back the thoughts that would arise. "i shall be grateful for anything you in your experience can do for him to make life pass more easily; and you will help and counsel my little sister, too. she must not marry a fox hunting squire." still no answer, and he went on hurriedly. "i shall not go down again. i start so very soon. it would only be painful to them; and i shall be very busy making preparations till the ship sails." she stood there, clinging to the cold stone, and he went on in the same hurried way. "it is a grand work, and heaven knows i wish i were more capable. there will be so much to do. i shall have to start a hospital, even in the humblest way at first, and let it grow by degrees. there will be a great deal of prejudice, too, to overcome, but it will be satisfactory to master all these difficulties one by one. and i will!" he cried with energy. "yes: sir denton is right," he added enthusiastically; "it will be a grand work, and i long to get there and begin." "and you will go without fear," she said, as if she were speaking a solemn truth. "i hope so," he said humbly; "but man is very weak. there, i am going, weak or strong, and i think you know me enough to believe that i shall do my best." "yes, i know that," she said gravely, and her voice was very low and sweet. "thank you. it encourages me," he said cheerfully. "you will give me your prayers for my success, i know." "indeed, yes," she said, as she looked up at him, and he saw her eyes were wet with tears. "don't--don't do that," he said huskily. "it is nothing to grieve for. i only say, forgive me for all the mistaken past, and--" his emotion choked him for the moment, but he struggled bravely to go on: "and i pray god to bless you in your future, and make you very happy, dear. it is your brother speaking to his sister, and my words now are an honest and self-denying as ever man spoke." "i know it," she said, with quivering lips, and her sweet voice thrilled him and made him falter; but he fought on. "i have known for long that you could speak nothing but the honest truth." "thank you," he said quickly; "thank you. you and i have worked together long now, and have had some triumphs of which we might boast. where _is_ sir denton? he ought to come, and we could chat over all of my projects. i shall write to you, of course, and tell you all i am doing, and you can give me a word or two of advice, perhaps. why, nurse--i beg your pardon--lady cicely--your name sounds strange to me, i have so lately heard it from sir denton--how grateful we all ought to be for your devotion to our good cause. forgive me for speaking so." she seemed plunged in thought, and not to hear his words, and he started, as she spoke now in alow, soft, dreamy way, as if uttering the thoughts that had occupied her for the past few minutes. "you are going out possibly to your death, neil elthorne," she said. "that is the worst that can happen." "no," she said softly, "not the worst. you are going yonder to fight with disease, forsaking all who love you, offering up your own life as a sacrifice, that yonder poor stricken creatures may live." "heaven only knows," he said solemnly. "you are going alone, to face the horrors of a pestilence without the help such as you find here." "yes, but i shall soon get assistance, and till then i must do my best." she looked across at him where he stood, and again that dim room was silent, so that the slightest sound would have been a relief. "are you fixed upon going?" she said at last; and then she started, for his voice rang out now strongly. "yes," he cried, "i must." "alone, with no hand to help you to fight this good fight? no: you must not go alone. take me with you. i will go." he started from the chimney-piece, for a wildly delirious thought made his brain reel; but she stood there before him, pale and calm, as if the words she had uttered were of the simplest kind. he made almost a superhuman effort over self as he felt that the mad thought within him must be crushed. "no," he said coldly; "your love for the profession you embraced leads you astray. i shall find nurses there. what, you?" he cried almost fiercely. "woman, your place is here." she took a step toward him, and held out her hands, and her voice was very low. "i thought all that was dead for me," she almost whispered, "that the past had burned my heart to ashes, and i have fought long and hard to do my duty in the path that i had marked out for my own through life. i did not know. neil, how could you misjudge me so!" he seemed to stagger at her words; his lips moved, but no sound came, and when at last he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse and strange. "but alison--my brother?" he cried. "alison--your brother!" she said softly, and with a trace of scorn in her tones. "how could you be so blind!" neil started violently, and gazed at the pained face before him. "am i mad?" he muttered; and then aloud: "be so blind--i blind? what do you mean? in heaven's name, speak!" she looked at him fixedly, with her eyes contracting, but she spoke no word. "do you hear me?" he cried fiercely. "you do not answer, elisia--my brother? no, no, i am not blind. i knew--i saw--he loved you from the first hour he saw you. you cannot deny it. is that false? am i blind?" "in that, no," she said coldly. "well, what is that to me? could i help the insane folly of the man who persecuted me, as you say, from the hour of my arrival at your house?" "but," he cried in a low, hoarse whisper, "i have seen and believed-- believed, but not without seeing. elisia, for pity's sake, tell me-- have i been so blind?" "in reading me, yes. neil, how could you think that i could ever love your brother? you ought to have known it was impossible." "hush! what are you saying?" he cried, as he eagerly caught her hands. "the simple truth," she said gently. "i have crushed it down, but i have loved you long and well." "no, no," he cried, "for heaven's sake! you will drive me mad." "no," she whispered; "it cannot be unwomanly at a time like this." "too late--too late!" and he drew back, covered his face with his hands, and let his head fall upon the cold marble at his side. "no," she whispered, as she clasped her hands, and laid them on his shoulder, "it is not too late. mine was but a girlish love for one unworthy of a thought, and in my youthful weakness i thought that all the world was base. i did not know. take me, neil, husband, as your faithful wife. it is not too late. we will go there hand in hand, side by side, to fight this pestilence." "what? take you there--you?" he cried, as he raised his head, and caught her hands--"take you to face that awful scourge?" "yes," she cried, raising her head proudly, "side by side with you in the awful strife. god with us, neil--our faith in his protecting shield, as i place mine in you, my brave, true hero--my love--my life." "till death do us part," cried neil, as he clasped her to his breast. "amen!" said a solemn voice, and sir denton came forward out of the darkness, and stopped by their side. "i thought i was going to the grave a childless man," he continued in a broken voice--"my son--my daughter. you have given me afresh lease of life--to live till i see you once again. i say it, children, i, the old prophet: i shall see you before i die." chapter thirty two. peace at hightoft. neil elthorne had not been a month at the west coast settlement before he began to find that the funds placed at his disposal by the home authorities would be utterly inadequate for the great work on hand. he was already crippled, and upon taking the sharer of his enterprise into his confidence he fully realised for the first time that he had married a wealthy wife, and that the accumulations of years of her large income were waiting to be utilised as he thought best. this gave the necessary impulse to his task, and for the next five years the warfare was carried on. with wonderful success? yes. to achieve all that he and lady cicely desired? no. but they fought on, unscathed by disease, which swept away its hundreds, leading, as it were, a charmed life, till reason forced it upon his busy brain that the time had come when he must return. he had done far more than the most sanguine had expected, and thousands lived to bless his name, and that of the brave, true woman ever working at his side. his departure was sudden. weakness and a strange languor had attacked his wife. she had hidden her sufferings from him lest she should hinder him in his work, but his practiced eye detected her state; and as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made, the low, miasmatic tropical shore was left behind, and in a vessel rapidly making its way north, the change was almost magical. "so well, dear," said lady cicely one bright morning, as the vessel rushed onward into purer air, and beneath brighter skies, "that i feel as if we ought to return." "no," he said, taking her hand; "we have done our work there. we have laid the foundation of a new _regime_ of comparative health for our colonies, and the inhabitants of that dreadful place; other hands must carry on the work. i shudder now as i think of all that we have gone through, and wonder that we are still alive to begin some other task at home." there had been plenty of changes since they had left england, but sir denton hayle, apparently not a day older, still paid his visits to the ward which bore his name; while ralph elthorne, vigorous in health, though helpless as a child, was at the station to welcome back his children, as he called them, to the old home, where aunt anne, grown more grey and placid, still kept house, and ignored all the past as she took her niece in her arms. alison was no longer there. he had consoled himself a year after his brother's departure by marrying saxa lydon, instead of dana, and residing at the grange. for the younger sister preferred her outdoor life, spending half the year at her old home, the other half in travelling in so strong-minded a manner that aunt anne declared she was quite shocked. as for saxa, when she decided to be alison's wife, she endowed him with her masculine habits as well as her fortune, for a couple of sturdy little _facsimiles_ of her husband brought her to the way of thinking that an english wife should be motherly and wise, so that on neil's return a wonderfully warm intimacy sprang up between the brothers' wives. there was another couple at the old home to welcome the sun-burned travellers, for sir cheltnam burwood never entered ralph elthorne's doors again, but passed out of sight entirely, living, it was said, in paris and baden. so that when the vicar's son came to hightoft as captain beck, his welcome was warm as he could wish, and his patience met with its reward. "that's the worst of it, my dear," said ralph elthorne, wrinkling up his brow, as he wheeled himself along the drive in the bright sunshine. "i don't want nursing, only helping about, and yet, now you are here, i feel sometimes as if i should like to be ill again, to wake up and see your dear face watching by my side. and so sir denton resigns his post at the hospital to neil, eh?" "yes; and we must go up at once." "tut, tut, tut! you seem only just to have come. here is neil. i say, my dear boy: about this hospital. you don't want money?" "no, father; certainly not." "then throw it up. come and settle down here. i can't spare cicely. i can't, indeed." "i'm afraid you must, sir," said neil, laughing, "unless she says i am to go to work alone. not a habit of hers, eh, my dear?" "bah! you two are children. anyone would think you had been married five days ago, instead of five years. then look here: i shall give up the old place and come and live in town." "no," said neil; "only to visit us now and then. you could not exist healthily away from your gardens and your farm. besides, isabel and saxa." "and your grandchildren," said lady cicely. "there again," the old man cried testily, "that's the worst of you two: you are always right. is a man never to have his own way here?" "never, father," said neil, taking his wife's hand. "nature says it is not to be done." "and somehow, my boy, in spite of all our planning, and vexation at being thwarted," said the old man, almost in a deprecating way, "things do happen for the best." "that has long been my faith, father, which means my dear wife's too." "yes, my boy, and mine too, now at last. here, hi! ralph, you young rascal, come and push grandpa's chair." alison's curly-headed little fellow came scampering up, to begin batting hard behind the light wheeled chair in which the old man sat; and as neil and his wife saw the old man's glee, there was a faint touch of sorrow in the husband's heart, as he thought that it might have been his son who was sturdily pushing along the old man's chair. he turned and looked half shrinkingly at his wife, as he saw that her deep eyes were fixed on his, and the next moment he knew that she could read the very secrets of his heart. for she laid her hand on his, and said softly: "our children are waiting yonder, neil, under the black clouds of the great city--our children, love--the poor, the suffering, and the weak, waiting, waiting for the healing touch of my dear husband's hand." "and for their pillows to be smoothed by their tender nurse--true woman--dearest wife." the end. produced from images generously made available by the internet archive.) [illustration: s. e. e. edmonds engraved by geo. e. perine, n. y. engraved for the nurse & spy.] nurse and spy in the union army: comprising the adventures and experiences of a woman in hospitals, camps, and battle-fields. by s. emma e. edmonds. with illustrations. published by subscription only by w. s. williams & co., hartford, conn. jones bros. & co., philadelphia and cincinnati. j. a. stoddard & co., chicago, ill. . entered according to act of congress in the year , by w. s. williams & company in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states, for the district of connecticut. printed by wiley, waterman, & eaton, hartford, conn. to the sick and wounded soldiers of the army of the potomac, this volume is respectfully inscribed by the author. embellishments. portrait engraved on steel by geo. e. perine, n. y. disguises and other scenes, drawn and engraved on wood by r. o'brien, new york. page. portrait of the author, frontispiece. hospital tree at fair oaks, catering for hospitals, disguised as a contraband, making hoe-cake for a sick rebel, acting orderly on the battle-field, riding for life, relief for the famishing, disguised as female contraband, an interesting patient, playing possum, paying a debt of gratitude, bursting of a shell in vicksburg, publishers' notice. no apology is necessary for adding one more to the numerous "war books" which already fill a large space in american literature; for, to the general reader, nothing connected with the rebellion can be more interesting than the personal experiences of those who have been intimately associated with the different phases of military life, in camp, field, and hospital. the "nurse and spy" is simply a record of events which have transpired in the experience and under the observation of one who has been on the field and participated in numerous battles--among which are the first and second bull run, williamsburg, fair oaks, the seven days in front of richmond, antietam, and fredericksburg--serving in the capacity of "spy" and as "field nurse" for over two years. while in the "secret service" as a "spy," which is one of the most hazardous positions in the army--she penetrated the enemy's lines, in various disguises, no less than eleven times; always with complete success and without detection. her efficient labors in the different hospitals as well as her arduous duties as "field nurse," embrace many thrilling and touching incidents, which are here most graphically described. should any of her readers object to some of her disguises, it may be sufficient to remind them it was from the purest motives and most praiseworthy patriotism, that she laid aside, for a time, her own costume, and assumed that of the opposite sex, enduring hardships, suffering untold privations, and hazarding her life for her adopted country, in its trying hour of need. in the opinion of many, it is the privilege of woman to minister to the sick and soothe the sorrowing--and in the present crisis of our country's history, to aid our brothers to the extent of her capacity--and whether duty leads her to the couch of luxury, the abode of poverty, the crowded hospital, or the terrible battle field--it makes but little difference what costume she assumes while in the discharge of her duties.--perhaps she should have the privilege of choosing for herself whatever may be the surest protection from insult and inconvenience in her blessed, self-sacrificing work. the moral character of the work,--being true to virtue, patriotism, and philanthropy--together with the fine embellishments and neat mechanical execution--will, we trust, render it an interesting and welcome visitor at every fireside. contents. chapter i. pages - . commencement of the war--my home and my duty--i enlist in the cause--excitement at the west--troops on the march--mobs at baltimore--temporary hospitals--unavoidable evils--begging for comforts--supplies for the sick--camp hospitals--thunder storms in camp--a dying officer--soldiers in the public buildings--preparations for the advance. chapter ii. pages - . marching orders--removal of the sick--a young patient--visit from his mother--march toward manassas--collecting supplies--fatigues of the march--preparations for battle--a camp prayer meeting--divisions detailed--my place on the field--"rather close quarters"--a battle sunday--skulking from the field. chapter iii. pages - . water for the wounded--col. cameron killed--scenes on the battle-field--burnside's brigade--capture of griffin's and rickett's batteries--rebels reinforced--the panic and retreat--the wounded at centerville--my reconnoissance--an insane woman on the field--hiding from the enemy--return to the wounded--expectation of capture--escape from the rebels--my walk to alexandria--footsore and weary--arrival in washington--letters from dead soldiers' friends. chapter iv. pages - . washington after bull run--demoralization of the army--sick soldiers--hospital scenes--extracts from my journal--sympathy of soldiers--fishing for the sick--a fish-loving dutchman--reorganization of the army--a visit to the pickets--picket duties and dangers--the army inactive--mcclellan's address--marching orders again--embarkation of the army for fortress monroe--the crowded transports--description of the monitor--her build, armament, turret and engines. chapter v. pages - . arrival at fortress monroe--the village of hampton--visiting the contrabands--arrival of fugitives--a real "camp meeting"--feeding the negroes--camp miseries--mules--miss periwinkle's mules--the coquettish, the moral, the histrionic, and the pathetic mule--our jack--lines of love--my box and presents--a three-story cake--a serenade and surprise party--good and bad chaplains--the morals of the army--slanders about soldiers. chapter vi. pages - . the march to yorktown--scarcity of supplies--camp cookery--different characters in the army--arrival of trains--change of camp--trying to shell us out--the old saw-mill--a constant target--assaults on our outposts--a rebel appeal--yorktown and vicinity--the situation--balloon reconnoissances--prof. lowe on high--rebel vixens--a curious visit--a strange hostess--she tries to kill me--i wound her and capture a prisoner--a conversion--the secesh woman becomes a federal nurse. chapter vii. pages - . a lost friend--death of lieutenant james v.--his burial--the grave by night--my vow--a soldier-chaplain--recognitions in heaven--doubts and dissatisfaction--capture of a spy--my examinations at headquarters--my disguise as a spy--i am metamorphosed into a contraband--hired as a cook--biscuit making--the doctor's tea. chapter viii. pages - . my first secret expedition--my work among contrabands--pickaxe, shovel and wheelbarrow--counting the guns in a rebel fortification--a change of work--carrying water to the rebel soldiers--generals lee and johnson--the rebel force at yorktown--a council of war--turning white again--a rebel spy--lieutenant v.'s murderer--on picket duty--my return to our lines--i put on uniform and make my report. chapter ix. pages - . evacuation of yorktown--our army on the double quick--pursuit of the fugitives--the enemy's works--a battle--on the field--a "wounded," and not injured colonel--carrying the wounded--fort magruder silenced--the victory won--burying the dead--story of a ring--wounded rebels--a brave young sergeant--christian soldiers--a soldier's death-bed--closing scenes--last words. chapter x. pages - . mcclellan's despatch from ewell's farm--call for reinforcements--news from norfolk--description of the merrimac--the engagement in hampton roads--first and last fight of the merrimac--victory of the monitor--advance on the peninsula--the battle song--a muddy march--on the chickahominy--critical position of general banks--the president's despatches--mcclellan's reply. chapter xi. pages - . another disguise--i become an irish peddler--fever and ague--a night of suffering in the swamp--retrospection--lost in the swamp--cannon my guides--a sick rebel--i find something to eat--my new patient--sympathy for suffering--talk with a dying rebel--a willing detention--extemporizing a light--the last hour--soldiers of christ--the chamber of death. chapter xii. pages - . am i a stoic?--someone's darling--completing my disguise--another start for the rebel lines--peppering my eyes--challenged by a picket--a cockney sentinel--getting information--plenty of beef, but no salt--rice and corn meal bread--preparing to visit headquarters--interview with major mckee--the major's misplaced confidence--return for the body of the rebel captain--my look-out for yankees--new orders. chapter xiii. pages - . our communications with the chickahominy--porter's successes--despatches to the president--his reply--hanover court house--terrible storm and flood--hopes of the enemy--a sudden and strong attack--i act as an orderly--through the flood--my return and report--joyful news--my own disaster--scenes in the old mill--waiting on the wounded--my sufferings by the roadside--a hard-hearted chaplain--a stumbling block. chapter xiv. pages - . renewal of the battle--victory for the federal arms--address to the army--more despatches--my battle trophy--pony reb's performances--the hospital tree--touching scenes--bishop simpson--the cross and the flag--after the battle--delays by storms, floods and mud--mcclellan's call for more men--in readiness to march--promised reinforcements. chapter xv. pages - . leave of absence--visit to the williamsburg hospitals--effective preaching--yorktown revisited--longings--white house landing--tired of idleness--preparations to return to duty--stuart's cavalry raid--a train fired into--fair oaks grove--the strength of the enemy--trying times on the peninsula--the endurance of our soldiers--labors of mr. alvord. chapter xvi. pages - . change of base across the peninsula--evacuation of white house--the movement--battle of mechanicsville--gaines' mill--a repulse--mcclellan's despatch--hospitals in danger--convalescent officers--lending my horse--a lottery--inspecting farm stock--catching a colt--danger of capture--riding for life--between two fires. chapter xvii. pages - . withdrawal to malvern hill--the soldier's last watch--trowbridge's grave--scenes in a hospital--capture of the wounded--a noble surgeon--line of battle--hard fighting--the enemy repulsed--hunting for food--in a farm-house--perilous position--securing the spoils--relief of the famishing--sublime scene--on the march--general keyes--gun-boats--arrival at harrison's landing--sad condition of troops--our losses--mcclellan's address to the army. chapter xviii. pages - . return of old acquaintances--the wounded colonel--i visit washington--military display--epaulets--aristocracy--spirit of johnny bull--soldiers' free library--contraband camp--negro testimony--patient charley--painful position--brother's last conversation--return to the army--christian commission--general howard's speech. chapter xix. pages - . my constant companion--dispelling the blues--gentle nellie--faces in the hospital--asleep and awake--my horse again--at harrison's landing--impatient to move--dissatisfaction in the army--retreat from richmond--return to newport news--suspicious quarters--searching the house and finding rebel soldiers--thanks to the army--our arrival at acquia creek. chapter xx. pages - . pope's army--a general s request--again a contraband--entering the rebel lines as a spy--my escape to the federal lines--in peril--kearney killed--crawling through the woods--burial of a picket--looking for a general--mr. negative--mcclellan and pope--the battle of antietam--a touching death-scene--an interesting patient--burial of a female soldier. chapter xxi. pages - . after antietam--surgeons on the field--the hospitals--lieutenant-colonel dwight mortally wounded--a brutal surgeon--a wounded captain--agony from thirst--christian soldiers--praying and fighting--fops on the field--a rebel programme--pennsylvania to be stripped--camp life--daily routine--burial services. chapter xxii. pages - . a military execution--the preparations--the death--harper's ferry--old john brown--contrast--advance into virginia--condition of the army--a dreary ride--a green guard--seeking shelter--a guerrilla fight--my horse killed--playing possum--my pockets picked--a narrow escape--return to camp--an interesting meeting. chapter xxiii. pages - . mcclellan removed--his address--burnside in command--on the march--my ride--old battlefields--sad sights--"yankee skulls"--"bone ornaments"--falmouth--shelling fredericksburg--pontoon bridges--occupation of the city--aide-de-camp--dreadful slaughter--a gallant major--strange sights--dark night--death of general bayard--someone's pet--recrossing the rappahannock. chapter xxiv. pages - . after the battle--sufferings of the wounded--general burnside's order--"stuck in the mud"--hooker in command--western campaign--cavalry reconnoissance--another disguise--again in dixie--a wedding party--in a trap--rebel conscript--on the march--a rebel captain--a fierce engagement--paying a debt of gratitude--again under the old flag. chapter xxv. pages - . appointed detective--i visit louisville--secesh acquaintances--seeking employment--peddling--rebel spies--acting as clerk--trapping spies--start for vicksburg--pro-slavery troops--cruelty to negroes--visiting hospitals--touching scenes--an armless soldier--patient suffering--triumphant death--rally round the flag--western chaplains--soldiers' testimony--effect of prayer in battle--carrying the wounded. chapter xxvi. pages - . a unionist from the rebel army--his testimony--southern hospitals--patriotism--female recruiting--crinoline--"sweet little man"--confederate system--north and south contrasted--rebel impressment--brothers' cruelty--dying for the union--fate of a tennessee patriot--on the mississippi--invisible attraction--an important question--moral sublimity--contrabands jubilee. chapter xxvii. pages - . arrival at vicksburg--its surroundings--grant's army--assault on the rebel works--the seven color-bearers--pemberton's harangue--in the trenches--sufferings of the wounded--pemberton's proposed capitulation--grant's reply--terms of surrender--occupation of the city--loss of the enemy--complimentary letter--grant's success--attachment of his soldiers--"fighting dick"--gold lace--rebel sufferings--sights in vicksburg--incidents of the siege--cave life. chapter xxviii. pages - . western gibraltar--the "lead miners"--the palmetto exchanged for the stars and stripes--enthusiasm of troops--sufferings forgotten--i am attacked by fever--unfit for duty--"vicksburg is ours"--spirit yearnings--"rock me to sleep mother"--imposition of steamboat officers--grant's care for his men--bursting of a shell in camp--consequences--speechless agony--i am released from duty--my trip to cairo--miss mary safford--arrival at washington. chapter xxix. pages - . review of hospital and camp life--questions answered--behind the scenes--blessed employment--living past scenes over again--my most important labors--mother and son--strange power of sympathy--hero's repose--officers and men--the bravest are kindest--general sedgwick--battle scenes--mr. alvord's description--volunteer surgeons--heart sickening sights--an awful picture--female nurses--sentimental--patriotic--medical department--young surgeons--anecdotes. chapter xxx. pages - . closing incidents--professor lowe's balloon--fitz john porter's adventure--his upward flight--reconnoitering from a dangerous position--cool courage--enthusiastic greeting--an earnest inquirer--a baptism in the army--preaching by moonlight--a magnificent scene--a wedding in camp--gay times--a contrast--hospital in winchester--spirit of revenge--sable heroine--a white darkey--colored soldiers--conclusion. [illustration: hospital tree at fair oaks.--page .] nurse and spy. chapter i. commencement of the war--my home and my duty--i enlist in the cause--excitement at the west--troops on the march--mobs at baltimore--temporary hospitals--unavoidable evils--begging for comforts--supplies for the sick--camp hospitals--thunders storms in camp--a dying officer--soldiers in the public buildings--preparations for the advance. early in the spring of , i was returning from the far west, and as i sat waiting for the train which was to bear me to my adopted home in new england, and was meditating upon the events which had transpired during the past few months, the record of which was destined to blacken the fair pages of american history, i was aroused from my reverie by a voice in the street crying "new york herald--fall of fort sumter--president's proclamation--call for seventy-five thousand men!" this announcement startled me, while my imagination portrayed the coming struggle in all its fearful magnitude. war, civil war, with all its horrors seemed inevitable, and even then was ready to burst like a volcano upon the most happy and prosperous nation the sun ever shone upon. the contemplation of this sad picture filled my eyes with tears and my heart with sorrow. it is true, i was not an american--i was not obliged to remain here during this terrible strife--i could return to my native land where my parents would welcome me to the home of my childhood, and my brothers and sisters would rejoice at my coming. but these were not the thoughts which occupied my mind. it was not my intention, or desire, to seek my own personal ease and comfort while so much sorrow and distress filled the land. but the great question to be decided, was, what can i do? what part am i to act in this great drama? i was not able to decide for myself--so i carried this question to the throne of grace, and found a satisfactory answer there. five years previous to the time of which i write, i left my rural home, not far from the banks of the st. john's river, in the province of new brunswick, and made my way to the united states. an insatiable thirst for education led me to do this, for i believed then, as now, that the "foreign missionary" field was the one in which i must labor, sooner or later. i came here a stranger, with but little to recommend me to the favorable notice of the good people, except a letter from the pastor of the church to which i belonged, and one from my class-leader--notwithstanding, i found kind friends to help me in all my undertakings, and whether in business, education, or spiritual advancement, i have been assisted beyond my highest expectation. i thank god that i am permitted in this hour of my adopted country's need to express a tithe of the gratitude which i feel toward the people of the northern states. ten days after the president's proclamation was issued, i was ready to start for washington, having been employed by the government, and furnished with all the necessary equipments. i was not merely to go to washington and remain there until a battle had been fought and the wounded brought in, and then in some comfortable hospital sit quietly and fan the patients, after the surgeon had dressed their wounds; but i was to go to the front and participate in all the excitement of the battle scenes, or in other words, be a "field nurse." the great west was stirred to its center, and began to look like a vast military camp. recruiting offices were filled with men eager to enroll their names as defenders of their country--and women were busily engaged in preparing all the comforts that love and patriotism could suggest, for those who were so soon to go forth to victory or to death, while the clash of arms and strains of martial music almost drowned the hum of industry, and war became the theme of every tongue. about this time i witnessed the departure of the first western troops which started for washington. the regiments were drawn up in line--fully equipped for their journey--with their bright bayonets flashing in the morning sunlight. it was on the principal street of a pleasant little village of about a thousand inhabitants, where there was scarcely a family who had not a father, husband, son, or brother in that little band of soldiers who stood there ready to bid them farewell, perhaps for years--perhaps forever. a farewell address was delivered by the village pastor, and a new testament presented to each soldier, with the following inscription: "put your trust in god--and keep your powder dry." then came the leave-taking--but it is too painful to dwell upon--the last fond word was spoken, the last embrace given, then came the order "march"--and amid the cheers of the citizens--with banners proudly floating, and the bands playing "the star spangled banner," they moved forward on their way to the capital. on looking back now upon the scenes of that morning, notwithstanding i have looked upon others much more thrilling since then, yet i cannot recall that hour without feelings of deep emotion. while i stood there and beheld those manly forms convulsed with emotion, and heard the sobs of those whom they were leaving behind, i could only thank god that i was free and could go forward and work, and was not obliged to stay at home and weep. a few hours more, and i, too, was on my way to washington. when i reached baltimore i found the city in an uproar--mobs were gathered in the streets and the utmost excitement prevailed: and as the crowded cars moved through the city toward the depot, the infuriated mob threw showers of stones, brickbats, and other missiles, breaking the windows and wounding some of the soldiers. some of the men could not forbear firing into the crowd--notwithstanding their orders were to the contrary--however, it had a good effect, for the mob soon dispersed; they probably had not forgotten the sixth massachusetts and the pennsylvania troops which had passed through a short time before. the cars soon reached the depot, and started immediately for washington--where we arrived in due time--weary, and in great need of food and sleep. soon after reaching washington i commenced visiting the temporary hospitals which were prepared to receive the soldiers who arrived there sick. the troops came pouring in so fast, and the weather being extremely warm, all the general hospitals were soon filled, and it seemed impossible to prepare suitable, or comfortable, accommodations for all who required medical attention. there are many things in connection with this war that we are disposed to find fault with, and we think the blame rests upon such and such individuals--but after investigating the matter, we find that they are all owing to a combination of circumstances entirely beyond the control of those individuals--and it requires time to bring about the desired results. this has been my experience with regard to the hospital department. after walking through the streets for hours on a sultry southern day in search of one of those temporary hospitals, i would find a number of men there delirious with fever--others had been sun-struck and carried there--but no physician to be found in attendance. then, i would naturally come to the conclusion that the surgeons were all slack concerning their duty--but upon going to the office of the surgeon in charge of that department, would find that a certain number of surgeons were detailed every morning to visit those hospitals, and were faithfully performing their duty; but that the number of hospitals and patients were increasing so fast that it required all day to make the tour. consequently the last ones visited were obliged to wait and suffer--without any blame attaching to the surgeons. then another great evil was to be remedied--there were thousands of sick men to be taken care of--but for these the government had made no provision as regards more delicate kinds of food--nothing but hard bread, coffee and pork, for sick and well, alike. the sanitary commission had not yet come into operation and the consequence was our poor sick soldiers suffered unspeakably from want of proper nourishment. i was speaking upon this subject one day to chaplain b. and his wife--my constant companions in hospital labor--when mrs. b. suggested that she and i should appeal to the sympathies of the ladies of washington and georgetown, and try our hand at begging. i agreed to the proposal at once, and wondered why i had not thought of it myself--among all my schemes for alleviating the sufferings of these men, it had never entered into my head to _beg_ for them. we decided to go to georgetown first and if we succeeded there, to canvass washington. so we started, and commenced operations by calling first upon a clergyman's wife. we made inquiry there with regard to our prospects of success, and the sentiments of the ladies generally upon the war question, and finding that the majority were in our favor, we started again quite hopefully--but not until the lady above mentioned had given us an order on her grocer to the amount of five dollars. i gave sister b. the credit of that, for i had introduced her as the wife of the rev. mr. b., chaplain of the th. then i suggested that we should separate for a few hours--she to take one street and i another, so that we might sooner get through the city. my next call was at a doctor's mansion, but i did not find the lady at home; however, i learned that the doctor in question kept a drug-store near by; she might be there; went, but found no lady; thought fit to make my business known to the doctor, and the consequence was, half a dozen bottles of blackberry wine and two of lemon syrup, with a cordial invitation to call again. so prospered our mission throughout the day, and at the close of it we had a sufficient supply of groceries, brandy, ice, jellies, etc., to fill our little ambulance; and oh, what a change those little delicacies wrought upon our poor sick boys. we were encouraged by that day's work, to continue our efforts in that direction, and finally made dr. w.'s store a depot for the donations of those kind friends who wished to assist us in restoring to health the defenders of our beloved country. typhoid fever began to make its appearance in camp, as the burning sun of june came pouring down upon us, and the hospitals were soon crowded with its victims. it was then that my labors began in earnest, and as i went from tent to tent, ministering to the wants of those delirious, helpless men, i wondered if there ever was a "missionary field" which promised a richer harvest, than the one in which i was already engaged; and oh, how thankful i was that it was my privilege to take some small part in so great a work. i shall notice, briefly, the manner in which the hospitals are conducted in camp. there are large tents furnished for hospital purposes, which will accommodate from twenty to twenty-five men. these tents are usually put up in the most pleasant and shady part of the camp; the inside is nicely leveled, and board floors laid, if boards can be procured, if not, rubber blankets are laid down instead. sometimes there are straw ticks and cot bedsteads furnished, but not in sufficient quantity to supply all the hospitals. along each side of the tent the sick are laid, on blankets or cots, leaving room to pass between the beds. in the center of the tent stands a temporary board table, on which are kept books, medicines, et cetera. the hospital corps consists of a surgeon, an assistant surgeon, a hospital steward, a ward-master, four nurses, two cooks, and a man of all work to carry water, cut wood, and make himself generally useful. the immediate care of the sick devolves upon those four nurses, who are generally detailed from the ranks, each one being on duty six hours without intermission. the surgeons visit the patients twice every day, oftener if required; the prescriptions are filled by the hospital steward, and the medicine is administered by the nurses. the nurses are usually very kind to the sick, and when off duty in the hospital, spend much of their time in digging drains around the tents, planting evergreens, and putting up awnings, all of which add much to the coolness and comfort of the hospital. draining the grounds is a very important part of hospital duty, for when those terrible thunder-storms come, which are so frequent in the south, it is morally impossible to keep the tent floors from being flooded, unless there are drains all around the tents. great excitement prevails in camp during those tempests--the rain comes down in torrents, while the wind blows a hurricane--lifting the tents from the ground, and throwing everything into wild confusion. i have seen a dozen men stand for hours around one hospital, holding down the ropes and tent poles to prevent the sick from being exposed to the raging elements. in one of those storms, i saw a tent blown down, in which one of our officers lay suffering from typhoid fever. we did our best to keep him dry until a stretcher could be procured, but all in vain. notwithstanding we wrapped him in rubber blankets and shawls, yet the rain penetrated them all, and by the time he was carried to a house, a quarter of a mile distant, he was completely drenched. he was a noble fellow and i love to speak of him. mrs. b. and i remained with him alternately until he died, which was five days from that time. we sent for his wife, who arrived just in time to see him die. he was unconscious when she came, and we were standing around his cot watching every shadow which the sable wing of advancing death cast upon his features, and eagerly looking for a single ray of returning reason. he looked up suddenly, and seeing his wife standing weeping, he beckoned her to come to him. kneeling beside him, she bent her ear close to the lips of the dying man. he whispered distinctly, "i am going--the way is bright, don't weep--farewell!" a little later he was asked, "what is the foundation of your hope of heaven?" his face was calm and beautiful in its expression, and his splendid dark eyes lit up with holy confidence and trust, as he replied, "christ--christ!" these were his last words. glorious words for a dying soldier. he lingered a few hours, and then quietly and peacefully breathed out his life. so passed away one of the most exemplary men it has ever been my lot to meet, either in the army or elsewhere. the same day, the sorrowing widow, with the remains of her beloved and noble husband, started for her northern home; and that christian patriot now sleeps in a beautiful little cemetery near the city of detroit, michigan, having rendered up his life a willing sacrifice for his country. mrs. b. was desirous of visiting some of the public buildings in washington and wished me to accompany her. i did so, but found that it was almost impossible to get along through the crowded streets. the gallant troops were coming in by thousands from every loyal state in the union. the capitol and white house were common places of resort for soldiers. arms were stacked in the rotunda of the one and the lobbies of the other, while our "noble boys in blue" lounged in the cushioned seats of members of congress, or reclined in easy chairs in the president's mansion. camps of instruction were prepared near the city, while every hillside and valley for miles around was thickly dotted with snow white tents. soldiers drilling, fatigue parties building forts, artillery practicing, and the supply trains moving to and from the various headquarters, presented a picture deeply interesting. as i rode from camp to camp and contemplated that immense army concentrating its force on the banks of the potomac, and saw with what zeal and enthusiasm the soldiers entered upon their duties, i could but feel assured of the speedy termination of the conflict, and look forward with eager anticipation to the day when that mighty host would advance upon the enemy, and like an overwhelming torrent sweep rebellion from the land. chapter ii. marching orders--removal of the sick--a young patient--visit from his mother--march toward manassas--collecting supplies--fatigues of the march--preparations for battle--a camp prayer meeting--divisions detailed--my place on the field--"rather close quarters"--a battle sunday--skulking from the field. marching orders received to-day--two days more, and the army of the potomac will be on its way to bull run. i find this registered in my journal july th, , without any comment whatever. but i do not require a journal to refresh my memory with regard to the events of those two days of preparation which followed their announcement. the army of the potomac was soon to meet the enemy for the first time--a great battle was to be fought. oh, what excitement and enthusiasm that order produced--nothing could be heard but the wild cheering of the men, as regiment after regiment received their orders. the possibility of a defeat never seemed to enter the mind of any. all the sick in camp now were to be sent to washington, clothes changed, knapsacks packed, letters written home, packages sent to the express office, etc. after all was done, everything in readiness, and the sick men tenderly laid in the ambulances, mrs. b. said: "now let us go to every ambulance and bid the boys good-bye." as we passed along from one ambulance to another, speaking words of encouragement to each soldier, many a tear would start from grateful eyes, and many a feeble voice uttered an earnest "god bless you," while others would draw from their bosoms some cherished relic, and give as a token of remembrance. oh how hard it was to part with those men, with whom we had watched so many weary days and nights--we felt that they had, truly, "become endeared to us through suffering." there was one patient, however, we did not put into an ambulance, and who was a great source of anxiety to us. he lay there upon a stretcher close by, waiting to be carried to a house not far distant. he was young, not seventeen, with clear blue eyes, curly auburn hair, and a broad, white brow; his mother's pride, and an only son. two weeks previously he had been attacked with typhoid fever. the surgeon said, "you may do all you can for him, but it is a hopeless case." mrs. b. had devoted most of her time to him and i was often called to assist her. he was delirious and became quite unmanageable at times, and it required all the strength we possessed to keep him in bed; but now the delirium of fever had passed away and he was helpless as an infant. we had written for his mother to come if possible, and had just received a letter from her, stating that she was on her way to washington; but would she come before we were obliged to leave? oh, we hoped so, and were anxiously looking for her. the ambulances started with their freight of emaciated, suffering men. slowly that long train wound its way toward the city looking like a great funeral procession, and sadly we turned to our remaining patient, who was deeply affected at the removal of his comrades. he was then carried to the house above mentioned and a nurse left to take care of him, while we were obliged to prepare for our own comfort on the long weary march which was so near at hand. we had just commenced to pack our saddle-bags, when we heard an unusual noise, as of some one crying piteously, and going out to learn the cause of the excitement, whom should we find but the mother of our handsome blue-eyed patient. she had called at the surgeon's tent to inquire for her son, and he had told her that all the sick had been sent to washington, he having forgotten for the moment, the exception with regard to her son. the first words i heard were spoken in the most touching manner--"oh, why did you send away my boy? i wrote you i was coming; oh, why did you send him away!" i shall never forget the expression of that mother's face as she stood there wringing her hands and repeating the question. we very soon rectified the mistake which the surgeon had made, and in a few moments she was kneeling by the bedside of her darling boy, and we returned rejoicing that it had been our privilege to "deliver him to his mother." oh, how many, who come to washington in search of loved ones, are caused unnecessary pain, yes, weeks of torturing suspense and fruitless search, in consequence of some little mistake on the part of a surgeon, a nurse, or some person who is supposed to know just where the sought for are to be found. the th of july dawned bright and clear, and everything being in readiness, the army of the potomac took up its line of march for manassas. in gay spirits the army moved forward, the air resounding with the music of the regimental bands, and patriotic songs of the soldiers. no gloomy forebodings seemed to damp the spirits of the men, for a moment, but "on to richmond," was echoed and re-echoed, as that vast army moved rapidly over the country. i felt strangely out of harmony with the wild, joyous spirit which pervaded the troops. as i rode slowly along, watching those long lines of bayonets as they gleamed and flashed in the sunlight, i thought that many, very many, of those enthusiastic men who appeared so eager to meet the enemy, would never return to relate the success or defeat of that splendid army. even if victory should perch upon their banners, and i had no doubt it would, yet many noble lives must be sacrificed ere it could be obtained. the main column reached fairfax toward evening and encamped for the night. col. r.'s wife of the second ----, mrs. b. and myself were, i think, the only three females who reached fairfax that night. the day had been extremely hot, and not being accustomed to ride all day beneath a burning sun, we felt its effects very sensibly, and consequently, hailed with joy the order to encamp for the night. notwithstanding the heat and fatigue of the day's march, the troops were in high spirits, and immediately began preparing supper. some built fires while others went in search of, and appropriated, every available article which might in any way add to the comfort of hungry and fatigued men. the whole neighborhood was ransacked for milk, butter, eggs, poultry, etc. which were found insufficient in quantity to supply the wants of such a multitude. there might have been heard some stray shots fired in the direction of a field where a drove of cattle were quietly grazing; and soon after the odor of fresh steak was issuing from every part of the camp. i wish to state, however, that all "raids" made upon hen-coops, etc. were contrary to the orders of the general in command, for during the day i had seen men put under arrest for shooting chickens by the roadside. i was amused to hear the answer of a hopeful young darkey cook, when interrogated with regard to the broiled chickens and beef steak which he brought on for supper. col. r. demanded, in a very stern voice, "jack, where did you get that beef steak and those chickens?" "massa, i'se carried dem cl'ar from washington; thought i'd cook 'em 'fore dey sp'il'd"; and then added, with a broad grin, "i aint no thief, i aint." col. r. replied: "that will do, jack, you can go now." then the colonel told us how he had seen jack running out of a house, as he rode along, and a woman ran out calling after him with all her might, but jack never looked behind him, but escaped as fast as he could, and was soon out of sight. said he, "i thought the young rascal had been up to some mischief, so i rode up and asked the woman what was the matter, and found he had stolen all her chickens; i asked her how much they were worth; she "reckoned" about two dollars. i think she made a pretty good hit, for after i paid her, she told me she had had only two chickens." supper being over, pickets posted, and camp guards detailed, all became quiet for the night. early the next morning the reveille beat, the whole camp was soon in motion, and after a slight breakfast from our haversacks the march was resumed. the day was very hot, and we found great difficulty in obtaining water, the want of which caused the troops much suffering. many of the men were sun-struck, and others began to drop out of the ranks from exhaustion. all such as were not able to march were put into ambulances and sent back to washington. toward noon, the tedium of the march began to be enlivened by sharp volleys of musketry, in the direction of the advance guard; but those alarms were only occasioned by our skirmishers, pouring a volley into everything which looked as if it might contain a masked battery, or a band of the enemy's sharpshooters. considerable excitement prevailed throughout the day, as we were every hour in expectation of meeting the enemy. carefully feeling its way, however, the army moved steadily on, investigating every field, building, and ravine, for miles in front and to the right and left, until it reached centerville, where we halted for the night. the troops now began to feel the effects of the march, and there was evidently a lack of that pic-nic hilarity which had characterized them the day before. several regiments had been supplied with new shoes the day before leaving camp, and they found by sad experience, that they were not the most comfortable things to march in, as their poor blistered feet testified; in many cases their feet were literally raw, the thick woolen stockings having chafed the skin off. mrs. b. and i, having provided ourselves before leaving camp, with a quantity of linen, bandages, lint, ointment, etc. found it very convenient now, even before a shot had been fired by the enemy. our surgeons began to prepare for the coming battle, by appropriating several buildings and fitting them up for the wounded--among others the stone church at centerville--a church which many a soldier will remember, as long as memory lasts. late that evening as i was returning from this church, accompanied by mr. and mrs. b., i proposed that we should walk through the entire camp to see how the boys were employed, on this, the eve of their first battle. we found many engaged in writing by the glimmering light of the camp-fire--soldiers always carry writing materials on a march; some were reading their bibles, perhaps with more than usual interest; while others sat in groups, conversing in low earnest tones; but the great mass were stretched upon the ground, wrapped in their blankets, fast asleep, and all unconscious of the dangers of the morrow. we were about to return to our quarters in a log cabin built by the rebel soldiers, and which had been evacuated only a few days previous, when we heard several voices singing in a little grove not far from camp. we turned and walked toward the grove, until we could hear distinctly, the words of the following beautiful hymn: "o, for a faith that will not shrink, though press'd by every foe, that will not tremble on the brink of any earthly woe; that will not murmur or complain beneath the chastening rod, but, in the hour of grief and pain, will lean upon its god; a faith that shines more bright and clear when tempests rage without; that, when in danger, knows no fear, in darkness knows no doubt." "ah!" exclaimed mr. b., "i recognize willie l.'s voice there. i understand now; this is willie's prayer meeting night, and notwithstanding the fatigue of the march and blistered feet, he has not forgotten it." we drew nearer to listen to and enjoy the exercises unperceived, for no sooner had the last words of the hymn died away on the still midnight air, than willie's clear voice rose in prayer, filling the grove with its rich, pathetic tones. he prayed for victory on the morrow, for his comrades, for loved ones at home, and his voice grew tremulous with emotion, as he plead with the saviour to comfort and support his widowed mother, if he should fall in battle. then followed a practical talk about being faithful soldiers of jesus, as well as of their beloved country; of the necessity of being prepared at any moment, to lay down the cross and take up the crown. one after another prayed and spoke, until about a dozen--and that included the whole number present--had addressed the throne of grace, and testified to the power of the gospel of christ in the salvation of sinners. no one was called upon to pray or speak, no one said he had nothing to say and then talked long enough to prove it, no one excused his inability to interest his brethren, and no time was lost by delay, but every one did his duty, and did it promptly. we retired feeling refreshed and encouraged. after ascertaining the position of the enemy, gen. mcdowell ordered forward three divisions, commanded by heintzelman, hunter and tyler, miles being left in reserve at centerville. sunday morning before dawn, those three divisions moved forward, presenting a magnificent spectacle, as column after column wound its way over the green hills and through the hazy valleys, with the soft moonlight falling on the long lines of shining steel. not a drum or bugle was heard during the march, and the deep silence was only broken by the rumbling of artillery, the muffled tread of infantry, or the low hum of thousands of subdued voices. the divisions separated where three roads branch off toward bull run, each taking the road leading to its respective position. soon the morning broke bright and clear, bringing the two contending armies in plain sight of each other. the enemy was posted on heights that rose in regular slopes from the shore crowned here and there by earthworks. the woods that interfered with his cannon ranges had all been cut away, and his guns had a clean sweep of every approach. on our side the descent was more gradual, and covered with a dense forest. the roar of artillery soon announced that the battle had actually commenced. mrs. b. and myself took our position on the field, according to orders, in connection with gen. heintzelman's division, having delivered our horses to jack for safe keeping, with strict orders to remain where he was, for we might require them at any moment. i imagine now, i see mrs. b., as she stood there, looking as brave as possible, with her narrow brimmed leghorn hat, black cloth riding habit, shortened to walking length by the use of a page, a silver-mounted seven-shooter in her belt, a canteen of water swung over one shoulder and a flask of brandy over the other, and a haversack with provision, lint, bandages, adhesive plaster, etc. hanging by her side. she was tall and slender, with dark brown hair, pale face, and blue eyes. chaplain b. sat upon his horse looking as solemn as if standing face to face with the angel of death. the first man i saw killed was a gunner belonging to col. r.'s command. a shell had burst in the midst of the battery, killing one and wounding three men and two horses. mr. b. jumped from his horse, hitched it to a tree, and ran forward to the battery; mrs. b. and i following his example as fast as we could. i stooped over one of the wounded, who lay upon his face weltering in his blood; i raised his head, and who should it be but willie l. he was mortally wounded in the breast, and the tide of life was fast ebbing away; the stretchers were soon brought, and he was carried from the field. seeing the disaster from a distance, col. r. rode up to the battery, and as he was engaged in giving orders, a solid shot came whizzing by in such close proximity to his head, that it stunned him for a moment; but soon recovering, he turned up the side of his head and shrugged his shoulders, a peculiarity of his, and in his usual nasal twang, said, "rather close quarters," and rode away, apparently as unconcerned as if it had been a humming bird which crossed his path. but not content with admonishing the colonel, the same shot struck my poor little flask of brandy which lay near me on a drum-head, shattering it as spitefully as if sent by the combined force of the order of "good templars." now the battle began to rage with terrible fury. nothing could be heard save the thunder of artillery, the clash of steel, and the continuous roar of musketry. oh, what a scene for the bright sun of a holy sabbath morning to shine upon! instead of the sweet influences which we associate with the sabbath--the chiming of church bells calling us to the house of prayer, the sabbath school, and all the solemn duties of the sanctuary, there was confusion, destruction and death. there was no place of safety for miles around; the safest place was the post of duty. many that day who turned their backs upon the enemy and sought refuge in the woods some two miles distant, were found torn to pieces by shell, or mangled by cannon ball--a proper reward for those who, insensible to shame, duty, or patriotism, desert their cause and comrades in the trying hour of battle, and skulk away cringing under the fear of death. chapter iii. water for the wounded--col. cameron killed--scenes on the battle-field--burnside's brigade--capture of griffin's and rickett's batteries--rebels reinforced--the panic and retreat--the wounded at centerville--my reconnoissance--an insane woman on the field--hiding from the enemy--return to the wounded--expectation of capture--escape from the rebels--my walk to alexandria--footsore and weary--arrival in washington--letters from dead soldiers' friends. i was hurried off to centerville, a distance of seven miles, for a fresh supply of brandy, lint, etc. when i returned, the field was literally strewn with wounded, dead and dying. mrs. b. was nowhere to be found. had she been killed or wounded? a few moments of torturing suspense and then i saw her coming toward me, running her horse with all possible speed, with about fifty canteens hanging from the pommel of her saddle. to all my inquiries there was but one answer: "don't stay to care for the wounded now; the troops are famishing with thirst and are beginning to fall back." mr. b. then rode up with the same order, and we three started for a spring a mile distant, having gathered up the empty canteens which lay strewn on the field. this was the nearest spring; the enemy knew it, and consequently had posted sharpshooters within rifle range to prevent the troops being supplied with water. notwithstanding this, we filled our canteens, while the minnie balls fell thick and fast around us, and returned in safety to distribute the fruits of our labor among the exhausted men. we spent three hours in this manner, while the tide of battle rolled on more fiercely than before, until the enemy made a desperate charge on our troops driving them back and taking full possession of the spring. chaplain b.'s horse was shot through the neck and bled to death in a few moments. then mrs. b. and i dismounted and went to work again among the wounded. not long afterwards col. cameron, brother of the secretary of war, came dashing along the line, shouting, "come on boys, the rebels are in full retreat." the words had scarcely been uttered when he fell, pierced to the heart by a bullet. surgeon p. was on the ground in an instant, but nothing could be done for him; his wound was mortal, and he soon ceased to breathe. there was no time to carry off the dead; we folded his arms across his breast, closed his eyes, and left him in the cold embrace of death. still the battle continues without cessation; the grape and canister fill the air as they go screaming on their fearful errand; the sight of that field is perfectly appalling; men tossing their arms wildly calling for help; there they lie bleeding, torn and mangled; legs, arms and bodies are crushed and broken as if smitten by thunder-bolts; the ground is crimson with blood; it is terrible to witness. burnside's brigade is being mown down like grass by the rebel batteries; the men are not able to stand that terrible storm of shot and shell; they begin to waver and fall back slowly, but just at the right moment capt. sykes comes up to their relief with his command of regulars. they sweep up the hill where burnside's exhausted, shattered brigade still lingers, and are greeted with a shout of joy, such as none but soldiers, who are almost overpowered by a fierce enemy, and are reinforced by their brave comrades, can give. onward they go, close up to the cloud of flame and smoke rolling from the hill upon which the rebel batteries are placed--their muskets are leveled--there is a click, click--a sheet of flame--a deep roll like that of thunder, and the rebel gunners are seen to stagger and fall. the guns become silent, and in a few moments are abandoned. this seems to occasion great confusion in the rebel ranks. regiments were scattered, and officers were seen riding furiously and shouting their orders, which were heard above the roar and din of battle. captain griffin's and rickett's batteries are ordered forward to an eminence from which the rebels have been driven. they come into position and open a most destructive fire which completely routs the enemy. the battle seems almost won and the enemy is retreating in confusion. hear what rebel gen. johnson says of his prospects at that time, in his official report: "the long contest against a powerful enemy, and heavy losses, especially of field officers, had greatly discouraged the troops of gen. bee and col. evans. the aspect of affairs was critical." another writes: "fighting for hours under a burning sun, without a drop of water, the conduct of our men could not be excelled; but human endurance has its bounds, and all seemed about to be lost." this goes to prove that it was a desperately hard fought battle on both sides, and if no fresh troops had been brought into the field, the victory would assuredly have been ours. but just as our army is confident of success, and is following up the advantage which it has gained, rebel reinforcements arrive and turn the tide of battle. two rebel regiments of fresh troops are sent to make a flank movement in order to capture griffin's and rickett's batteries. they march through the woods, reach the top of the hill, and form a line so completely in our rear as to fire almost upon the backs of the gunners. griffin sees them approach, but supposes them to be his supports sent by major barry. however looking more intently at them, he thinks they are rebels, and turns his guns upon them. just as he is about to give the order to fire, major b. rides up shouting, "they are your supports, don't fire." "no, sir, they are rebels," replied capt. griffin. "i tell you, sir, they are your supports," said major b. in obedience to orders the guns were turned again, and while in the act of doing so, the supposed supports fired a volley upon the gunners. men and horses went down in an instant. a moment more and those famous batteries were in the hands of the enemy. the news of this disaster spread along our lines like wildfire; officers and men were alike confounded; regiment after regiment broke and ran, and almost immediately the panic commenced. companies of cavalry were drawn up in line across the road, with drawn sabers, but all was not sufficient to stop the refluent tide of fugitives. then came the artillery thundering along, drivers lashing their horses furiously, which greatly added to the terror of the panic stricken thousands crowded together en masse. in this manner we reached centerville where order was in some measure restored. mrs. b. and i made our way to the stone church around which we saw stacks of dead bodies piled up, and arms and legs were thrown together in heaps. but how shall i describe the scene within the church at that hour. oh, there was suffering there which no pen can ever describe. one case i can never forget. it was that of a poor fellow whose legs were both broken above the knees, and from the knees to the thighs they were literally smashed to fragments. he was dying; but oh, what a death was that. he was insane, perfectly wild, and required two persons to hold him. inflammation had set in, and was rapidly doing its work; death soon released him, and it was a relief to all present as well as to the poor sufferer. i went to another dying one who was bearing patiently all his sufferings. oh, poor pale face! i see it now, with its white lips and beseeching eyes; and then the touching inquiry, "do you think i'll die before morning?" i told him i thought he would, and asked: "has death any terrors for you?" he smiled that beautiful trusting smile which we sometimes see on the lips of the dying saint, as he replied: "oh no, i shall soon be asleep in jesus"; and then in a low plaintive voice he repeated the verse commencing, asleep in jesus, blessed sleep. while i stood beside him thus, someone tapped me on the shoulder. on turning round i was beckoned to the side of one who was laid in a corner, on the floor, with his face toward the wall. i knelt beside him and asked: "what can i do for you, my friend?" he opened his eyes, with an effort, and said, "i wish you to take that," pointing to a small package which lay beside him, "keep it until you get to washington, and then, if it is not too much trouble, i want you to write to mother and tell her how i was wounded, and that i died trusting in jesus." then i knew that i was kneeling beside willie l. he was almost gone--just ready "to lay down the cross and take up the crown." he signed to me to come nearer; and as i did so, he put his hand to his head and tried to separate a lock of hair with his fingers, but his strength failed; however, i understood that he wished me to cut off a lock to send to his mother with the package. when he saw that i understood him he seemed pleased that his last request was complied with. chaplain b. came and prayed with him, and while he was praying, the happy spirit of willie returned to him who gave it. heaven gained in this instance another soul, but there was mourning in that widowed mother's heart. i thought, oh, how appropriate were the words of the poet to that lonely mother: not on the tented field, o terror-fronted war! not on the battle-field, all thy bleeding victims are; but in the lowly homes where sorrow broods like death, and fast the mother's sobs rise with each quick-drawn breath. that dimmed eye, fainting close-- and she may not be nigh! 'tis mothers die--o god! 'tis but we mothers die. our hearts and hands being fully occupied with such scenes as these, we thought of nothing else. we knew nothing of the true state of affairs outside, nor could we believe it possible when we learned that the whole army had retreated toward washington, leaving the wounded in the hands of the enemy, and us, too, in rather an unpleasant situation. i could not believe the stern truth, and was determined to find out for myself. consequently i went back to the heights, where i had seen the troops stack their guns and throw themselves upon the ground at night-fall, but no troops were there. i thought then that they had merely changed their position, and that by going over the field i should certainly find them. i had not gone far before i saw a camp fire in the distance. supposing that i had found a clue to the secret, i made all haste toward the fire; but as i drew near i saw but one solitary figure sitting by it, and that was the form of a female. upon going up to her i recognised her as one of the washerwomen of our army, i asked her what she was doing there and where the army had gone. said she: "i don't know anything about the army; i am cooking my husband's supper, and am expecting him home every minute; see what a lot of things i have got for him," pointing to a huge pile of blankets, haversacks and canteens which she had gathered up, and over which she had constituted herself sentinel. i soon found out that the poor creature had become insane. the excitement of battle had proved too much for her, and all my endeavors to persuade her to come with me were unavailing. i had no time to spare, for i was convinced that the army had really decamped. once more i started in the direction of centerville. i had not gone more than a few rods before i heard the clatter of horses' hoofs. i stopped, and looking in the direction of the fire i had just quitted, i saw a squad of cavalry ride up to the woman who still sat there. fortunately i had no horse to make a noise or attract attention, having left mine at the hospital with the intention of returning immediately. it was evident to my mind that those were the enemy's cavalry, and that it was necessary for me to keep out of sight if possible until they were gone. then the thought came to me that the woman at the fire knew no better than to tell them that i had been there a few minutes before. happily, however, i was near a fence, against which there were great piles of brush, and as the night was becoming very dark and it was beginning to rain, i thought i could remain undetected, at least until morning. my suspicions proved to be correct. they were coming toward me, and compelling the woman to come and show them the direction i had taken; i decided to crawl under one of those brush heaps, which i did, and had scarcely done so, when up they came and stopped over against the identical pile in which i was concealed. one of the men said "see here old woman, are you sure that she can tell us if we find her?" "oh, yes, she can tell you, i know she can," was the woman's reply. they would go away a little distance and then come back again; by and by they began to accuse the woman of playing a false game; then they swore, threatened to shoot her, and she began to cry. all this was an interesting performance i admit; but i did not enjoy it quite so much, in consequence of being rather uncomfortably near the performers. at last they gave it up as a hopeless case and rode away taking the woman with them, and i was left in blissful ignorance of the mystery which they wished me to unravel, and for once in my life i rejoiced at not having my "curiosity" gratified. i remained there until the last echo of their retreating footsteps had died away in the distance; then i came forth very cautiously and made my way to centerville, where the interesting intelligence awaited me that mr. and mrs. b. had gone, and had taken my horse, supposing that i had been taken prisoner. the village of centerville was not yet occupied by the rebels, so that i might have made my escape without any further trouble; but how could i go and leave those hospitals full of dying men, without a soul to give them a drink of water? i must go into that stone church once more, even at the risk of being taken prisoner. i did so--and the cry of "water," "water," was heard above the groans of the dying. chaplain b. had told them before leaving that they would soon be in the hands of the enemy--that the army had retreated to washington, and that there was no possibility of removing the wounded. there they lay, calmly awaiting the approach of their cruel captors, and apparently prepared to accept with resignation any fate which their cruelty might suggest. oh, how brave those men were! what moral courage they possessed! nothing but the grace of god and a right appreciation of the great cause in which they had nobly fought, and bled, could reconcile them to such suffering and humiliation. they all urged me to leave them, and not subject myself to the barbarous treatment which i would be likely to receive if i should be taken prisoner, adding--"if you do stay the rebels will not let you do anything for us." one of the men said: "dr. e. has only been gone a little while--he extracted three balls from my leg and arm, and that, too, with his pen-knife. i saw twenty-one balls which he had taken from the limbs of men in this hospital. he was determined to remain with us, but we would not consent, for we knew he would not be allowed to do any more for us after the rebels came; and you must go too, and go very soon or they will be here." after placing water within the reach of as many as could use their arms, and giving some to those who could not--i turned to leave them, with feelings that i cannot describe; but ere i reached the door a feeble voice called me back--it was that of a young officer from massachusetts; he held in his hand a gold locket, and as he handed it to me he said--"will you please to open it?" i did so, and then held it for him to take a last look at the picture which it contained. he grasped it eagerly and pressed it to his lips again and again. the picture was that of a lady of rare beauty, with an infant in her arms. she seemed scarcely more than a child herself; on the opposite side was printed her name and address. while he still gazed upon it with quivering lip, and i stood there waiting for some tender message for the loved ones, the unmistakable tramp of cavalry was heard in the street--a moment more, and i had snatched the locket from the hands of the dying man and was gone. the streets were full of cavalry, but not near enough to discover me, as the night was exceedingly dark and the rain came down in torrents. one glance was sufficient to convince me that i could not escape by either street. the only way was to climb a fence and go across lots, which i immediately did, and came out on the fairfax road about a mile from the village, and then started for washington on the "double quick." i did not reach alexandria until noon the next day--almost exhausted, and my shoes literally worn off my feet. having walked all the way from centerville in the rain, without food, together with want of sleep and the fatigue of the past week, caused me to present rather an interesting appearance. i remained there two days before i could persuade my limbs to bear the weight of my body. i then made my way to washington, where i found my friends quite anxious lest i had fallen into the hands of the enemy. a number of men from whom i had received packages, money, etc., before going into battle, and who reached washington two days before i did, had come to the conclusion that they had taken a pretty sure way of sending those precious things to richmond, and therefore my arrival was rather an important event, and i was greeted with a hearty welcome. my first duty was to attend to those dying soldiers' requests, which i did immediately by writing to their friends and inclosing the articles which i had received from the hands of those loved ones who were now cold in death. the answers to many of those letters lie before me while i write, and are full of gratitude and kind wishes. one in particular i cannot read without weeping. it is from willie's mother. the following are a few extracts: "oh, can it be that my willie will return to me no more? shall i never see my darling boy again, until i see him clothed in the righteousness of christ--thank god i shall see him then--i shall see him then." now with all the mother's heart torn and quivering with the smart, i yield him, 'neath the chastening rod, to my country and my god. "oh, how i want to kiss those hands that closed my darling's eyes, and those lips which spoke words of comfort to him in a dying hour. the love and prayers of a bereaved mother will follow you all through the journey of life." yes, he is gone to return to her no more on earth, but her loss is his eternal gain. servant of god well done! rest from thy loved employ; the battle fought, the victory won, enter thy master's joy. he at least had won a victory--notwithstanding the defeat of the federal army. yes, a glorious victory. chapter iv. washington after bull run--demoralization of the army--sick soldiers--hospital scenes--extracts from my journal--sympathy of soldiers--fishing for the sick--a fish-loving dutchman--reorganization of the army--a visit to the pickets--picket duties and dangers--the army inactive--mcclellan's address--marching orders again--embarkation of the army for fortress monroe--the crowded transports--descriptions of the monitor--her build and armament--her turret and engines. washington at that time presented a picture strikingly illustrative of military life in its most depressing form. to use the words of captain noyes--"there were stragglers sneaking along through the mud inquiring for their regiments, wanderers driven in by the pickets, some with guns and some without, while every one you met had a sleepy, downcast appearance, and looked as if he would like to hide his head from all the world." every bar-room and groggery seemed filled to overflowing with officers and men, and military discipline was nearly, or quite, forgotten for a time in the army of the potomac. while washington was in this chaotic condition, the rebel flag was floating over munson's hill, in plain sight of the federal capital. when general mcclellan took command of the army of the potomac, he found it in a most lamentable condition, and the task of reorganizing and disciplining such a mass of demoralized men was a herculean one. however, he proved himself equal to the task, and i think, that even his enemies are willing to admit, that there is no parallel case in history where there has been more tact, energy and skill displayed in transforming a disorganized mob into an efficient and effective army; in fact, of bringing order out of confusion. the hospitals in washington, alexandria and georgetown were crowded with wounded, sick, discouraged soldiers. that extraordinary march from bull run, through rain, mud, and chagrin, did more toward filling the hospitals than did the battle itself. i found mrs. b. in a hospital, suffering from typhoid fever, while chaplain b. was looking after the temporal and spiritual wants of the men with his usual energy and sympathy. he had many apologies to offer "for running away with my horse," as he termed it. there were many familiar faces missing, and it required considerable time to ascertain the fate of my friends. many a weary walk i had from one hospital to another to find some missing one who was reported to have been sent to such and such a hospital; but after reading the register from top to bottom i would find no such name there. perhaps on my way out, in passing the open door of one of the wards, who should i see, laid upon a cot, but the very object of my search, and upon returning to the office to inform the steward of the fact, i would find that it was a slight mistake; in registering the name; instead of being josiah phelps, it was joseph philips; only a slight mistake, but such mistakes cause a great deal of trouble sometimes. measels, dysentery and typhoid fever were the prevailing diseases after the retreat. after spending several days in visiting the different hospitals, looking after personal friends, and writing letters for the soldiers who were not able to write for themselves, i was regularly installed in one of the general hospitals. i will here insert an extract from my journal: "aug. d, . georgetown, d. c. have been on duty all day. john c. is perfectly wild with delirium, and keeps shouting at the top of his voice some military command, or, when vivid recollections of the battle-field come to his mind, he enacts a pantomime of the terrible strife--he goes through the whole manual of arms as correctly as if he were in the ranks; and as he, in imagination, loads and fires in quick succession, the flashing of his dying eye and the nervous vigor of his trembling hands give fearful interest to the supposed encounter with the enemy. when we tell him the enemy has retreated, he persists in pursuing; and throwing his arms wildly around him he shouts to his men--'come on and fight while there is a rebel left in virginia!' my friend lieut. m. is extremely weak and nervous, and the wild ravings of j. c. disturb him exceedingly. i requested surgeon p. to have him removed to a more quiet ward, and received in reply--'this is the most quiet ward in the whole building.' there are five hundred patients here who require constant attention, and not half enough nurses to take care of them. "oh, what an amount of suffering i am called to witness every hour and every moment. there is no cessation, and yet it is strange that the sight of all this suffering and death does not affect me more. i am simply eyes, ears, hands and feet. it does seem as if there is a sort of stoicism granted for such occasions. there are great, strong men dying all around me, and while i write there are three being carried past the window to the dead room. this is an excellent hospital--everything is kept in good order, and the medical officers are skillful, kind and attentive." the weary weeks went slowly by, while disease and death preyed upon the men, and the "soldiers' cemetery" was being quickly filled with new made graves. the kindness of the soldiers toward each other is proverbial, and is manifested in various ways. it is a common thing to see soldiers stand guard night after night for sick comrades--and when off duty try, to the utmost of their skill, to prepare their food in such a way as to tempt the appetite of those poor fellows whom the surgeons "do not consider sufficiently ill to excuse from duty;" but their comrades do, and do not hesitate to perform their duty and their own also. and when brought to camp hospital, helpless, worn down by disease, and fever preying upon their vitals--those brave and faithful comrades do not forsake them, but come several times every day to inquire how they are, and if there is anything they can do for them. and it is touching to see those men, with faces bronzed and stern, tenderly bending over the dying, while the tears course down their sunburnt cheeks. there is scarcely a soldier's grave where there is not to be seen some marks of this noble characteristic of the soldier--the tastefully cut sod, the planted evergreen, the carefully carved head-board, all tell of the affectionate remembrance of the loved comrade. you will scarcely find such strong and enduring friendship--such a spirit of self-sacrifice, and such noble and grateful hearts, as among the soldiers. i think this is one reason why the nurses do not feel the fatigue of hospital duty more than they do; the gratitude of the men seems to act as a stimulant, and the patient, uncomplaining faces of those suffering men almost invariably greet you with a smile. i used to think that it was a disgrace for any one, under ordinary circumstances, to be heard complaining, when those mutilated, pain-racked ones bore everything with such heroic fortitude. i was not in the habit of going among the patients with a long, doleful face, nor intimating by word or look that their case was a hopeless one, unless a man was actually dying, and i felt it to be my duty to tell him so. cheerfulness was my motto, and a wonderful effect it had sometimes on the despondent, gloomy feelings of discouraged and homesick sufferers. i noticed that whenever i failed to arouse a man from such a state of feeling, it generally proved a hopeless case. they were very likely not to recover if they made up their minds that they must die, and persisted in believing that there was no alternative. there were a great many pleasant things in connection with our camp hospital duties. i really enjoyed gratifying some of the whims and strange fancies of our poor convalescent boys, with whom i had become quite a favorite. as i would pass along through the hospital in the morning, i would generally have plenty of assistants in helping to make out my programme for the day. for one i had to write letters, read some particular book to another, and for a third i must catch some fish. i remember on one occasion of an old dutchman, a typhoid convalescent, declaring that he could eat nothing until he could get some fresh fish, and of course i must procure them for him. "but," said i, "the doctor must be consulted; perhaps he will not think it best for you to have any fish yet, until you are stronger." "vell, i dusn't care for te toctor--he dusn't know vat mine appetite ish--te feesh i must have. oh, mine cot! i must have some feesh." and the old man wept like a child at the thought of being disappointed. "hunter's creek" was about a mile and a half from camp, where mr. and mrs. b. and i had spent many an hour fishing and shooting at the flocks of wild ducks which frequented it; so, after providing myself with hook, line and bait, i made my way to the creek. soon after i commenced operations i drew up a monstrous eel, which defied all my efforts to release the hook from its jaws. at last i was obliged to draw it into camp by means of the line--and i was amply repaid for my trouble on seeing the delight of the convalescents, and especially of my old dutchman, who continued to slap his hands together and say--"dhat ish coot--dhat ish coot." the eel was handed over to the cook to be prepared for dinner, and to the great satisfaction of the dutchman he was permitted to enjoy a portion of it. the army under mcclellan began to assume a warlike aspect--perfect order and military discipline were observed everywhere among the soldiers. it was a splendid sight to see those well drilled troops on dress-parade--or being reviewed by their gallant young commander, upon whose shoulders the "stars" sat with so much grace and dignity. the monotony of camp life began to be broken up by armed reconnoissances and skirmishing between the pickets. our lines were pushed forward to lewinsville on the right, and to munson's hill in front. the pickets of both armies were posted in plain sight of each other, only separated by the beautiful corn-fields and peach-orchards. picket firing was kept up all along the lines on both sides, notwithstanding that flags of truce had been sent in by both parties, several times, requesting that this barbarous practice might cease. as soon as mrs. b. was so far recovered as to be able to ride, we started one day, accompanied by mr. b. and dr. e., for munson's hill, to see the pickets on duty. we rode along until we came within a short distance of the rifle pits where our men were, when the rebels fired upon us. we turned and rode back until we came to a clump of trees, where we dismounted, hitched our horses, and proceeded the rest of the way on foot--part of the way having to crouch along on our hands and knees, in order to escape the bullets which were whistling above us. we reached the rifle pits in safety, which were close to a rail fence, the rails of which were perfectly riddled with minnie balls. while we sat there looking through an opera-glass, whiz! came a ball and struck the rail against which my head rested; glancing, it passed through dr. e.'s cap and lodged in the shoulder of one of the men. we remained there until the firing ceased, then returned to camp, carrying with us the wounded man. picket duty is one of the most perilous and trying duties connected with the service. a clergyman-soldier writing upon this subject, briefly describes it: "picket duty at all times is arbitrary, but at night it is trebly so. no monarch on a throne, with absolute power, is more independent, or exercises greater sway for the time being, than a private soldier stationed on his beat with an enemy in front. darkness veils all distinctions. he is not obliged to know his own officers or comrades, or the commanding general, only through the means of the countersign. with musket loaded and capped he walks his rounds, having to do with matters only of life and death, and at the same time clothed with absolute power. it is a position of fearful importance and responsibility, one that makes a man feel solemn and terribly in earnest. often, too, these posts are in thick woods, where the soldier stands alone, cut off from camp, cut off from his fellows, subject only to the harrassings of his own imagination and sense of danger. the shadows deepen into inky night; all objects around him, even the little birds that were his companions during the day, are gathered within the curtains of a hushed repose; but the soldier, with every nerve and faculty of his mind strained to the utmost tension of keenness and sensibility, speaks only in whispers; his fingers tighten round the stock of his musket as he leans forward to catch the sound of approaching footsteps, or, in absence of danger, looks longingly up to the cold, grey sky, with its wealth of shining stars." yes, the picket is exposed to danger constantly, and to various kinds of danger. he knows not what moment a lurking foe may spring upon him from the darkness, or a bullet from a scout or sharpshooter may reach him at any time. then, too, he is exposed to the raging elements--heat and cold, rain and snow; no matter whether in the depths of the forest, or in the open plain, or in the rifle-pit standing in water knee deep, the poor picket must not heed the storm, but keep both eyes and ears open to catch the slightest sound. after severe marches, when the men are greatly fatigued, and it seems almost impossible to perform any more duty without rest and sleep, some, of course, are sent on picket duty, while the rest are permitted to sleep. oh, how my heart has ached for those men; and it seemed to me that the persons and regiments in which i was most interested always had the most picket duty to perform. on the th of march general mcclellan issued an address to the army of the potomac, announcing the reasons why they had been so long unemployed. the battle of bull run was fought in july, . it was now march, , and during this interval the army of the potomac, numbering some two hundred and fifty thousand men, had been inactive, excepting their daily drills behind their entrenchments. the flags of the enemy were in sight. washington was in a state of siege, and not a transport could ascend the river without running the gauntlet of the rebel batteries. in his address general mcclellan announced the reasons for their inactivity as follows: "soldiers of the army of the potomac: for a long time i have kept you inactive, but not without a purpose. you were to be disciplined, armed and instructed. the formidable artillery you now have had to be created. other armies were to move and accomplish certain results. i have held you back that you might give the death-blow to the rebellion that has distracted our once happy country. the patience you have shown, and your confidence in your general, are worth a dozen victories. these preliminary results are now accomplished. i feel that the patient labors of many months have produced their fruit. the army of the potomac is now a real army, magnificent in material, admirable in discipline and instruction, excellently equipped and armed. your commanders are all that i could wish. the moment for action has arrived, and i know that i can trust in you to save our country. the period of inaction has passed. i will bring you now face to face with the rebels, and only pray that god may defend the right." marching orders were issued once more to the army of the potomac. the sick were sent off, camps broken up, and all stood prepared for another encounter with the enemy. the bitter remembrance of the defeat at bull run still rankled in the minds of the men, and now they were anxious for an opportunity to retaliate upon the foe, and win back the laurels they had so ingloriously lost upon that disastrous field. various speculations were indulged in with regard to their destination. one prophesied that they were going to richmond by way of fredericksburg, another was positive that they were to go by the way of manassas, and a third declared that it was down the shenandoah valley to take richmond on the flank and rear; but, to the utter astonishment of all, they were ordered to alexandria to embark for fortress monroe. regiment after regiment was huddled together on board until every foot of room was occupied, and there remained but little prospect of comfort for either officers or men. as soon as each transport received its cargo of men, horses and provisions, it floated out into the stream, while another steamed up to the wharf in its place, until the whole fleet lay side by side, freighted with over a hundred thousand human lives, and awaiting the signal to weigh anchor. the troops were eager for a campaign; they had lain inactive so long, while "victory" thundered all around them, that they were becoming impatient to strike another blow at rebellion, and blot out the remembrance of the past. roanoke, pea ridge, newbern, winchester and donelson--were a succession of victories which had been achieved, and the army of the potomac had not participated in them. the men felt this, and were prepared for anything but inactivity. everything being in readiness, the signal was given, and the whole fleet was soon moving in the direction of fortress monroe, with the stars and stripes floating from every mast-head, and the music of national airs awakening the slumbering echoes as we swiftly glided over the quiet waters of the potomac. the first real object of interest which presented itself was the "monitor" lying off fortress monroe. it reminded me of what i once heard a man say to his neighbor about his wife; said he, "neighbor, you might worship your wife without breaking either of the ten commandments." "how is that?" asked the man; "because she is not the likeness of anything in heaven above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth." so thought i of the monitor. there she sat upon the water a glorious impregnable battery, the wonder of the age, the terror of rebels, and the pride of the north. the monitor is so novel in structure that a minute description will be necessary to convey an accurate idea of her character. "she has two hulls. the lower one is of iron, five-eighths of an inch thick. the bottom is flat, and six feet six inches in depth--sharp at both ends, the cut-water retreating at an angle of about thirty degrees. the sides, instead of having the ordinary bulge, incline at an angle of about fifty-one degrees. this hull is one hundred and twenty-four feet long, and thirty-four feet broad at the top. resting on this is the upper hull, flat-bottomed, and both longer and wider than the lower hull, so that it projects over in every direction, like the guards of a steamboat. it is one hundred and seventy-four feet long, forty-one feet four inches wide, and five feet deep. these sides constitute the armor of the vessel. in the first place is an inner guard of iron, half an inch thick. to this is fastened a wall of white oak, placed endways, and thirty inches thick, to which are bolted six plates of iron, each an inch thick, thus making a solid wall of thirty-six and a half inches of wood and iron. this hull is fastened upon the lower hull, so that the latter is entirely submerged, and the upper one sinks down three feet into the water. thus but two feet of hull are exposed to a shot. the under hull is so guarded by the projecting upper hull, that a ball, to strike it, would have to pass through twenty-five feet of water. the upper hull is also pointed at both ends. the deck comes flush with the top of the hull, and is made bomb-proof. no railing or bulwark rises above the deck. the projecting ends serve as a protection to the propeller, rudder and anchor, which cannot be struck. neither the anchor or chain is ever exposed. the anchor is peculiar, being very short, but heavy. it is hoisted into a place fitted for it, outside of the lower hull, but within the impenetrable shield of the upper one. on the deck are but two structures rising above the surface, the pilot-house and turret. the pilot-house is forward, made of plates of iron, the whole about ten inches in thickness, and shot-proof. small slits and holes are cut through, to enable the pilot to see his course. the turret, which is apparently the main feature of the battery, is a round cylinder, twenty feet in interior diameter, and nine feet high. it is built entirely of iron plates, one inch in thickness, eight of them securely bolted together, one over another. within this is a lining of one-inch iron, acting as a damper to deaden the effects of a concussion when struck by a ball--thus there is a shield of nine inches of iron. the turret rests on a bed-plate, or ring, of composition, which is fastened to the deck. to help support the weight, which is about a hundred tons, a vertical shaft, ten inches in diameter, is attached and fastened to the bulk-head. the top is made shot-proof by huge iron beams, and perforated to allow of ventilation. it has two circular port-holes, both on one side of the turret, three feet above the deck, and just large enough for the muzzle of the gun to be run out. the turret is made to revolve, being turned by a special engine. the operator within, by a rod connected with the engine, is enabled to turn it at pleasure. it can be made to revolve at the rate of sixty revolutions a minute, and can be regulated to stop within half a degree of a given point. when the guns are drawn in to load, the port-hole is stopped by a huge iron pendulum, which falls to its place, and makes that part as secure as any, and can be quickly hoisted to one side. the armament consists of two eleven-inch dahlgren guns. various improvements in the gun-carriage enable the gunner to secure almost perfect aim. "the engine is not of great power, as the vessel was designed as a battery, and not for swift sailing. it being almost entirely under water, the ventilation is secured by blowers, drawing the air in forward, and discharging it aft. a separate engine moves the blowers and fans the fires. there is no chimney, so the draft must be entirely artificial. the smoke passes out of gratings in the deck. many suppose the monitor to be merely an iron-clad vessel, with a turret; but there are, in fact, between thirty and forty patentable inventions upon her, and the turret is by no means the most important one. very properly, what these inventions are is not proclaimed to the public." chapter v. arrival at fortress monroe--the village of hampton--visiting the contrabands--arrival of fugitives--a real "camp meeting"--feeding the negroes--camp miseries--mules--miss periwinkle's mules--the coquettish, the moral, the histrionic, and the pathetic mule--our jack--lines of love--my box and presents--a three-story cake--a serenade and surprise party--good and bad chaplains--the morals of the army--slanders about soldiers. we arrived at fortress monroe in a drenching rain, immediately disembarked, and proceeded at once to hampton--formerly a beautiful little village containing about five hundred houses, many of them elegant brick buildings, but which now lay a blackened mass of ruins, having been burned a few months previous by order of rebel general magruder. the village was about three miles from fortress monroe, and situated on the west side of a creek, or arm of the sea, called hampton river, the yorktown road passing directly through its center. it was a great relief to the troops to disembark from the filthy, crowded transports, notwithstanding they had to march through the mud and rain, and then pitch their tents on the wet ground. fires were soon built, coffee made, and nice fresh bread served out, which was brought to us by the commissary department at the fort. as mrs. b. and i had a little respite at this particular juncture, we set about visiting the contrabands. they occupied a long row of board buildings near the fort. the men were employed in loading and unloading government vessels, and the women were busily engaged in cooking and washing. no language can describe the joy of these men and women at being liberated from bondage. as the jews of old were looking for the promised messiah, so the slaves universally regarded the advent of the northern army as the harbinger of their deliverance. mr. a. relates the following anecdote, illustrative of this fact, which took place at the battle of newbern: "a slaveholder, breathless with terror, spurred his horse to his utmost speed past his own house, not venturing to stop. just then a shell, with its terrific, unearthly shriek, rushed through the air over his head. a poor slave, a man of unfeigned piety and fervent prayer, in uncontrollable emotions of joy, ran into his humble cabin, shouting: 'wife, he is running, he is running, and the wrath of god is after him. glory hallelujah! the appointed time has come; we are free, we are free!'" with regard to my own visit to the contraband quarters, i give the following extract from my journal: "visited the contrabands to-day, and was much pleased with their cheerful, happy appearance. they are exceedingly ignorant, yet there is one subject upon which they can converse freely and intelligibly, and that is--christ--the way of salvation. almost all with whom i conversed to-day were praying men and women. oh, how i should like to teach these people! they seem so anxious for instruction, i know they would learn quickly. some of them are whiter and prettier than most of our northern ladies. there is a family here, all of whom have blue eyes, light hair, fair skin and rosy cheeks; yet they are contrabands, and have been slaves. but why should blue eyes and golden hair be the distinction between bond and free?" one bitter, stormy night, about eleven o'clock, a band of these poor fugitives, numbering over forty, presented themselves at the picket line, for admittance to the federal camp, imploring protection. the officer of the picket guard being called, and the case presented, the contrabands were permitted to pass through. but no sooner had their poor torn and bleeding feet touched the federal soil, than they fell upon their knees, and returned thanks to god and to the soldiers for their deliverance. they came into camp about one o'clock in the morning, shouting "glory! glory to god!" notwithstanding the early hour, and the stormy night, the whole camp was aroused; every one rushed out to find out the cause of the excitement. there they were, black as midnight, all huddled together in a little group--some praying, some singing, and others shouting. we had a real "camp meeting" time for a while. soon the exercises changed, and they began to relate their experiences, not only religious experiences, but a brief history of their lives. some were husbands and fathers. their masters had sold them down south, lest they should escape. in their terror they had escaped by night, and fled to the national banner for refuge, leaving all behind that was dear to them. in conclusion, one old man, evidently their leader, stood up and said: "i tell you, my breddern, dat de good lord has borne wid dis yere slav'ry long time wid great patience. but now he can't bore it no longer, no how; and he has said to de people ob de north--go and tell de slaveholders to let de people go, dat dey may sarve me." there were many there who had listened to the old colored man's speech and believed, as i did, that there was more truth than poetry in it. many hearts were moved with sympathy towards them, as was soon proved by the actions of the soldiers. an immense fire was built, around which these poor darkies eagerly gathered, as they were both wet, cold and hungry; then a large camp kettle of coffee was made and set before them, with plenty of bread and meat to satisfy their ravenous appetites--for ravenous they were, not having tasted food for more than two days. then blankets were provided, and they soon became comfortable, and as happy as human beings could be under such circumstances. mrs. b. and i returned to our tents feeling very much like indorsing the sentiment of "will jones' resolve:" resolved, although my brother be a slave, and poor and black, he is my brother still; can i, o'er trampled "institutions," save that brother from the chain and lash, i will. a cold, drizzling rain continued to descend for several days, and our camp became a fair specimen of "virginia mud." i began to feel the effects of the miasma which came floating on every breeze from the adjacent swamps and marshes, and fever and ague became my daily companions for a time. as i sat in my tent, roasting or shivering as the case might be, i took a strange pleasure in watching the long trains of six mule teams which were constantly passing and repassing within a few rods of my tent. as "miss periwinkle" remarks, there are several classes of mules. "the coquettish mule has small feet, a nicely trimmed tail, perked up ears, and seems much given to little tosses of the head, affected skips and prances, and, if he wears bells or streamers, puts on as many airs as any belle. the moral mule is a stout, hardworking creature, always tugging with all his might, often pulling away after the rest have stopped, laboring under the conscientious delusion that food for the entire army depends upon his individual exertions. the histrionic mule is a melo-dramatic sort of quadruped, prone to startle humanity by erratic leaps and wild plunges, much shaking of the stubborn head and lashing of his vicious heels; now and then falling flat, and apparently dying _a la_ forrest, a gasp, a groan, a shudder, etc., till the street is blocked up, the drivers all swearing like so many demons, and the chief actor's circulation becomes decidedly quickened by every variety of kick, cuff and jerk imaginable. when the last breath seems to have gone with the last kick, and the harness has been taken off, then a sudden resurrection takes place. he springs to his feet, and proceeds to give himself two or three comfortable shakes, and if ever mule laughed in scornful triumph it is he, and as he calmly surveys the excited crowd, seems to say: 'a hit! a decided hit!' for once the most stupid of all animals has outwitted more than a dozen of the lords of creation. the pathetic mule is, perhaps, the most interesting of all; for although he always seems to be the smallest, thinnest, and weakest of the six, yet, in addition to his equal portion of the heavy load, he carries on his back a great postillion, with tremendous boots, long tailed coat, and heavy whip. this poor creature struggles feebly along, head down, coat muddy and rough, eye spiritless and sad, and his whole appearance a perfect picture of meek misery, fit to touch a heart of stone. then there is another class of mules which always have a jolly, cheer-up sort of look about them--they take everything good naturedly, from cudgeling to carressing, and march along with a roguish twinkle in their eye which is very interesting." one morning, as i was just recovering from fever and ague, jack, our faithful colored boy, made his appearance at the door of my tent, touching his hat in the most approved military style, and handed me a letter bearing my address, saying, as he did so, "dar's a box at de 'spress office for you. may i run and fotch it?" i said, "oh, yes, jack, you may bring it, but be careful and keep the cover on, there may be chickens in it." jack knew the meaning of that allusion to chickens, and so ran off singing: massa run, ha, ha! darkies stay, ho, ho! it must be now dat de kingdom's cumin in de year ob jubilo. in the meantime i opened my letter, from which i make the following extract: "having learned your address through mrs. l----, whose son was killed at the battle of bull run, we send you a donation in token of our respect and esteem, and of our gratitude for your faithfulness on the field and in the hospital." the following lines were also inclosed: in the ranks of the sick and dying, in the chamber where death-dews fall, where the sleeper wakes from his trances to leap to the bugle-call, is there hope for the wounded soldier? ah, no! for his heart-blood flows, and the flickering flames of life must wane, to fail at the evening's close. oh, thou who goest, like a sunbeam, to lighten the darkness and gloom, make way for the path of glory through the dim and shadowy room; go speak to him words of comfort, and teach him the way to die, with his eyes upraised from the starry flag to the blessed cross on high. and tell him brave hearts are beating with pulses as noble as thine; that we count them at home by the thousands--thou sweetest sister of mine; that they fail not and flinch not from duty while the vials of wrath are outpoured, and tell him to call it not grievous, but joyous to fall by the sword. when the hosts of the foe are outnumbered, and the day of the lord is at hand, shall we halt in the heat of the battle, and fail at the word of command? oh, no! through the trouble and anguish, by the terrible pathway of blood, we must bear up the flag of our freedom, on--on through the perilous flood. and if one should be brought faint and bleeding, though wounded, yet not unto death, oh plead with the soft airs of heaven to favor his languishing breath; be faithful to heal and to save him, assuaging the fever and pains, till the pulse in his strong arm be strengthened and the blood courses free in his veins. while mrs. b. and i were speculating with regard to the contents of the box, jack's woolly head reappeared in the doorway, and the subject of our curiosity was before us. "dar it be, and mity heavy, too; guess it mus' be from ----." so saying, young hopeful disappeared. the box was soon opened, its contents examined and commented upon. first came a beautiful silk and rubber reversible cloak, which could be folded into such a small compass that it could be put into an ordinary sized pocket, and a pair of rubber boots. then came a splendid silver-mounted revolver, belt and miniature cartridge-box. but the greatest piece of perfection i ever saw came in the shape of a "housewife;" it was lined and covered with oil silk, and my name printed on it in gilt letters, above which was an eagle, and below was the following inscription: "a thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee." then came pocket-handkerchiefs, gloves, and other articles too numerous to mention. but last, not least, was found in the bottom, stowed away in one corner, two bottles of the best currant wine, a nice jar of jelly, and a large loaf of cake, frosted and mottoed in fine style. this cake was certainly a great curiosity. it was a three-story cake, with three doors made to slide back by gently pulling a bell-handle which was made of rosettes of red, white and blue ribbon. to the first bell-cord was attached a splendid gold ring, to the second a ten dollar gold piece, and to the third and last a small sized hunting cased gold watch and chain. at such revelations i began to feel as if my humble tent had become an enchanted palace, and that all i should have to do in future would be to rub that mysterious ring, and the genii would appear, ready to supply all my wants. we then commenced to divide the spoil, mrs. b. positively asserting that she had no right to any part of the donation, and i telling her that in all probability it was all intended for her, and through one of those "slight mistakes" it was directed to me. the news of this wonderful box soon spread through camp, and the result was that we had a surprise party as soon as evening came, chaplain b. taking the opportunity of making some very appropriate remarks on the occasion. then came the band to serenade us, and the consequence was that our cake and wine disappeared with our numerous friends, for we found that all were willing to obey the scriptural injunction, "take a little wine," etc. chaplain b. is a very worthy, zealous, faithful minister, and i have spoken very highly of him, but perhaps in doing so i have given the impression that all chaplains are good and faithful. i am very sorry to state that it is not so. there are some who have no fitness for their work, and some a disgrace to their profession. i think i am safe in saying that one bad chaplain will do more harm in a regiment than a hundred good men can counteract. if there is any place on earth where faithful ministers are needed more than another, it is in the army--it is in the hospital. but may god have mercy upon those who go there, whose object is dollars and cents--who neglect their duty, and fill the places which should be occupied by christ-like heralds of the cross who love the souls of their fellow men. i think the words of the saviour are particularly applicable to some of the chaplains of the army when he says: "woe unto you hypocrites! for ye shut up the kingdom of heaven against men," etc. i have conversed with many in the army upon the subject of religion, who told me that the conduct of certain chaplains had more influence in keeping them away from the saviour than all the combined forces of the evil one. such chaplains are there through political influence, regardless of qualifications. some persons have tried very hard to get up the general belief that the army is terribly demoralized in its best estate, and all who go there must inevitably plunge into vice; but a greater slander was never propagated. there is, undoubtedly, vice in the army; but where is there a city or community throughout the north where vice is not to be found? notwithstanding the tide of moral and religious influence which is daily brought to bear against it. although the outer man appears rough, and much drunkenness and other evils exist in the army, yet there is much that is pure, lovely, and of good report in the character of both officers and men. "i can speak of that i do know, and testify of that which i have seen," and i am free to say that i think the morals of the majority of the men are quite as good, if not better than you will find among the same number at home, made up of all classes as we find them in the army. it is true many have backslidden since they left home; but is equally true that _very_ many have been reformed, and are now better men than when they enlisted. every day's history proves that there are thousands of noble hearted, pure minded christians in our army, and none but traitors and infidels, the enemies of god and man, will deny this fact. chapter vi. the march to yorktown--scarcity of supplies--camp cookery--different characters in the army--arrival of trains--change of camp--trying to shell us out--the old saw-mill--a constant target--assaults on our outposts--a rebel appeal--yorktown and vicinity--the situation--balloon reconnoissances--prof. lowe on high--rebel vixens--a curious visit--a strange hostess--she tries to kill me--i wound her and capture a prisoner--a conversion--the secesh woman becomes a federal nurse. on to richmond once more resounded through the camp, and the army was again in motion. the yorktown road is one long to be remembered, especially by those who that day had to toil through its mud and mire, or, by making a mis-step, fall into one of the yawning chasms from which some unfortunate mule had been drawn. the rain had continued almost all the time we were encamped at hampton, "saturating the clayey soil, which soon became a vast bed of mortar under the artillery trains." the distance from hampton to yorktown is about twenty-three miles, and it required all the determination and energy of veterans to march half that distance in a day. with two days' rations in their haversacks, the men marched until they arrived in front of yorktown, where they bivouacked on the ground, over which the water was running like a flood. we remained three days in that condition, and it was the first time i ever saw anything like scarcity of food in the army. it was scarce indeed, for we were only supplied with two days' rations on starting from hampton. the fifth day had arrived, but no provisions had yet appeared, and it seemed morally impossible to get a supply train over the road. mile after mile of corduroy bridge had to be made before a team dare venture to approach. our horses, too, were as badly off for forage as the men were for provisions. on the fifth day, with several others, i received permission to go out and buy what we could at the houses anywhere within three miles of our encampment. after procuring a quantity of biscuit, pies, and corn bread, we returned to camp, and were quite surprised to find the boys engaged in cutting up and cooking fresh steak. we thought, of course, our provisions had arrived, but found that it was only a little dash they had just made upon the "chivalry's" cattle, appropriating them to their own use with a sort of earnestness which seemed to say, i firmly believe in the old proverb, _aide toi, et le ciel t'aidera_. oh, what a place the army is for the study of human nature! as i looked around upon that mass of busy men, i thought i could discover almost every trait in the human character depicted upon their countenances. there was the selfish man, only intent upon serving himself, and fearing there would not enough come to his share to satisfy his wants; then there was old churlish nabal away by himself building a fire for his own especial benefit, and which "no man dare approach unto," no, not within baking, broiling, or roasting distance, not even to get a coal to kindle one for himself. but that class of character, thank heaven, was a very small minority. there, too, was the cheerful, happy man, who had been several hours engaged in cutting up and serving out to others, and had no lot or part in the broiled steaks which were smoking around him; yet he looked as good natured as if he had dined on roast beef and plum pudding. then there was another phase of character--one who always made it the first duty, under all circumstances, to look after those who were not able to look after themselves. while the little trials of camp life have a tendency to harden and sour the dispositions of some, they seem to bring to light and develop the cheerful, happy, unselfish spirit of others. one has truthfully said that "there is no other quality so diffusive of joy, both to him who possesses it and to those with whom he has friendly intercourse, as cheerfulness. it is the phase of a soul sitting in its own sunshine. there are luminous planets which are viewed by the aid of their own light, others there are which are seen through borrowed light. so it is with individuals. there seem to be some who have scarcely any light of their own, and who shine by the reflection of the light of others; while others there are who possess an intrinsic and inexhaustible source of sunshine, which renders them not only self-illuminating, but capable of irradiating those around them. many are cheerful when a sparkling rill of pleasure is gurgling in their hearts, or when prosperity encircles them, or looms up gorgeously in their prospective vision. but few are cheerful when adversity casts its gloomy shadows around them; when sorrow and disappointment dry up their fountains of pleasure and wither their hopes. in such crises cheerfulness is an independent virtue, and in others an accidental mood." the despondency of the few was soon removed, and the patience and cheerfulness of the many rewarded by the arrival of the provision and baggage trains. we then exchanged our camp for one in a more pleasant locality, where there was more wood and not quite so much water, which added much to the comfort of the troops. the enemy soon found out our position, and did not fail to inform us of the fact by frequently saluting us with an immense shell, or thirty-two pound cannon ball, which would burst over our heads or fall within a few rods--often within a few feet--of our tents. we remained in that camp just one month, and, notwithstanding the enemy shelled us night and day, i never saw a man or beast injured by shot or shell in camp while we remained there. i presume many of my readers will remember seeing or hearing of the old saw-mill which stood near a peach orchard, and which the soldiers persisted in running, to the great annoyance of the rebels. that old saw-mill deserves to be immortalized in song as well as in history; and if it stood in any other than a christian land, it would undoubtedly become an object of idolatry. there it stood, in perfect range of the enemy's batteries, a target at which they never seemed tired of firing, while our brave soldiers risked their lives in sawing lumber for the purpose of laying board floors in the hospital tents, to secure some degree of comfort, for their poor sick comrades. time after time the mill was set on fire by the explosion of shells as they passed through it, but up would go some brave young hero, and stand in the very jaws of death while his companions would hand him bucket after bucket of water to quench the flames. as soon as the fire was extinguished the men resumed their labor, and the old mill steamed away with all its might, as if proud of the "stars and stripes" which waved from its summit, and of being permitted to show its patriotism and zeal for the glorious cause of freedom by working for good old "uncle sam" and his noble sons. then it would give vent to its pent up wrath in hisses and shrieks, bidding proud defiance to jeff. davis and his minions, who were trying in vain to stop its humane and patriotic efforts. for more than three weeks those brave men kept the steam up in that mill, until their object was accomplished, having to stop almost every half hour to repair the ravages of shot and shell. notwithstanding the constant fire of the rebel batteries, the dilapidated appearance of the mill from its effects, and the danger of the situation, yet not a man was killed in or about it, and not one wounded, to my knowledge. i remember one day of passing the mill in a great hurry--and it was well that i was in a hurry, for i had scarcely rode by it when i heard a terrific crash close at hand, which made my horse leap from the ground with terror. upon turning round i saw that a part of the smoke stack had been carried away, and the mill was on fire. i rode up to the door and inquired if any one was killed or injured; no, not a man was hurt, and the fire was soon subdued by the vigorous efforts of those sturdy soldiers, who looked as jolly over the disaster as if it had really been a good joke. the rebels were beginning to make some desperate assaults upon our outposts; they were driving in the advance pickets on our left wing, and making similar demonstrations along different parts of the line. they were evidently concentrating a large force behind their fortifications, and were determined to make a desperate resistance. deserters came in bringing richmond papers crowded with appeals to the southern "chivalry," of which the following is a specimen: "the next few days may decide the fate of richmond. it is either to remain the capital of the confederacy, or to be turned over to the federal government as a yankee conquest. the capital is either to be secured or lost--it may be feared not temporarily, and with it virginia. then, if there is blood to be shed, let it be shed here; no soil of the confederacy could drink it up more acceptably, and none would hold it more gratefully. wife, family, and friends are nothing. leave them all for one glorious hour to be devoted to the republic. life, death, and wounds are nothing if we only be saved from the fate of a captured and humiliated confederacy. let the government act; let the people act. there is time yet. if fate comes to its worst, let the ruins of richmond be its most lasting monument." general mcclellan's despatch to the war department will best describe the state of affairs at this time in yorktown and vicinity; he says: "the whole line of the warwick, which really heads within a mile of yorktown, is strongly defended by detached redoubts and other fortifications, armed with heavy and light guns. the approaches, except at yorktown, are covered by the warwick, over which there is but one, or at most, two passages, both of which are covered by strong batteries. all the prisoners state that general j. e. johnson arrived at yorktown yesterday, with strong reinforcements. it seems clear that i shall have the whole force of the enemy on my hands--probably not less than one hundred thousand men, and possibly more. "under the circumstances which have been developed since we arrived here, i feel fully impressed with the conviction that here is to be fought the great battle that is to decide the existing contest. i shall of course commence the attack as soon as i can get up my siege train, and shall do all in my power to carry the enemy's works; but to do this, with a reasonable degree of certainty, requires, in my judgment, that i should, if possible, have at least the whole of the first corps to land upon the severn river and attack gloucester in the rear. my present strength will not admit of a detachment sufficient for this purpose without materially impairing the efficiency of this column." while these preparations were going forward on both sides, professor lowe was making balloon reconnoissances, and transmitting the result of his observations to general mcclellan by telegraph from his castle in the air, which seemed suspended from the clouds, reminding one of the fabled gods of old looking down from their ethereal abodes upon the conflicts of the inhabitants of this mundane sphere. one of the officers one day playfully remarked: "professor, i am always sorry when i see you descend with your balloon." "why are you sorry, colonel? would you wish to see me suspended between heaven and earth all the time?" "oh, no, not that; but when i see you coming down i am afraid you will never get so near heaven again." i was often sent out to procure supplies for the hospitals, butter, eggs, milk, chickens, etc., and in my rambles i used to meet with many interesting adventures. in some instances i met with narrow escapes with my life, which were not quite so interesting; and the timely appearance of my revolver often rescued me from the hands of the female rebels of the peninsula. persons dwelling in regions which slavery has not debased can hardly imagine the malice and ferocity manifested by the rebel vixens of the slave states. upon this point the testimony from all parts of the south is invariable. the louisville journal says: "thousands have read with astonishment the account which historians give of the conduct of women in paris during the reign of terror. the women are said to have been more fierce and bloodthirsty than even the fiercest and most bloodthirsty of the men. many of our people have supposed that the accounts given of those things must surely be fictions or exaggerations. they have felt themselves unable to conceive that woman's nature could become a thing so utterly revolting. but if they will look and listen in this region, at the present time, they will find that they have no further reason for incredulity or scepticism. the bitter and ferocious spirit of thousands of rebel women in kentucky, tennessee, and other states, is scarcely, if at all, surpassed by the female monsters that shrieked and howled for victims in the french revolution." i will here relate a little incident illustrative of the peculiarity of my adventures while on this catering business: one morning i started, all alone, for a five mile ride to an isolated farm-house about three miles back from the hampton road, and which report said was well supplied with all the articles of which i was in search. i cantered along briskly until i came to a gate which opened into a lane leading directly to the house. it was a large old fashioned two-story house, with immense chimneys built outside, virginia style. the farm appeared to be in good condition, fences all up, a rare thing on the peninsula, and corn-fields flourishing as if there were no such thing as war in the land. i rode up to the house and dismounted, hitched my horse to a post at the door, and proceeded to ring the bell. a tall, stately lady made her appearance, and invited me in with much apparent courtesy. she was dressed in deep mourning, which was very becoming to her pale, sad face. she seemed to be about thirty years of age, very prepossessing in appearance, and evidently belonged to one of the "f. f. v's." as soon as i was seated she inquired: "to what fortunate circumstance am i to attribute the pleasure of this unexpected call?" i told her in a few words the nature of my business. the intelligence seemed to cast a deep shadow over her pale features, which all her efforts could not control. she seemed nervous and excited, and something in her appearance aroused my suspicion, notwithstanding her blandness of manner and lady-like deportment. she invited me into another room, while she prepared the articles which she proposed to let me have, but i declined, giving as an excuse that i preferred to sit where i could see whether my horse remained quiet. i watched all her movements narrowly, not daring to turn my eyes aside for a single moment. she walked round in her stately way for some time, without accomplishing much in the way of facilitating my departure, and she was evidently trying to detain me for some purpose or other. could it be that she was meditating the best mode of attack, or was she expecting some one to come, and trying to detain me until their arrival? thoughts like these passed through my mind in quick succession. at last i rose up abruptly, and asked her if the things were ready. she answered me with an assumed smile of surprise, and said: "oh, i did not know that you were in a hurry: i was waiting for the boys to come and catch some chickens for you." "and pray, madam, where are the boys?" i asked; "oh, not far from here," was her reply. "well, i have decided not to wait; you will please not detain me longer," said i, as i moved toward the door. she began to pack some butter and eggs both together in a small basket which i had brought with me, while another stood beside her without anything in it. i looked at her; she was trembling violently, and was as pale as death. in a moment more she handed me the basket, and i held out a greenback for her acceptance; "oh, it was no consequence about the pay;" she did not wish anything for it. so i thanked her and went out. in a few moments she came to the door, but did not offer to assist me, or to hold the basket, or anything, but stood looking at me most maliciously, i thought. i placed the basket on the top of the post to which my horse had been hitched, took my seat in the saddle, and then rode up and took my basket. turning to her i bade her good morning, and thanking her again for her kindness, i turned to ride away. i had scarcely gone a rod when she discharged a pistol at me; by some intuitive movement i threw myself forward on my horse's neck and the ball passed over my head. i turned my horse in a twinkling, and grasped my revolver. she was in the act of firing the second time, but was so excited that the bullet went wide of its mark. i held my seven-shooter in my hand, considering where to aim. i did not wish to kill the wretch, but did intend to wound her. when she saw that two could play at this game, she dropped her pistol and threw up her hands imploringly. i took deliberate aim at one of her hands, and sent the ball through the palm of her left hand. she fell to the ground in an instant with a loud shriek. i dismounted, and took the pistol which lay beside her, and placing it in my belt, proceeded to take care of her ladyship after the following manner: i unfastened the end of my halter-strap and tied it painfully tight around her right wrist, and remounting my horse, i started, and brought the lady to consciousness by dragging her by the wrist two or three rods along the ground. i stopped, and she rose to her feet, and with wild entreaties she begged me to release her, but, instead of doing so, i presented a pistol, and told her that if she uttered another word or scream she was a dead woman. in that way i succeeded in keeping her from alarming any one who might be within calling distance, and so made my way toward mcclellan's headquarters. [illustration: catering for hospitals.--page .] after we had gone in that way about a mile and a half, i told her that she might ride if she wished to do so, for i saw she was becoming weak from loss of blood. she was glad to accept the offer, and i bound up her hand with my handkerchief, gave her my scarf to throw over her head, and assisted her to the saddle. i marched along beside her, holding tight to the bridle rein all the while. when we were about a mile from mcclellan's headquarters she fainted, and i caught her as she was falling from the horse. i laid her by the roadside while i went for some water, which i brought in my hat, and after bathing her face for some time she recovered. for the first time since we started i entered into conversation with her, and found that within the last three weeks she had lost her father, husband, and two brothers in the rebel army. they had all belonged to a company of sharpshooters, and were the first to fall. she had been almost insane since the intelligence reached her. she said i was the first yankee that she had seen since the death of her relatives, the evil one seemed to urge her on to the step she had taken, and if i would not deliver her up to the military powers, she would go with me and take care of the wounded. she even proposed to take the oath of allegiance, and seemed deeply penitent. "if thy brother (or sister) sin against thee, and repent, forgive him," are the words of the saviour. i tried to follow their sacred teachings there and then, and told her that i forgave her fully if she was only truly penitent. her answer was sobs and tears. soon after this conversation we started for camp, she weak and humbled, and i strong and rejoicing. none ever knew from that day to this the secret of that secesh woman becoming a nurse. instead of being taken to general mcclellan's headquarters, she went direct to the hospital, where dr. p. dressed her hand, which was causing her extreme pain. the good old surgeon never could solve the mystery connected with her hand, for we both refused to answer any questions relating to the wound, except that she was shot by a "yankee," which placed the surgeon under obligations to take care of the patient until she recovered--that is to say as long as it was convenient for him to do so. the next day she returned to her house in an ambulance, accompanied by a hospital steward, and brought away everything which could be made use of in the hospitals, and so took up her abode with us. her name was alice m., but we called her nellie j. she soon proved the genuineness of her conversion to the federal faith by her zeal for the cause which she had so recently espoused. as soon as she was well enough to act in the capacity of nurse she commenced in good earnest, and became one of the most faithful and efficient nurses in the army of the potomac. but that was the first and the only instance of a female rebel changing her sentiments, or abating one iota in her cruelty or hatred toward the "yankees;" and also the only real lady in personal appearance, education and refinement, that i ever met among the females of the peninsula. chapter vii. a lost friend--death of lieutenant james v.--his burial--the grave by night--my vow--a soldier-chaplain--recognitions in heaven--doubts and dissatisfaction--capture of a spy--my examinations at headquarters--my disguise as a spy--i am metamorphosed into a contraband--hired as a cook--biscuit making--the doctor's tea. not long after these events, returning one day from an excursion, i found the camp almost deserted, and an unusual silence pervading all around. upon looking to the right and left to discover the cause of so much quietness, i saw a procession of soldiers slowly winding their way from a peach orchard, where they had just deposited the remains of a comrade. who could it have been? i did not dare to go and meet them to inquire, but i waited in painful suspense until the procession came up, with arms reversed. with sad faces and slow and measured tread they returned in order as they had gone. i stepped forward and inquired whom they had buried. lieutenant james v. was the reply. my friend! they had buried him, and i had not seen him! i went to my tent without uttering a word. i felt as if it could not be possible that what i heard was true. it must be some one else. i did not inquire how, when or where he had been killed, but there i sat with tearless eyes. mr. and mrs. b. came in, she sobbing aloud, he calm and dignified, but with tears slowly rolling down his face. lieutenant v. was thirty-two years of age; he was tall, had black wavy hair, and large black eyes. he was a sincere christian, active in all the duties devolving upon a christian soldier, and was greatly beloved both by officers and men. his loss was deeply felt. his heart, though brave, was tender as a woman's. he was noble and generous, and had the highest regard for truth and law. although gentle and kind to all, yet he had an indomitable spirit and a peculiar courage and daring, which almost amounted to recklessness in time of danger. he was not an american, but was born of english parents, and was a native of st. john, new brunswick. i had known him almost from childhood, and found him always a faithful friend. when we met in the army we met as strangers. the changes which five years had wrought, and the costume which i wore, together with change of name, rendered it impossible for him to recognize me. i was glad that he did not, and took peculiar pleasure in remaining unrecognized. we became acquainted again, and a new friendship sprang up, on his part, for mine was not new, which was very pleasant, at least to me. at times my position became very embarrassing, for i was obliged to listen to a recapitulation of my own former conversations and correspondence with him, which made me feel very much like an eavesdropper. he had neither wife, mother nor sister, and, like myself, was a wanderer from his native land. there was a strong bond of sympathy existing between us, for we both believed that duty called us there, and were willing to lay down even life itself, if need be, in this glorious cause. now he was gone, and i was left alone with a deeper sorrow in my heart than i had ever known before. chaplain b. broke the painful silence by informing me how he had met his fate. he was acting in the capacity of aide-de-camp on general c.'s staff. he was sent to carry an order from headquarters to the officer in command of the outer picket line, and while riding along the line he was struck by a minnie ball, which passed through the temple, killing him instantly. his remains were brought to camp and prepared for their last resting place. without shroud or coffin, wrapped in his blanket, his body was committed to the cold ground. they made his grave under a beautiful pear tree, in full bloom, where he sleeps peacefully, notwithstanding the roar of cannon and the din of battle which peal forth their funeral notes over his dreamless bed. one more buried beneath the sod, one more standing before his god. we should not weep that he has gone; with us 'tis night, with him 'tis morn. night came at last with its friendly mantle, and our camp was again hushed in comparative repose. twelve o'clock came, but i could not sleep. visions of a pale face and a mass of black wavy hair, matted with gore which oozed from a dark purple spot on the temple, haunted me. i rose up quietly and passed out into the open air. the cool night breeze felt grateful to my burning brow, which glowed with feverish excitement. with a hasty word of explanation i passed the camp guard, and was soon beside the grave of lieutenant v. the solemn grandeur of the heavens, the silent stars looking lovingly down upon that little heaped up mound of earth, the death-like stillness of the hour, only broken by the occasional booming of the enemy's cannon, all combined to make the scene awfully impressive. i felt that i was not alone. i was in the presence of that god who had summoned my friend to the eternal world, and the spirit of the departed one was hovering near, although my dim eyes could not penetrate the mysterious veil which hid him from my view. it was there, in that midnight hour, kneeling beside the grave of him who was very dear to me, that i vowed to avenge the death of that christian hero. i could now better understand the feelings of poor nellie when she fired the pistol at me, because i was "one of the hated yankees who was in sympathy with the murderers of her husband, father and brothers." but i could not forgive his murderers as she had done. i did not enjoy taking care of the sick and wounded as i once did, but i longed to go forth and do, as a noble chaplain did at the battle of pittsburg landing. he picked up the musket and cartridge-box of a wounded soldier, stepped into the front rank, and took deliberate aim at one rebel after another until he had fired sixty rounds of cartridge; and as he sent a messenger of death to each heart he also sent up the following brief prayer: "may god have mercy upon your miserable soul." from this time forward i became strangely interested in the fifteenth chapter of first corinthians--the doctrine of the resurrection, and the hope of "recognition of friends in heaven" became very precious to me. for i believe with regard to our departed loved ones, that when safely landed on that heavenly shore where sighings cease and sorrows come no more-- with hearts no more by cruel anguish riven, as we have loved on earth we'll love in heaven. and infinitely more than we are capable of loving here. "few things connected with the great hereafter so deeply concern the heart as the question of personal recognition in heaven. dear ones of earth, linked to our hearts by the most tender ties, have departed and gone away into the unknown realm. we have carefully and tearfully laid their bodies in the grave to slumber till the great awakening morning. if there is no personal recognition in heaven, if we shall neither see nor know our friends there, so far as we are concerned they are annihilated, and heaven has no genuine antidote for the soul's agony in the hour of bereavement. all the precious memories of toil and trial, of conflict and victory, of gracious manifestations and of holy joy, shared with them in the time of our pilgrimage, will have perished forever. the anxiety of the soul with regard to the recognition of our friends in the future state is natural. it springs from the holiest sympathies of the human heart, and any inquiry that may solve our doubts or relieve our anxiety is equally rational and commendable. "tell me, ye who have seen the open tomb receive into its bosom the sacred trust committed to its keeping, in hope of the first resurrection--ye who have heard the sullen rumbling of the clods as they dropped upon the coffin lid, and told you that earth had gone back to earth; when the separation from the object of your love was realized in all the desolation of bereavement, next to the thought that you should ere long see christ as he is and be like him, was not that consolation the strongest which assured you that the departed one, whom god has put from you into darkness, will run to meet you when you cross the threshold of immortality, and, with the holy rapture to which the redeemed alone can give utterance, lead you to the exalted saviour, and with you bow at his feet and cast the conqueror's crown before him? and is this hope vain? shall we not even know those dear ones in the spirit world? was this light of hope that gilded so beautifully the sad, dark hour of human woe, only a mocking _ignis fatuus_, so soon to go out in everlasting darkness? is this affection, so deep, so holy, yearning over its object with undying love, to be nipped in the very bud of its being? nay, it cannot be. there must have been some higher purpose; god could not delight in the bestowal of affections that were to be blighted in their very beginning, and of hopes that were to end only in the mockery of eternal disappointment." if fate unite the faithful but to part, why is their memory sacred to the heart? oh, thank god for faith! for a faith that takes hold of that which is within the veil. there we behold our loved ones basking in the sunshine of the redeemer's love--there they see him face to face, and know as they are known. and they speak to us from the bright eternal world, and bid us weep not at nature's transient pain; congenial spirits part to meet again. just at this crisis i received a letter from a friend of mine at the north, disapproving in strong terms of my remaining any longer in the army, requesting me to give up my situation immediately, and to meet him in washington two weeks from date. i regarded that friend's opinions very much, especially when they coincided with my own; but upon this point no two opinions could differ more widely than did ours. it is true i was becoming dissatisfied with my situation as nurse, and was determined to leave the hospital; but before doing so i thought it best to call a council of three, mr. and mrs. b. and i, to decide what was the best course to pursue. after an hour's conference together the matter was decided in my mind. chaplain b. told me that he knew of a situation he could get for me if i had sufficient moral courage to undertake its duties; and, said he, "it is a situation of great danger and of vast responsibility." that morning a detachment of the thirty-seventh new york had been sent out as scouts, and had returned bringing in several prisoners, who stated that one of the federal spies had been captured at richmond and was to be executed. this information proved to be correct, and we lost a valuable soldier from the secret service of the united states. now it was necessary for that vacancy to be supplied, and, as the chaplain had said with reference to it, it was a situation of great danger and vast responsibility, and this was the one which mr. b. could procure for me. but was i capable of filling it with honor to myself and advantage to the federal government? this was an important question for me to consider ere i proceeded further. i did consider it thoroughly, and made up my mind to accept it with all its fearful responsibilities. the subject of life and death was not weighed in the balance; i left that in the hands of my creator, feeling assured that i was just as safe in passing the picket lines of the enemy, if it was god's will that i should go there, as i would be in the federal camp. and if not, then his will be done: then welcome death, the end of fears. my name was sent in to headquarters, and i was soon summoned to appear there myself. mr. and mrs. b. accompanied me. we were ushered into the presence of generals mc., m. and h., where i was questioned and cross-questioned with regard to my views of the rebellion and my motive in wishing to engage in so perilous an undertaking. my views were freely given, my object briefly stated, and i had passed trial number one. next i was examined with regard to my knowledge of the use of firearms, and in that department i sustained my character in a manner worthy of a veteran. then i was again cross-questioned, but this time by a new committee of military stars. next came a phrenological examination, and finding that my organs of secretiveness, combativeness, etc., were largely developed, the oath of allegiance was administered, and i was dismissed with a few complimentary remarks which made the good mr. b. feel quite proud of his _protege_. this was the third time that i had taken the oath of allegiance to the united states, and i began to think, as many of our soldiers do, that profanity had become a military necessity. i had three days in which to prepare for my debut into rebeldom, and i commenced at once to remodel, transform and metamorphose for the occasion. early next morning i started for fortress monroe, where i procured a number of articles indispensably necessary to a complete disguise. in the first place i purchased a suit of contraband clothing, real plantation style, and then i went to a barber and had my hair sheared close to my head. next came the coloring process--head, face, neck, hands and arms were colored black as any african, and then, to complete my contraband costume, i required a wig of real negro wool. but how or where was it to be found? there was no such thing at the fortress, and none short of washington. happily i found the mail-boat was about to start, and hastened on board, and finding a postmaster with whom i was acquainted, i stepped forward to speak to him, forgetting my contraband appearance, and was saluted with--"well, massa cuff--what will you have?" said i: "massa send me to you wid dis yere money for you to fotch him a darkie wig from washington." "what the ---- does he want of a darkie wig?" asked the postmaster. "no matter, dat's my orders; guess it's for some 'noiterin' business." "oh, for reconnoitering you mean; all right old fellow, i will bring it, tell him." i remained at fortress monroe until the postmaster returned with the article which was to complete my disguise, and then returned to camp near yorktown. on my return, i found myself without friends--a striking illustration of the frailty of human friendship--i had been forgotten in those three short days. i went to mrs. b.'s tent and inquired if she wanted to hire a boy to take care of her horse. she was very civil to me, asked if i came from fortress monroe, and whether i could cook. she did not want to hire me, but she thought she could find some one who did require a boy. off she went to dr. e. and told him that there was a smart little contraband there who was in search of work. dr. e. came along, looking as important as two year old doctors generally do. "well, my boy, how much work can you do in a day?" "oh, i reckon i kin work right smart; kin do heaps o' work. will you hire me, massa?" "don't know but i may; can you cook?" "yes, massa, kin cook anything i ebber seen." "how much do you think you can earn a month?" "guess i kin earn ten dollars easy nuff." turning to mrs. b. he said in an undertone: "that darkie understands his business." "yes indeed, i would hire him by all means, doctor," said mrs. b. "well, if you wish, you can stay with me a month, and by that time i will be a better judge how much you can earn." so saying dr. e. proceeded to give a synopsis of a contraband's duty toward a master of whom he expected ten dollars per month, especially emphasising the last clause. then i was introduced to the culinary department, which comprised flour, pork, beans, a small portable stove, a spider, and a medicine chest. it was now supper time, and i was supposed to understand my business sufficiently to prepare supper without asking any questions whatever, and also to display some of my boasted talents by making warm biscuit for supper. but how was i to make biscuit with my colored hands? and how dare i wash them for fear the color would wash off? all this trouble was soon put to an end, however, by jack's making his appearance while i was stirring up the biscuit with a stick, and in his bustling, officious, negro style, he said: "see here nig--you don't know nuffin bout makin bisket. jis let me show you once, and dat ar will save you heaps o' trouble wid massa doct'r for time to come." i very willingly accepted of this proffered assistance, for i had all the necessary ingredients in the dish, with pork fat for shortening, and soda and cream-tartar, which i found in the medicine chest, ready for kneading and rolling out. after washing his hands and rolling up his sleeves, jack went to work with a flourish and a grin of satisfaction at being "boss" over the new cook. tea made, biscuit baked, and the medicine chest set off with tin cups, plates, etc., supper was announced. dr. e. was much pleased with the general appearance of things, and was evidently beginning to think that he had found rather an intelligent contraband for a cook. chapter viii. my first secret expedition--my work among contrabands--pickaxe, shovel and wheelbarrow--counting the guns in a rebel fortification--a change of work--carrying water to the rebel soldiers--generals lee and johnson--the rebel force at yorktown--a council of war--turning white again--a rebel spy--lieutenant v.'s murderer--on picket duty--my return to our lines--i put on uniform and make my report. after supper i was left to my own reflections, which were anything but pleasant at that time; for in the short space of three hours i must take up my line of march toward the camp of the enemy. as i sat there considering whether it was best for me to make myself known to mrs. b. before i started, dr. e. put his head in at the tent door and said in a hurried manner: "ned, i want you to black my boots to-night; i shall require them early in the morning." "all right, massa doct'r," said i; "i allers blacks de boots over night." after washing up the few articles which had taken the place of dishes, and blacking the doctor's boots, i went to seek an interview with mrs. b. i found her alone and told her who i was, but was obliged to give her satisfactory proofs of my identity before she was convinced that i was the identical nurse with whom she had parted three days previously. my arrangements were soon made, and i was ready to start on my first secret expedition toward the confederate capital. mrs. b. was pledged to secrecy with regard to her knowledge of "ned" and his mysterious disappearance. she was not permitted even to tell mr. b. or dr. e., and i believe she kept her pledge faithfully. with a few hard crackers in my pocket, and my revolver loaded and capped, i started on foot, without even a blanket or anything which might create suspicion. at half-past nine o'clock i passed through the outer picket line of the union army, at twelve o'clock i was within the rebel lines, and had not so much as been halted once by a sentinel. i had passed within less than ten rods of a rebel picket, and he had not seen me. i took this as a favorable omen, and thanked heaven for it. as soon as i had gone a safe distance from the picket lines i lay down and rested until morning. the night was chilly and the ground cold and damp, and i passed the weary hours in fear and trembling. the first object which met my view in the morning was a party of negroes carrying out hot coffee and provisions to the rebel pickets. this was another fortunate circumstance, for i immediately made their acquaintance, and was rewarded for my promptness by receiving a cup of coffee and a piece of corn bread, which helped very much to chase away the lingering chills of the preceding night. i remained there until the darkies returned, and then marched into yorktown with them without eliciting the least suspicion. the negroes went to work immediately on the fortifications after reporting to their overseers, and i was left standing alone, not having quite made up my mind what part to act next. i was saved all further trouble in that direction, for my idleness had attracted the notice of an officer, who stepped forward and began to interrogate me after the following manner: "who do you belong to, and why are you not at work?" i answered in my best negro dialect: "i dusn't belong to nobody, massa, i'se free and allers was; i'se gwyne to richmond to work." but that availed me nothing, for turning to a man who was dressed in citizen's clothes and who seemed to be in charge of the colored department, he said: "take that black rascal and set him to work, and if he don't work well tie him up and give him twenty lashes, just to impress upon his mind that there's no free niggers here while there's a d--d yankee left in virginia." so saying he rode away, and i was conducted to a breast-work which was in course of erection, where about a hundred negroes were at work. i was soon furnished with a pickaxe, shovel, and a monstrous wheelbarrow, and i commenced forthwith to imitate my companions in bondage. that portion of the parapet upon which i was sent to work was about eight feet high. the gravel was wheeled up in wheelbarrows on single planks, one end of which rested on the brow of the breast-work and the other on the ground. i need not say that this work was exceedingly hard for the strongest man; but few were able to take up their wheelbarrows alone, and i was often helped by some good natured darkie when i was just on the verge of tumbling off the plank. all day long i worked in this manner, until my hands were blistered from my wrists to the finger ends. [illustration: disguised as a contraband.--page .] the colored men's rations were different from those of the soldiers. they had neither meat nor coffee, while the white men had both. whiskey was freely distributed to both black and white, but not in sufficient quantity to unfit them for duty. the soldiers seemed to be as much in earnest as the officers, and could curse the yankees with quite as much vehemence. notwithstanding the hardships of the day i had had my eyes and ears open, and had gained more than would counterbalance the day's work. night came, and i was released from toil. i was free to go where i pleased within the fortifications, and i made good use of my liberty. i made out a brief report of the mounted guns which i saw that night in my ramble round the fort, viz.: fifteen three-inch rifled cannon, eighteen four and a half-inch rifled cannon, twenty-nine thirty-two pounders, twenty-one forty-two pounders, twenty-three eight-inch columbiads, eleven nine-inch dahlgrens, thirteen ten-inch columbiads, fourteen ten-inch mortars, and seven eight-inch siege howitzers. this, together with a rough sketch of the outer works, i put under the inner sole of my contraband shoe and returned to the negro quarters. finding my hands would not be in a condition to shovel much earth on the morrow, i began to look round among the negroes to find some one who would exchange places with me whose duty was of a less arduous character. i succeeded in finding a lad of about my own size who was engaged in carrying water to the troops. he said he would take my place the next day, and he thought he could find a friend to do the same the day following, for which brotherly kindness i gave him five dollars in greenbacks; but he declared he could not take so much money--"he neber had so much money in all his life before." so by that operation i escaped the scrutiny of the overseer, which would probably have resulted in the detection of my assumed african complexion. the second day in the confederate service was much pleasanter than the first. i had only to supply one brigade with water, which did not require much exertion, for the day was cool and the well was not far distant; consequently i had an opportunity of lounging a little among the soldiers, and of hearing important subjects discussed. in that way i learned the number of reinforcements which had arrived from different places, and also had the pleasure of seeing general lee, who arrived while i was there. it was whispered among the men that he had been telegraphed to for the purpose of inspecting the yankee fortifications, as he was the best engineer in the confederacy, and that he had pronounced it impossible to hold yorktown after mcclellan opened his siege guns upon it. then, too, general j. e. johnson was hourly expected with a portion of his command. including all, the rebels estimated their force at one hundred and fifty thousand at yorktown and in that vicinity. when johnson arrived there was a council of war held, and things began to look gloomy. then the report began to circulate that the town was to be evacuated. one thing i noticed in the rebel army, that they do not keep their soldiers in the dark as our officers do with regard to the movements and destination of the troops. when an order comes to the federal army requiring them to make some important movement, no person knows whether they are advancing or retreating until they get to washington, or in sight of the enemy's guns, excepting two or three of the leading generals. having a little spare time i visited my sable friends and carried some water for them. after taking a draught of the cool beverage, one young darkie looked up at me in a puzzled sort of manner, and turning round to one of his companions, said: "jim, i'll be darned if that feller aint turnin' white; if he aint then i'm no nigger." i felt greatly alarmed at the remark, but said, very carelessly, "well, gem'in i'se allers 'spected to come white some time; my mudder's a white woman." this had the desired effect, for they all laughed at my simplicity, and made no further remarks upon the subject. as soon as i could conveniently get out of sight i took a look at my complexion by means of a small pocket looking-glass which i carried for that very purpose--and sure enough, as the negro had said, i was really turning white. i was only a dark mulatto color now, whereas two days previous i was as black as cloe. however, i had a small vial of nitrate of silver in weak solution, which i applied to prevent the remaining color from coming off. upon returning to my post with a fresh supply of water, i saw a group of soldiers gathered around some individual who was haranguing them in real southern style. i went up quietly, put down my cans of water, and of course had to fill the men's canteens, which required considerable time, especially as i was not in any particular hurry just then. i thought the voice sounded familiar, and upon taking a sly look at the speaker i recognized him at once as a peddler who used to come to the federal camp regularly once every week with newspapers and stationery, and especially at headquarters. he would hang round there, under some pretext or other, for half a day at a time. there he was, giving the rebels a full description of our camp and forces, and also brought out a map of the entire works of mcclellan's position. he wound up his discourse by saying: "they lost a splendid officer through my means since i have been gone this time. it was a pity though to kill such a man if he was a d--d yankee." then he went on to tell how he had been at headquarters, and heard "lieutenant v." say that he was going to visit the picket line at such a time, and he had hastened away and informed the rebel sharpshooters that one of the headquarter officers would be there at a certain time, and if they would charge on that portion of the line they might capture him and obtain some valuable information. instead of this, however, they watched for his approach, and shot him as soon as he made his appearance. i thanked god for that information. i would willingly have wrought with those negroes on that parapet for two months, and have worn the skin off my hands half a dozen times, to have gained that single item. he was a fated man from that moment; his life was not worth three cents in confederate scrip. but fortunately he did not know the feelings that agitated the heart of that little black urchin who sat there so quietly filling those canteens, and it was well that he did not. on the evening of the third day from the time i entered the camp of the enemy i was sent, in company with the colored men, to carry supper to the outer picket posts on the right wing. this was just what i wished for, and had been making preparations during the day, in view of the possibility of such an event, providing, among other things, a canteen full of whiskey. some of the men on picket duty were black and some were white. i had a great partiality for those of my own color, so calling out several darkies i spread before them some corn cake, and gave them a little whiskey for dessert. while we were thus engaged the yankee minnie balls were whistling round our heads, for the picket lines of the contending parties were not half a mile distant from each other. the rebel pickets do not remain together in groups of three or four as our men do, but are strung along, one in each place, from three to four rods apart. i proposed to remain a while with the pickets, and the darkies returned to camp without me. not long after night an officer came riding along the lines, and seeing me he inquired what i was doing there. one of the darkies replied that i had helped to carry out their supper, and was waiting until the yankees stopped firing before i started to go back. turning to me he said, "you come along with me." i did as i was ordered, and he turned and went back the same way he came until we had gone about fifty rods, then halting in front of a petty officer he said, "put this fellow on the post where that man was shot until i return." i was conducted a few rods farther, and then a rifle was put into my hands, which i was told to use freely in case i should see anything or anybody approaching from the enemy. then followed the flattering remark, after taking me by the coat-collar and giving me a pretty hard shake, "now, you black rascal, if you sleep on your post i'll shoot you like a dog." "oh no, massa, i'se too feerd to sleep," was my only reply. the night was very dark, and it was beginning to rain. i was all alone now, but how long before the officer might return with some one to fill my place i did not know, and i thought the best thing i could do was to make good use of the present moment. after ascertaining as well as possible the position of the picket on each side of me, each of whom i found to be enjoying the shelter of the nearest tree, i deliberately and noiselessly stepped into the darkness, and was soon gliding swiftly through the forest toward the "land of the free," with my splendid rifle grasped tightly lest i should lose the prize. i did not dare to approach very near the federal lines, for i was in more danger of being shot by them than by the enemy; so i spent the remainder of the night within hailing distance of our lines, and with the first dawn of morning i hoisted the well known signal and was welcomed once more to a sight of the dear old stars and stripes. i went immediately to my tent. mrs. b. was delighted at my return; she was the only person in camp who knew me. jack was sent to the quartermaster's with an order for a new suit of soldier's clothes. when he saw they were for me, on his return, he said: "hi! dat darkie tinks he's some. guess he don't cook no more for massa doct'r." after removing as much of the color as it was possible for soap and water to do, my complexion was a nice maroon color, which my new costume showed off to good advantage. had my own mother seen me then, it would have been difficult to convince her of our relationship. i made out my report immediately and carried it to general mcclellan's headquarters, together with my trophy from the land of traitors. i saw general g. b., but he did not recognize me, and ordered me to go and tell a. to appear before him in an hour from that time. i returned again to my tent, chalked my face, and dressed in the same style as on examination day, went at the hour appointed, and received the hearty congratulations of the general. the rifle was sent to washington, and is now in the capitol as a memento of the war. do my friends wish to know how i felt in such a position and in such a costume? i will tell them. i felt just as happy and as comfortable as it was possible for any one to be under similar circumstances. i am naturally fond of adventure, a little ambitious and a good deal romantic, and this together with my devotion to the federal cause and determination to assist to the utmost of my ability in crushing the rebellion, made me forget the unpleasant items, and not only endure, but really enjoy, the privations connected with my perilous positions. perhaps a spirit of adventure was important--but _patriotism_ was the grand secret of my success. being fatigued, and the palms of both my hands in raw flesh, i thought it best to wait a few days before setting out upon another adventure. while i was thus situated i made a point of becoming acquainted with nellie, my rebel captive. she was trying to make herself useful in the hospital, notwithstanding her hand was very painful--often waiting upon those who were suffering less than she was herself. her pale, pensive face and widow's weeds seemed to possess peculiar attractions for doctor e., and her hand was a bond of mutual sympathy between them, and afforded many pretexts for a half hour's conversation. chapter ix. evacuation of yorktown--our army on the double quick--pursuit of the fugitives--the enemy's works--a battle--on the field--a "wounded," and not injured colonel--carrying the wounded--fort magruder silenced--the victory won--burying the dead--story of a ring--wounded rebels--a brave young sergeant--christian soldiers--a soldier's death-bed--closing scenes--last words. the next day the continuous roar of cannon all along the lines of the enemy was kept up incessantly. "nor did it cease at night, for when darkness settled over the encampment, from the ramparts that stretched away from yorktown there were constant gushes of flame, while the heavy thunder rolled far away in the gloom." a little after midnight the cannonading ceased, and a strange silence rested upon hill and valley. the first dawn of day which broke peacefully over the landscape discovered to the practiced eye of professor lowe that the entrenchments of the enemy were deserted; the rebels had abandoned their stronghold during the night and had fled toward richmond. the news spread throughout the federal army like lightning; from right to left and from center to circumference the entire encampment was one wild scene of joy. music and cheering were the first items in the programme, and then came the following order: "commandants of regiments will prepare to march with two days' rations, with the utmost dispatch. leave, not to return." at about eight o'clock in the morning our advance guard entered yorktown. there were nearly one hundred guns of different kinds and calibers and a large quantity of ammunition. the road over which the fugitive army passed during the night was beat up into mortar, knee deep, and was strewn with fragments of army wagons, tents and baggage. the federal troops were in excellent spirits, and pushed on after the retreating army almost on the double quick. in this manner they kept up the pursuit until toward evening, when the cavalry came up with the rear-guard of the enemy about two miles from williamsburg, where a sharp skirmish followed. night came on and firing ceased; the rebels were behind their entrenchments, and our army bivouaced for the night. the cavalry and artillery forces were under command of general stoneman; generals heintzelman, hooker and smith were in command of the advance column of infantry, while generals kearney, couch and casey brought up the rear. the enemy's works were four miles in extent, nearly three-fourths of their front being covered by the tributaries of queen's creek and college creek. the main works were a large fortification, called fort magruder, and twelve redoubts for field guns. the woods around and inside of those works were felled, and the ground was thickly dotted with rifle pits. the battle commenced the next morning at half-past seven o'clock. general hooker began the attack. the enemy were heavily reinforced, and made a desperate resistance. hooker lost a great number of men and five pieces of artillery before kearney, couch or casey came up. the roads were a perfect sea of mud, and now it was raining in torrents. the roar of battle sounded all along the lines; the thunder of cannon and the crash of musketry reverberated through the woods and over the plain, assuring the advancing troops that their companions were engaged in deadly strife. the thick growth of heavy timber was felled in all directions, forming a splendid ambush for the rebel sharpshooters. the federals moved forward in the direction of the enemy's works, steadily, firmly, through ditch and swamp, mud and mire, loading and firing as they went, and from every tree, bush and covert, which could conceal a man, the rebels poured a deadly fire into the ranks of our advancing troops. i was glad now that i had postponed my second visit to the enemy, for there was plenty of work for me to do here, as the ghastly faces of the wounded and dying testified. i was subject to all kinds of orders. one moment i was ordered to the front with a musket in my hands; the next to mount a horse and carry an order to some general, and very often to take hold of a stretcher with some strong man and carry the wounded from the field. i remember one little incident in connection with my experience that day which i shall never forget, viz.: colonel ---- fell, and i ran to help put him on a stretcher and carry him to a place of safety, or where the surgeons were, which was more than i was able to do without overtaxing my strength, for he was a very heavy man. a poor little stripling of a soldier and myself carried him about a quarter of a mile through a terrific storm of bullets, and he groaning in a most piteous manner. we laid him down carefully at the surgeon's feet, and raised him tenderly from the stretcher, spread a blanket and laid him upon it, then lingered just a moment to see whether the wound was mortal. the surgeon commenced to examine the case; there was no blood to indicate where the wound was, and the poor sufferer was in such agony that he could not tell where it was. so the surgeon examined by piecemeal until he had gone through with a thorough examination, and there was not even a scratch to be seen. doctor e. straightened himself up and said, "colonel, you are not wounded at all; you had better let these boys carry you back again." the colonel became indignant, and rose to his feet with the air of an insulted hero and said: "doctor, if i live to get out of this battle i'll call you to account for those words;" to which doctor e. replied with decision, "sir, if you are not with your regiment in fifteen minutes i shall report you to general h." i turned and left the spot in disgust, mentally regretting that the lead or steel of the enemy had not entered the breast of one who seemed so ambitious of the honor without the effect. as i returned to my post i made up my mind in future to ascertain whether a man was wounded or not before i did anything for him. the next i came to was captain wm. r. m., of the ---- michigan. his leg was broken and shattered from the ankle to the knee. as we went to lift him on a stretcher he said: "just carry me out of range of the guns, and then go back and look after the boys. mc---- and l. have fallen, and perhaps they are worse off than i am." oh how glad i was to hear those words from his lips. it confirmed the opinion i had formed of him long before; he was one of my first acquaintances in the army, and, though he was a strict disciplinarian, i had watched his christian deportment and kind and affectionate manner toward his men with admiration and interest. i believed him noble and brave, and those few words on the battle-field at such a moment spoke volumes for that faithful captain's heroism and love for his men. the battle was raging fiercely, the men were almost exhausted, the rebels were fighting like demons, and were driving our troops back step by step, while the space between the two lines was literally covered with dead and wounded men and horses. one tremendous shout from the federals rent the air and fairly shook the earth. we all knew in an instant, as if by intuition, what called forth such wild cheers from that weary and almost overpowered army. "kearney!" was shouted enthusiastically along the federal lines, while the fresh troops were hurled like thunderbolts upon the foe. one battery after another was taken from the enemy, and charge after charge was made upon their works, until the tide of battle was turned, fort magruder silenced, and the stars and stripes were floating in triumph over the rebel works. the battle was won, and victory crowned the union arms. the rebels were flying precipitately from the field, and showers of bullets thick as hail followed the retreating fugitives. night closed around us, and a darkness which almost equaled that of "egypt" settled over the battle-field, and the pitiless rain came down in torrents, drenching alike the living and the dead. there lay upon that crimson field two thousand two hundred and twenty-eight of our own men, and more than that number of the enemy. it was indescribably sad to see our weary, exhausted men, with torches, wading through mud to their knees piloting the ambulances over the field, lest they should trample upon the bodies of their fallen comrades. all night long we toiled in this manner, and when morning came still there were hundreds found upon the field. those of the enemy were found in heaps, both dead and wounded piled together in ravines, among the felled timber, and in rifle pits half covered with mud. now the mournful duty came of identifying and burying the dead. oh, what a day was that in the history of my life, as well as of thousands both north and south. it makes me shudder now while i recall its scenes. to see those fair young forms crushed by the war-horse tread, the dear and bleeding ones stretched by the piled-up dead. oh, war, cruel war! thou dost pierce the soul with untold sorrows, as well as thy bleeding victims with death. how many joyous hopes and bright prospects hast thou blasted; and how many hearts and homes hast thou made desolate! "as we think of the great wave of woe and misery surging over the land, we could cry out in very bitterness of soul--oh god! how long, how long!" the dead lay in long rows on the field, their ghastly faces hid from view by handkerchiefs or the capes of their overcoats, while the faithful soldiers were digging trenches in which to bury the mangled bodies of the slain. i passed along the entire line and uncovered every face, in search of one who had given me a small package the day before when going into battle, telling me that if he should be killed to send it home; and, said he, "here is a ring on my finger which i want you to send to ----. it has never been off my finger since she placed it there the morning i started for washington. if i am killed please take it off and send it to her." i was now in search of him, but could find nothing of the missing one. at last i saw a group of men nearly half a mile distant, who also seemed to be engaged in burying the dead. i made my way toward them as fast as i could, but when i reached them the bodies had all been lowered into the trench, and they were already filling it up. i begged them to let me go down and see if my friend was among the dead, to which the kind hearted boys consented. his body lay there partially covered with earth; i uncovered his face; he was so changed i should not have recognized him, but the ring told me that it was he. i tried with all my might to remove the ring, but could not. the fingers were so swollen that it was impossible to get it off. in life it was a pledge of faithfulness from one he loved, "and in death they were not divided." the dead having been buried and the wounded removed to the churches and college buildings in williamsburg, the fatigued troops sought repose. upon visiting the wounded rebels i saw several whom i had met in yorktown, among them the sergeant of the picket post who had given me a friendly shake and told me if i slept on my post he would shoot me like a dog. he was pretty badly wounded, and did not seem to remember me. a little farther on a young darkie lay groaning upon the floor. i went to look at him, and asked if i could do anything for him. i recognized in the distorted face before me the same darkie who had befriended me at yorktown, and to whom i had offered the five dollar greenback. i assure my friends that i repaid that boy's kindness with double interest; i told doctor e. what he had done for me when my "hands" turned traitors. he was made an especial object of interest and care. some few of the rebel prisoners were gentlemanly and intelligent, and their countenances betokened a high state of moral culture. many were low, insolent, bloodthirsty creatures, who "neither feared god nor regarded man;" while others there were who seemed not to know enough to be either one thing or the other, but were simply living, breathing animals, subject to any order, and who would just as soon retreat as advance, so long as they did not have to fight. they did not care which way the battle went. on the whole there was a vast contrast between the northern and southern soldiers as they appeared in the hospitals, but perhaps prejudice had something to do in making the rebels appear so much inferior to our men. in passing through the college building i noticed a young sergeant, a mere boy, who was shot in the temple. he attracted my attention, and i made some inquiry concerning him. he was a federal, and belonged to the --massachusetts regiment. an old soldier sitting by him told me the following: "that boy is not sixteen yet; he enlisted as a private, and has, by his bravery and good conduct, earned the three stripes which you see on his arm. he fought all day yesterday like a young lion, leading charges again and again upon the enemy. after we lost our captain and lieutenants he took command of the company, and led it through the battle with the skill and courage of a young brigadier, until he fell stunned and bleeding. i carried him off the field, but could not tell whether he was dead or alive. i washed the blood from his face; the cold water had a salutary effect upon him, for when hancock and kearney had completed their work, and the cheers of victory rang over the bloody field, he was sufficiently revived to hear the inspiring tones of triumph. leaping to his feet, faint and sick as he was, he took up the shout of victory in unison with the conquerers on the field. but he had scarcely uttered the notes of victory and glory when his strength deserted him and he fell insensible to the ground." the old man added: "general ---- says if he lives through this he will go into the next battle with shoulder straps on." i went up to him, took his feverish hand, and told him that i was glad that his wound was not mortal. he thanked me, and said with enthusiasm, "i would rather have been killed than to have lost the battle." there is one thing that i have noticed on the field in every battle that i have witnessed, viz.: that the christian man is the best soldier. says a minister of the gospel, writing upon this subject: "it is a common saying among the officers that, as a class, the men who stand foremost when the battle rages are the christian men. many a time i have talked with them about such scenes, and they have told me that their souls have stood firm in that hour of strife, and that they have been perfectly calm. i have had christian generals tell me this. i have heard general howard often say that in the midst of the most terrific portion of the battle, when his heart for a moment quailed, he would pause, and lift up his soul to god and receive strength. "and," said he, "i have gone through battles without a particle of fear. i have thought that god sent me to defend my country. i believed it was a christian duty to stand in the foremost of the fight, and why should i be afraid?" i once heard an eminently pious lady say that she never could reconcile the idea in her mind of a christian going into the army to fight; it was so inconsistent with the christian character that she was tempted to doubt the piety of all fighting men. i respect the lady's views upon the subject, but beg leave to differ from her; for i believe that a man can serve god just as acceptably in fighting the enemies of liberty, truth and righteousness with the musket down south, as he can in the quiet pulpits of the north; in fact i am inclined to think he can do so a little more effectually in the former place. i only wish that there were more of our holy men willing to take up the carnal weapons of warfare, forego the luxuries of home, and, by setting examples worthy of emulation, both in camp and on the battle field, thus strike a fatal blow at this unholy rebellion. the last night i spent in the hospital before leaving williamsburg, i witnessed the death of a christian soldier, a perfect description of which i find in the "memorials of the war:" "it was the hour of midnight, when the chaplain was summoned to the cot of a wounded soldier. he had only left him an hour before, with confident hopes of his speedy recovery--hopes which were shared by the surgeon and the wounded man himself. but a sudden change had taken place, and the surgeon had come to say that the man could live but an hour or two at most, and to beg the chaplain to make the announcement to the dying man. he was soon at his side, but overpowered by his emotions, was utterly unable to deliver his message. the dying man, however, quickly read the solemn truth in the altered looks of the chaplain, his faltering voice and ambiguous words. he had not before entertained a doubt of his recovery. he was expecting soon to see his mother, and with her kind nursing soon to be well. he was therefore entirely unprepared for the announcement, and at first it was overwhelming. "'i am to die then; and--how long?' as he had before expressed hope in christ, the chaplain replied: 'you have made your peace with god; let death come as soon as it will, he will carry you safely over the river.' 'yes; but this is so awfully sudden, awfully sudden!' his lips quivered; he looked up grievingly: 'and i shall not see my mother.' 'christ is better than a mother,' murmured the chaplain. 'yes.' the word came in a whisper. his eyes were closed; the lips still wore that trembling grief, as if the chastisement were too sore, too hard to be borne; but as the minutes passed, and the soul lifted itself up stronger and more steadily upon the wings of prayer, the countenance grew calmer, the lips steadier, and when the eyes opened again there was a light in their depths that could have come only from heaven. "'i thank you for your courage,' he said more feebly, taking the chaplain's hand; 'the bitterness is over now, and i feel willing to die. tell my mother'--he paused, gave one sob, dry, and full of the last anguish of earth--'tell her how i longed to see her; but if god will permit me i will be near her. tell her to comfort all who loved me; to say that i thought of them all. tell my father that i am glad that he gave his consent. tell my minister, by word or letter, that i thought of him, and that i thank him for all his counsels. tell him i find that christ will not desert the passing soul, and that i wish him to give my testimony to the living, that nothing is of real worth but the religion of jesus; and now, will you pray with me?' with swelling emotion and tender tones the chaplain besought god's grace and presence; then, restraining his sobs, he bowed down and pressed upon the beautiful brow, already chilled with the breath of the coming angel, twice, thrice, a fervent kiss. they might have been as tokens from the father and mother, as well as for himself. "so thought, perhaps, the dying soldier, for a heavenly smile touched his face with new beauty, as he said, 'thank you; i won't trouble you any longer. you are wearied out; go to your rest.' 'the lord god be with you!' was the firm response. 'amen,' trembled from the fast whitening lips. another hour passed, still the chaplain did not go to rest, but retired to an adjoining room; he was about to return to the bedside of the dying when the surgeon met him and whispered softly, 'he is gone.' christ's soldier had found the captain of his salvation, and received his reward." tell my mother, when you see her, that i fell amid the strife; and for freedom and my country i have given up my life; tell her that i sent this message ere my tongue refused to speak, and you tell her, comrade, won't you? tell my mother not to weep. tell her, comrade, how we battled for our country and the right; how i held the starry banner in the thickest of the fight; tell her how they struggled for it, and, with curses loud and deep, took my bosom for their target-- but tell her not to weep. tell her i held up the banner 'mid the screaming shot and shell, till the fatal leaden missile pierced my side, and then i fell. tell her i was ready, waiting, when my pulses ceased to beat, and i longed once more to see her-- but you tell her not to weep. tell her that the truths she taught me nerved my arm and led my feet, and i trusted in the promise 'mid the battle's fiercest heat. tell her, while my life was ebbing, that i kissed her face so sweet-- kissed the picture that she gave me-- and you tell her not to weep. tell her, comrade, when you see her, that my battlefields are o'er, and i've gone to join an army where rebellion comes no more; tell her that i hope to greet her, when together we shall meet, in that better home in heaven, where we never more shall weep. chapter x. mcclellan's despatch from ewell's farm--call for reinforcements--news from norfolk--description of the merrimac--the engagement in hampton roads--first and last fight of the merrimac--victory of the monitor--advance on the peninsula--the battle song--a muddy march--on the chickahominy--critical position of general banks--the president's despatches--mcclellan's reply. on the tenth of may headquarters were established beyond williamsburg, and communications were opened between the forces moving by land and water. the following despatch was then sent by general mcclellan to secretary stanton: "camp at ewell's farm, "three miles beyond williamsburg, "_may th-- a. m._ "from the information reaching me from every source, i regard it as certain that the enemy will meet us with all his force on or near the chickahominy. they can concentrate many more men than i have, and are collecting troops from all quarters, especially well disciplined troops from the south. casualties, sickness, garrisons and guards have much reduced our numbers, and will continue to do so. i shall fight the rebel army with whatever force i may have, but duty requires me to urge that every effort be made to reinforce me, without delay, with all the disposable troops in eastern virginia, and that we concentrate all our forces, as far as possible, to fight the great battle now impending, and to make it decisive. it is possible that the enemy may abandon richmond without a serious struggle, but i do not believe he will; and it would be unwise to count upon anything but a stubborn and desperate defense--a life and death contest. i see no other hope for him than to fight this battle, and we must win it. i shall fight them whatever their force may be; but i ask for every man that the department can send me. no troops should now be left unemployed. those who entertain the opinion that the rebels will abandon richmond without a struggle are, in my judgment, badly advised, and do not comprehend their situation, which is one requiring desperate measures. i beg that the president and secretary will maturely weigh what i say, and leave nothing undone to comply with my request. if i am not reinforced it is probable that i will be obliged to fight nearly double my numbers strongly entrenched." four days later he writes: "i will fight the enemy, whatever their force may be, with whatever force i may have, and i believe that we shall beat them; but our triumph should be made decisive and complete. the soldiers of this army love their government, and will fight well in its support. you may rely upon them. they have confidence in me as their general, and in you as their president. strong reinforcements will at least save the lives of many of them; the greater our force the more perfect will be our combinations, and the less our loss. for obvious reasons i beg you to give immediate consideration to this communication, and to inform me fully, at the earliest moment, of your final decision." a few days' rest after the fatigues of the battle, and the glorious news of the evacuation of norfolk and the total annihilation of the merrimac, had a wonderful effect upon the spirits of our troops; they seemed inspired with new courage and enthusiasm. hitherto i have said nothing concerning that great bugbear, the merrimac. perhaps some of my "blue-nose" readers are not so well posted with regard to the origin and structure of this formidable rebel battery as the americans are, and it may be interesting to some to listen to a brief description of it. "upon the burning and evacuation of the norfolk navy yard the steam frigate merrimac was scuttled and sunk, by order of commodore macaulay. this was one of the most magnificent ships in the american navy, being rated as a forty-gun frigate, of four thousand tons burden. she was built in charlestown, massachusetts, in , and was considered one of the finest specimens of naval architecture then afloat. she was two hundred and eighty-one feet long, fifty-two feet broad, and drew twenty-three feet of water. her engines were of eight hundred horse power, driving a two-bladed propeller fourteen feet in diameter, and so adjusted as to be raised from the water when the vessel was driven by wind alone. her armament consisted of twenty-four nine-inch shell guns, fourteen eight-inch, and two one hundred-pound pivot guns. this magnificent structure was raised by the rebels and cut down, leaving only the hull, which was exceedingly massive and solid. over this they constructed a sloping shield of railroad iron, firmly plaited together, and extending two feet under the water. its appearance was much like the slanting roof of a house set upon a ship's hull, like an extinguisher, the ends of the vessel, fore and aft, projecting a few feet beyond this roof. the gun-deck was completely inclosed by this shield, and nothing appeared above it but a short smoke-stack and two flag-staffs." an eye witness gives the following account of the first appearance and conflict of the merrimac: "about noon of saturday, the eighth of march, , this monster was seen coming around craney island from norfolk, accompanied by two other war vessels, the jamestown and yorktown, and quite a little fleet of armed tugs. the merrimac, with her imposing retinue in train, headed for newport news, where there was a national garrison, guarded by the sailing frigates the cumberland, of one thousand seven hundred and twenty-six tons, and the congress, of one thousand eight hundred and sixty-seven tons burden. the merrimac steamed majestically along, as if conscious of resistless strength, and as she passed the congress discharged a single broadside into the doomed ship, and then, leaving her to the attention of the jamestown and yorktown, made directly for the cumberland. when the merrimac was within a hundred yards of the two frigates, they both discharged their tremendous broadsides against her armor. "the mailed monster quivered a moment under the fearful concussion, but every ball glanced from her sloping shield like the wooden arrows of the indian from the hide of the crocodile. her ports were all closed. not deigning to pay any attention to the fierce but harmless assault of the two frigates, she rushed straight forward upon her prey. the formidable national battery at newport news opened, with all its immense guns, at point-blank range, and these solid shot and shells also glanced harmlessly away. on rushed the silent merrimac, with not a soul on board to be seen, true as an arrow, and with all the power of her irresistible weight, plunged headlong with a fearful crash into the side of the helpless frigate. the iron prow of the assailant struck the cumberland amidships, crushing in her side with a mortal gash. then, reversing her engine, and not even annoyed by the cannon balls rattling against her impervious mail, she retraced her steps a few rods for another butt. "as she drew back she turned her broadside to the wounded victim, and hurled into her bosom a merciless volley of shot and shells. the ponderous missiles tore through the crowded ship, hurling her massive guns about her decks, and scattering mutilated bodies in all directions. again gathering headway, she crowded on all steam and made another plunge at the cumberland. she struck directly upon the former wound, and crushed in the whole side of the ship as if it had been a lattice work of laths. "timbers as strong as nature and art could make them, were snapped and crushed like dry twigs. as the sun went down, that night, over hampton roads, every union heart in the fleet and in the fortress throbbed with despair. there was no gleam of hope. the merrimac was impervious to balls, and could go where she pleased. in the morning it would be easy work for her to destroy our whole fleet. she could then shell newport news and fortress monroe at her leisure, setting everything combustible in flames, and driving every man from the guns. "'that morrow! how anxiously we waited for it! how much we feared its results! at sundown there was nothing to dispute the empire of the seas with the merrimac, and had a land attack been made by magruder then, god only knows what our fate would have been.' all at once a speck of light gleamed on the distant wave; it moved; it came nearer and nearer, and at ten o'clock that night the monitor appeared. 'when the tale of brick is doubled, moses comes.' i never more firmly believed in special providences than at that hour. even skeptics were converted, and said, 'god has sent her.' but how insignificant she looked; she was but a speck on the dark blue wave at night, and almost a laughable object by day. the enemy call her a 'cheese-box on a raft,' and the comparison is a good one." but insignificant as she appeared, she saved the union fleet, silenced the rebel monster, and eventually caused her to commit suicide. no wonder then that the news of the death of this formidable foe caused great rejoicing among the union troops. orders were issued to continue the advance up the peninsula; and as the jubilant troops were engaged in striking tents and making the necessary preparations consequent upon a hurried march, "the battle song of the republic" was being sung with enthusiasm throughout the encampment by thousands of manly voices, and every loyal heart seemed inspired by the glorious sentiments which it contained. mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the lord; he is trampling out the vintage where the grape of wrath is stored; he hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword; his truth is marching on. chorus--glory, glory, hallelujah! glory, glory, hallelujah! glory, glory, hallelujah! his truth is marching on. i have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; they have builded him an altar in the evening's dews and damps; i can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaming lamps; his day is marching on, etc. i have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel: as ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; let the hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, since god is marching on, etc. he has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; he is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat; o, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! our god is marching on, etc. in the beauty of the lilies christ was born across the sea, with a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: as he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, while god is marching on, etc. the roads were so indescribably bad at this time that the army could make but little progress. i remember it required thirty-six hours for one train to accomplish the distance of five miles. however, after several days wading through mud and water, the troops reached the white house, where a portion of the army remained for a time, while the advance guards pushed on to the chickahominy river, and established headquarters at bottom's bridge--its further progress being impeded by the destruction of the bridge by the rebels. "the position of the troops were as follows: stoneman's advance-guard one mile from new bridge; franklin's corps three miles from new bridge, with porter's corps in advancing distance in its rear; sumner's corps on the railroad, about three miles from the chickahominy, connecting the right with the left; keyes' on new kent road, near bottom's bridge, with heintzelman's corps at supporting distance in its rear." the ford was in possession of the federal troops, and a reconstruction of the bridge was immediately commenced. on the th of may the two following despatches were received by gen. mcclellan from the president: "i wish you to move cautiously and safely. you will have command of mcdowell precisely as you indicated in your despatch to us." "in consequence of gen. banks' critical position, i have been compelled to suspend gen. mcdowell's movement to join you. the enemy are making a desperate push upon harper's ferry, and we are trying to throw gen. fremont's force, and part of gen. mcdowell's, in their rear!" on the th, the president also sent the following to mcclellan: "the enemy is moving north in sufficient force to drive gen. banks before him; precisely in what force we cannot tell. he is also threatening leesburg and geary on the manassas gap railroad, from north and south; i think the movement is a general and concerted one--such as would not be if he was acting upon the purpose of a very desperate defense of richmond. i think the time is near when you must either attack richmond or give up the job, and come to the defense of washington. let me hear from you instantly." to which mcclellan replied: "telegram received. independently of it, the time is very near when i shall attack richmond. the object of the movement is probably to prevent reinforcements being sent to me. all the information obtained agree in the statement that the mass of the rebel troops are still in the vicinity of richmond. i have no knowledge of banks' position and force, nor what there is at manassas; therefore cannot form a definite opinion as to the forces against him. i have two corps across chickahominy, within six miles of richmond; the others on this side at other crossings, within same distance, and ready to cross when bridges are completed." chapter xi. another disguise--i become an irish peddler--fever and ague--a night of suffering in the swamp--retrospection--lost in the swamp--cannon my guides--a sick rebel--i find something to eat--my new patient--sympathy for suffering--talk with a dying rebel--a willing detention--extemporizing a light--the last hour--soldiers of christ--the chamber of death. while all these preparations were going forward, i was meditating another visit to the rebel camp. it was not safe for me to attempt to palm myself off again on the rebels as a colored boy. in the first place, i should be in danger of being recognized as the cowardly picket who deserted his post--a crime worthy of death; and in the next place, i should be in imminent danger of blistering my hands again--a thing which i felt particularly anxious to avoid, especially in performing labor that would enable the enemy more successfully to repel the attacks of the federals. now a new disguise was necessary, and i decided to abandon the african relation, and assume that of the hibernian. having had this in view before leaving williamsburg, i procured the dress and outfit of an irish female peddler, following the army, selling cakes, pies, etc., together with a considerable amount of brogue, and a set of irish phrases, which did much toward characterizing me as one of the "rale ould stock of bog-trotters." the bridges were not finished across the chickahominy when i was ready to cross the river, so i packed up my new disguise in my cake and pie basket, and my horse, "frank," and i took a bath in the cool water of the chickahominy. after swimming my noble steed across the river, i dismounted, and led him to the edge of the water--gave him a farewell pat, and let him swim back again to the other side, where a soldier awaited his return. it was now evening; i did not know the precise distance to the enemy's picket line, but thought it best to avoid the roads, and consequently i must spend the night in the swamp, as the only safe retreat. it required some little time to don my new disguise, and feel at home in the clothes. i thought the best place for my debut was the "chickahominy swamp." i did not purpose, this time, to pass the enemy's lines in the night, but to present myself at the picket line, at a seasonable hour, and ask admission as one of the fugitives of that section flying from the approach of the yankees, which was a usual thing. in crossing the river i had my basket strapped on my back, and did not know that all it contained was completely drenched, until i required to use its contents. it was, therefore, with feelings of dread and disappointment that i discovered this sad fact, for i had been suffering from slight ague chills during the day, and feared the consequences of spending the night in wet clothing, especially in that malaria-infested region. however, there was no alternative, and i was obliged to make the best of it. i had brought a patch-work quilt with me from the hospital, but that, too, was wet. yet it kept off some of the chill night air, and the miasmatic breath of that "dismal swamp." the remembrance of the sufferings of that night seem to be written upon my memory "as with a pen of iron." there i was, all alone, surrounded by worse, yes, infinitely worse, than wild beasts--by blood-thirsty savages--who considered death far too good for those who were in the employment of the united states government. that night i was attacked by severe chills--chills beyond description, or even conception, except by those who have experienced the freezing sensation of a genuine ague chill. during the latter part of the night the other extreme presented itself, and it seemed as if i should roast alive, and not a single drop of water to cool my parched tongue; it was enough to make any one think of the "rich man" of the bible, and in sympathy with his feelings cry to "father abraham" for assistance. my mind began to wander, and i became quite delirious. there seemed to be the horrors of a thousand deaths concentrated around me; i was tortured by fiends of every conceivable shape and magnitude. oh, how it makes me shudder to recall the scenes which my imagination conjured up during those dark weary hours! morning at last came, and i was aroused from the horrible night-mare which had paralyzed my senses through the night, by the roar of cannon and the screaming of shell through the forest. but there i was, helpless as an infant, equally unable to advance or retreat, without friend or foe to molest or console me, and nothing even to amuse me but my own thoughts. i looked upon the surrounding scenery, and pronounced it very unromantic; then my eye fell upon my irish costume, and i began to remember the fine phrases which i had taken so much pains to learn, when the perfect absurdity of my position rushed over my mind with overwhelming force, and the ludicrousness of it made me, for the moment, forget my lamentable condition, and with one uncontrollable burst of laughter i made that swamp resound in a manner which would have done credit to a person under happier circumstances, and in a better state of health. that mood soon passed away, and i began a retrospection of my past life. it certainly had been an eventful one. i took great interest in carefully tracing each link in the chain of circumstances which had brought me to the spot whereon i now lay, deserted and alone, in that notorious chickahominy swamp. and ere i was aware of it, i was sighing over a few episodes in my past history--and mentally saying, well, only for this intense love of adventure, such and such things "might have been," and i should now be rejoicing in the honorable title of ---- ----, instead of "wasting my sweetness on the desert air," in the wilderness of the peninsula. of all the sad words, of tongue or of pen, the saddest are these--"_it might have been_." the cannonading was only the result of a reconnoissance, and in a few hours ceased altogether. but not so my fever and chills; they were my constant companions for two days and two nights in succession. at the end of that time i was an object of pity. with no medicine, no food, and consequently little strength; i was nearly in a state of starvation. my pies and cakes were spoiled in the basket, in consequence of the drenching they had received in crossing the river, and now i had no means of procuring more. but something must be done; i could not bear the thought of thus starving to death in that inglorious manner; better die upon the scaffold at richmond, or be shot by the rebel pickets; anything but this. so i thought and said, as i rallied all my remaining strength to arrange my toilette preparatory to emerging from my concealment in the swamp. it was about nine o'clock in the morning of the third day after crossing the river, when i started, as i thought, towards the enemy's lines, and a more broken-hearted, forlorn-looking "bridget" never left "ould ireland," than i appeared to be that morning. i traveled from that time until five o'clock in the afternoon, and was then deeper in the swamp than when i started. my head or brain was completely turned. i knew not which way to go, nor did i know east from west, or north from south. it was a dark day in every sense of the word--and i had neither sun nor compass to guide me. at five o'clock the glorious booming of cannon reverberated through the dense wilderness, and to me, at that hour, it was the sweetest and most soul-inspiring music that ever greeted my ear. i now turned my face in the direction of the scene of action, and was not long in extricating myself from the desert which had so long enveloped me. soon after emerging from the swamp i saw, in the distance, a small white house, and thither i bent my weary footsteps. i found it deserted, with the exception of a sick rebel soldier, who lay upon a straw-tick on the floor in a helpless condition. i went to him, and assuming the irish brogue, i inquired how he came to be left alone, and if i could render him any assistance. he could only speak in a low whisper, and with much difficulty, said he had been ill with typhoid fever a few weeks before, and had not fully recovered when general stoneman attacked the rebels in the vicinity of coal harbor, and he was ordered to join his company. he participated in a sharp skirmish, in which the rebels were obliged to retreat; but he fell out by the way, and fearing to fall into the hands of the yankees, he had crawled along as best he could, sometimes on his hands and knees, until he reached the house in which i found him. [illustration: making hoe-cake for a sick rebel.--page .] he had not eaten anything since leaving camp, and he was truly in a starving condition. i did not dare say to him "ditto"--with regard to poor "bridget's" case--but thought so, and realized it most painfully. he also told me that the family who had occupied the house had abandoned it since he came there, and that they had left some flour and corn-meal, but had not time to cook anything for him. this was good news for me, and exhausted as i was, i soon kindled a fire, and in less than fifteen minutes a large hoe-cake was before it in process of baking, and a sauce-pan of water heating, for there was no kettle to be found. after searching about the premises, i found some tea packed away in a small basket, with some earthearn ware, which the family had forgotten to take with them. my cake being cooked, and tea made, i fed the poor famished rebel as tenderly as if he had been my brother, and he seemed as grateful for my kindness, and thanked me with as much politeness, as if i had been mrs. jeff davis. the next important item was to attend to the cravings of my own appetite, which i did without much ceremony. after making my toilet and adjusting my wig in the most approved irish style, i approached the sick man, and for the first time noticed his features and general appearance. he was a man about thirty years of age, was tall and had a slight figure, regular features, dark hair and large, mournful, hazel eyes; altogether he was a very pleasing and intelligent looking man. i thought him quite an interesting patient, and if i had had nothing more important to attend to, i should have enjoyed the privilege of caring for him until he recovered. it is strange how sickness and disease disarm our antipathy and remove our prejudices. there lay before me an enemy to the government for which i was daily and willingly exposing my life and suffering unspeakable privation; he may have been the very man who took deadly aim at my friend and sent the cruel bullet through his temple; and yet, as i looked upon him in his helpless condition, i did not feel the least resentment, or entertain an unkind thought toward him personally, but looked upon him only as an unfortunate, suffering man, whose sad condition called forth the best feelings of my nature, and i longed to restore him to health and strength; not considering that the very health and strength which i wished to secure for him would be employed against the cause which i had espoused. i had a great desire to know more of this man who had so strangely called forth my sympathies, and finding that he had grown stronger since he had partaken of some nourishment, i entered into conversation with him. i found that he was wholly and conscientiously a confederate soldier, but, strange to say, completely divested of that inveterate hatred of the yankees which is almost universal among the southerners. i dared not express my sentiments in very strong terms, but gently interrogated him with regard to the right which he claimed the rebels had to take up arms against the united states government. at length i asked him if he professed to be a soldier of the cross; he replied with emotion and enthusiasm, "yes, thank god! i have fought longer under the captain of my salvation than i have yet done under jeff. davis." my next and last question upon that subject was--"can you, as a disciple of christ, conscientiously and consistently uphold the institution of slavery?" he made no reply, but fixed those mournful eyes on my face with a sad expression, as much as to say--"ah, bridget, you have touched a point upon which my own heart condemns me, and i know that god is greater than my heart, and will also condemn me." in this earnest conversation i had unconsciously forgotten much of my hibernian accent, and i thought that the sick man began to suspect that i was not what my appearance indicated. it alarmed me for a moment, but i soon recovered my composure after stepping forward and examining his pulse, for he was fast sinking, and the little strength which he seemed to have a short time before was nearly exhausted. after studying my countenance a few moments he asked me to pray with him. i did not dare to refuse the dying man's request, nor did i dare to approach my maker in an assumed tone of voice; so i knelt down beside him, and in my own natural voice breathed a brief and earnest prayer for the departing soldier, for grace to sustain him in that trying hour, and finally for the triumph of truth and right. when i arose from my knees he grasped my hand eagerly and said: "please tell me who you are. i cannot, if i would, betray you, for i shall very soon be standing before that god whom you have just addressed." i could not tell him the truth and i would not tell him a falsehood, so i evaded a direct reply, but promised that when he became stronger i would tell him my history. he smiled languidly and closed his eyes, as much as to say that he understood me. it was now growing late. i was not far from the rebel lines, but was not able to successfully act a part in my present debilitated condition, and besides, i was glad that i could consistently remain over night with that poor dying man, rebel though he was. i began to look around for something which i might convert into a light, but did not succeed in finding anything better than a piece of salt pork, which i fried, pouring the fat into a dish in which i put a cotton rag, and then lighting the end of the rag i found i had secured quite a respectable light. after making some corn-meal gruel for my patient, i took care to fasten the doors and windows so that no one could enter the house without my knowledge, and screened the windows so that no light might attract the rebel scouts. thus with a sort of feeling of security i took my seat beside the sick man. the dews of death were already gathering on his pallid brow. i took his hand in mine, examined his pulse again, and wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead. oh how those beautiful eyes thanked me for these little acts of kindness! he felt in his heart that i did not sympathize with him as a rebel, but that i was willing to do all that a sister could do for him in this hour of trial. this seemed to call forth more gratitude than if i had been heart and hand with the south. he looked up suddenly and saw me weeping--for i could not restrain my tears--he seemed then to understand that he was really dying. looking a little startled he exclaimed--"am i really dying?" oh, how often have i been obliged to answer that awful question in the affirmative! "yes, you are dying, my friend. is your peace made with god?" he replied, "my trust is in christ; he was mine in life, and in death he will not forsake me"--almost the very words i heard a dying federal soldier say, a few days before, at the hospital in williamsburg. a few weeks previous these two men had been arrayed against each other in deadly strife; yet they were brethren; their faith and hope were the same; they both trusted in the same saviour for salvation. then he said, "i have a last request to make. if you ever pass through the confederate camp between this and richmond inquire for major mckee, of general ewell's staff, and give him a gold watch which you will find in my pocket; he will know what to do with it; and tell him i died happy, peacefully." he then told me his name and the regiment to which he had belonged. his name was allen hall. taking a ring from his finger he tried to put it on mine, but his strength failed, and after a pause he said, "keep that ring in memory of one whose sufferings you have alleviated, and whose soul has been refreshed by your prayers in the hour of dissolution." then folding his hands together as a little child would do at its mother's knee, he smiled a mute invitation for prayer. after a few moments' agonizing prayer in behalf of that departing spirit, the dying man raised himself up in the bed and cried out with his dying breath, "glory to god! glory to god! i am almost home!" he was almost gone. i gave him some water, raised the window, and using my hat for a fan, i sat down and watched the last glimmering spark of light go out from those beautiful windows of the soul. putting his hand in mine he signed to me to raise his head in my arms. i did so, and in a few moments he ceased to breathe. he died about twelve o'clock--his hand clasping mine in the painful grip of death, my arm supporting him, and his head leaning on my bosom like a wearied child. i laid him down, closed his eyes, and straightened his rigid limbs; then folding his hands across his breast, i drew his blanket close around him and left him in the silent embrace of death. the beautiful, calm expression of his face made me think he looked like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. this was rather a strange position for me to occupy at midnight--alone with death! yet i thanked god that it was my privilege to be there; and i thanked him for the religion of jesus which was the strength of my heart in that trying hour. yes, i could then rejoice in the providence which had detained me in the chickahominy swamp, and had thus brought me to the bedside of that suffering stranger. profound silence reigned supreme, and there was naught to chase away the darkness of that gloomy midnight hour save the consciousness that god was there. i felt it good thus to be drawn away from the tumult of war, and there, in the presence of the angel of death, hold communion with my own heart and drink deep from the well of holy meditation. i thought there were happy spirits hovering round the lifeless form of him who was so lovable in life and lovely in death. yes, i imagined the shining host had returned from escorting the triumphant spirit to the throne of god, and were now watching the beautiful casket which had encased the bright spirit whose companionship had made some southern home bright and joyous. i thought, too, of the loved ones who had gone and left me to finish my journey alone, and who would soon come to bear me away to that bright eternal world, if i only proved faithful unto death. "how impressively sad, how thrillingly beautiful, the lesson we glean from this silent spirit communion! our physical nature starts and shudders at the thought of joining the silent numbers of the dead; but our spiritual nature catches a glimpse of that spirit-life beyond the portals of the tomb, where life, pure, free and joyous, shall be ours." a lesson sad, but fraught with good-- a tearful one, but strengthening food-- thou givest me; we learn that "dust returns to dust," anew in god we put our trust, and bow the knee. chapter xii. am i a stoic?--someone's darling--completing my disguise--another start for the rebel lines--peppering my eyes--challenged by a picket--a cockney sentinel--getting information--plenty of beef, but no salt--rice and corn meal bread--preparing to visit headquarters--interview with major mckee--the major's misplaced confidence--return for the body of the rebel captain--my look-out for yankees--new orders. perhaps some of my readers will pronounce me a stoic, entirely devoid of feeling, when i tell them that two hours after i wrapped the unconscious form of my late patient in his winding-sheet, i enveloped myself in my patchwork quilt, and laid me down not far from the corpse, and slept soundly until six o'clock in the morning. feeling much refreshed i arose, and after spending a few moments by the side of my silent companion, contemplating the changes which the king of terrors had wrought, i cut a lock of hair from his temple, took the watch and a small package of letters from his pocket, replaced the blanket reverently, and bade him farewell. kiss him once for somebody's sake murmur a prayer soft and low; one bright curl from its dark mates take, they were somebody's pride, you know: somebody's hand hath rested there-- was it a mother's, soft and white? and have the lips of a sister fair been baptized in their waves of light? god knows best! he was somebody's love; somebody's heart enshrined him there; somebody wafted his name above, night and morn, on the wings of prayer. somebody wept when he marched away, looking so handsome, brave and grand; somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, somebody clung to his parting hand. somebody's waiting and watching for him, yearning to hold him again to her heart; and there he lies with his dark eyes dim, and the smiling, childlike lips apart. tenderly bury the fair young dead, pausing to drop in his grave a tear; carve on the wooden slab at his head "somebody's darling slumbers here." after hastily partaking of a slight repast, which i could scarcely term breakfast, i commenced immediate preparations to leave the house. upon examining the basket in which i had found the tea on my arrival, i found a number of articles which assisted me much in assuming a more perfect disguise. there was mustard, pepper, an old pair of green spectacles, and a bottle of red ink. of the mustard i made a strong plaster about the size of a dollar, and tied it on one side of my face until it blistered it thoroughly. i then cut off the blister and put on a large patch of black court-plaster; with the ink i painted a red line around my eyes, and after giving my pale complexion a deep tinge with some ochre which i found in a closet, i put on my green glasses and my irish hood, which came over my face about six inches. i then made the tour of the house from garret to cellar, to find all the household fixings which an irishwoman would be supposed to carry with her in such an emergency--for i expected to be searched before i was admitted through the lines. i packed both my baskets, for i had two now, and was ready for another start. but before leaving i thought best to bury my pistol and every article in my possession which could in any way induce suspicion. then taking a farewell look at the beautiful features of the dead, i left the house, going directly the nearest road to the rebel picket line. i felt perfectly safe in doing so, for the rebel soldier's watch was a sufficient passport in daylight, and a message for major mckee would insure me civility at least. i followed the richmond road about five miles before meeting or seeing any one. at length i saw a sentinel in the distance, but before he observed me i sat down to rest and prepare my mind for the coming interview. while thus waiting to have my courage reinforced, i took from my basket the black pepper and sprinkled a little of it on my pocket handkerchief, which i applied to my eyes. the effect was all i could have desired, for taking a view of my prepossessing countenance in the small mirror which i always carried with me, i perceived that my eyes had a fine tender expression, which added very much to the beauty of their red borders. i was reminded of poor leah of old who failed to secure the affection of her husband in consequence of a similar blemish, and thought myself safe from the slightest approach to admiration on the part of the chivalry. i now resumed my journey, and displayed a flag of truce, a piece of a cotton window curtain which i brought from the house at which i had stopped over night. as i came nearer the picket-guard signaled to me to advance, which i did as fast as i could under the circumstances, being encumbered with two heavy baskets packed full of earthenware, clothing, quilts, etc. upon coming up to the guard, instead of being dismayed at his formidable appearance, i felt rejoiced, for there stood before me an immense specimen of a jolly englishman, with a blind smile on his good-natured face, provoked, i presume, by the supremely ludicrous figure i presented. he mildly questioned me with regard to my hopes and fears, whence i came and whither i was going, and if i had seen any yankees. my sorrowful story was soon told. my peppery handkerchief was freely applied to my eyes, and the tears ran down my face without the least effort on my part. the good-natured guard's sympathy was excited, more especially as i was a foreigner like himself, and he told me i could pass along and go just wherever i pleased, so far as he was concerned, adding in a sad tone, "i wish i was hat 'ome with my family, hand then jeff. davis hand the confederacy might go to 'ell for hall me. hinglishmen 'ave no business 'ere." i mentally exclaimed, "good for you--you are one after my own heart," but i replied to the englishman's patriotic speech after the following manner: "och, indade i wish yez was all at home wid yer families, barrin them as have no families; an sure its we poor craythurs of wimen that's heartbroken intirely, an fairly kilt wid this onnathral war;" and here my eyes were again carefully wiped with my handkerchief. after thanking the picket-guard for his kindness, i went on my way toward the rebel camp. i had not gone far when the guard called me back and advised me not to stay in camp over night, for, said he, "one of our spies has just come in and reported that the yankees have finished the bridges across the chickahominy, and intend to attack us either to-day or to-night, but jackson and lee are ready for them." he went on to tell me how many masked batteries they had prepared, and said he, "there is one," pointing to a brush-heap by the roadside, "that will give them fits if they come this way." feeling somewhat in a hurry, i started once more for camp. i concluded after getting through the lines that i could dispense with one of my baskets, so setting one of them down under a tree i felt much more comfortable, and was not quite so conspicuous an object going into camp. i went directly to headquarters and inquired for major mckee. i was told that he would not be there before evening, and my informant drawled out after me, "he's gone to set a trap for the d--d yankees." i made up my mind at once that i must find out as much as possible before night, and make my way back before the impending battle came on. upon looking around the camp i saw a shanty where some negro women were cooking meat. i went and told them that i was hungry and would like to have something to eat. "oh yes, honey, we'se got lots o' meat and bread, but haint got no salt; but reckon ye can eat it without." so saying an old auntie brought me a piece of boiled fresh beef and some bread; but i could not make out what the bread was made of; as near as i could guess, however, it was made of boiled rice and corn-meal, and that also was without salt. i thought it would be well to look a little smarter before i presented myself at headquarters again, lest i might not meet with that confidence which i felt it was important for me to secure. my patched and painted face made it impossible for any one to define the expression of my countenance. my blistered cheek was becoming very painful in consequence of the drawing of the court-plaster. i took off my glasses and bathed my face in clear, cold water, which did not remove much of the color, but made me a shade more like myself; then i succeeded in getting one of the colored women to go to the doctor's quarters and get me some unguent, or simple cerate, with which i dressed the blister. my eyes were sufficiently disfigured by this time to dispense with the glasses, so putting them in my basket i laid them aside for another occasion. there was no difficulty in finding out the force of the enemy or their plans for the coming battle, for every one, men and women, seemed to think and talk of nothing else. five o'clock came, and with it major mckee. i lost no time in presenting myself before his majorship, and with a profound irish courtesy i made known my business, and delivered the watch and package. i did not require any black pepper now to assist the lachrymal glands in performing their duty, for the sad mementoes which i had just delivered to the major so forcibly reminded me of the scenes of the past night that i could not refrain from weeping. the major, rough and stern as he was, sat there with his face between his hands and sobbed like a child. soon he rose to his feet, surveyed me from head to foot, and said, "you are a faithful woman, and you shall be rewarded." he then asked: "can you go direct to that house, and show my men where allen's body is?" i answered in the affirmative--whereupon he handed me a ten dollar federal bill, saying, as he did so: "if you succeed in finding the house, i will give you as much more." i thanked him, but positively declined taking the money. he did not seem to understand the philosophy of a person in my circumstances refusing money, and when i looked at him again his face wore a doubtful, puzzled expression, which alarmed me. i was actually frightened, and bursting into a passionate fit of weeping, i exclaimed vehemently: "oh, gineral, forgive me! but me conshins wud niver give me pace in this world nor in the nixt, if i wud take money for carying the dyin missage for that swate boy that's dead and gone--god rest his soul. och, indade, indade i nivir cud do sich a mane thing, if i im a poor woman." the major seemed satisfied, and told me to wait until he returned with a detachment of men. when he returned with the men, i told him that i did not feel able to walk that distance, and requested him to let me have a horse, stating the fact that i had been sick for several days, and had slept but little the night before. he did not answer a word, but ordered a horse saddled immediately, which was led forward by a colored boy, who assisted me to mount. i really felt mean, and for the first time since i had acted in the capacity of spy, i despised myself for the very act which i was about to perform. i must betray the confidence which that man reposed in me. he was too generous to harbor a suspicion against me, and thus furnished me the very means of betraying him. this feeling did not last long, however, for as we started on our mission he said to his men: "now, boys, bring back the body of captain hall, if you have to walk through yankee blood to the knees." that speech eased my conscience considerably. i was surprised to hear him say "captain hall," for i did not know until then that he was an officer. there was nothing about his uniform or person to indicate his rank, and i had supposed he was a private soldier. we made our way toward the house very cautiously, lest we should be surprised by the federals. i rode at the head of the little band of rebels as guide, not knowing but that i was leading them into the jaws of death every step we advanced, and if so it would probably be death for me as well as for them. thus we traveled those five miles, silently, thoughtfully, and stealthily. the sun had gone down behind the western hills, and the deepening shadows were fast gathering around us as we came in sight of the little white cottage in the forest, where i had so recently spent such a strangely, awfully solemn night. the little detachment halted to rest, and to make arrangements before approaching the house. this detachment consisted of twenty-four men, under a sergeant and a corporal. the men were divided into squads, each of which was to take its turn at carrying the body of their late captain upon a stretcher, which they had brought for that purpose. as we drew near, and saw no sign of an approaching enemy, they regretted that they had not brought an ambulance; but i did not regret it, for the present arrangement suited me exactly. having settled things satisfactorily among themselves, we again resumed our march and were soon at the gate. the sergeant then ordered the corporal to proceed to the house with a squad of men and bring out the corpse, while he stationed the remaining men to guard all the approaches to the house. he then asked me to ride down the road a little way, and if i should see or hear anything of the yankees to ride back as fast as possible and let them know. i assented, and joyfully complied with the first part of his request. this was a very pleasant duty assigned me, for which i mentally thanked the sergeant a thousand times. i turned and rode slowly down the road, but not "seeing or hearing anything of the yankees," i thought it best to keep on in that direction until i did. i was like the zouave, after the battle of bull run, who said he was ordered to retreat, but not being ordered to halt at any particular place, he preferred to keep on until he reached new york. so i preferred to keep on until i reached the chickahominy, where i reported progress to the federal general. i had no desire to have that little escort captured, and consequently said nothing about it in my report; so the sergeant, with his men, were permitted to return to the rebel camp unmolested, bearing with them the remains of their beloved captain. after getting out of sight of the rebel guards, i made that horse go over the ground about as fast, i think, as he ever did before--which seemed to give him a bad impression of yankees in general, and of me in particular, for ever after that night, it was as much as a person's life was worth to saddle him; at every attempt he would kick and bite most savagely. the next day the following order was issued: "upon advancing beyond the chickahominy the troops will go prepared for battle at a moment's notice, and will be entirely unencumbered, with the exception of ambulances. all vehicles will be left on the eastern side of the chickahominy, and carefully packed. "the men will leave their knapsacks, packed, with the wagons, and will carry three days rations. the arms will be put in perfect order before the troops march, and a careful inspection made of them, as well as of the cartridge-boxes, which in all cases will contain at least forty rounds; twenty additional rounds will be carried by the men in their pockets. commanders of batteries will see that their limber and caisson-boxes are filled to their utmost capacity. "commanders of army corps will devote their personal attention to the fulfillment of these orders, and will personally see that the proper arrangements are made for packing and properly guarding the trains and surplus baggage, taking all the steps necessary to insure their being brought promptly to the front when needed; they will also take steps to prevent the ambulances from interfering with the movements of any troops. sufficient guards and staff-officers will be detailed to carry out these orders. the ammunition-wagons will be in readiness to march to their respective brigades and batteries at a moment's warning, but will not cross the chickahominy until they are sent for. all quarter-masters and ordnance officers are to remain with their trains. "in the approaching battle the general commanding trusts that the troops will preserve the discipline which he has been so anxious to enforce, and which they have so generally observed. he calls upon all the officers and soldiers to obey promptly and intelligently all the orders they may receive; let them bear in mind that the army of the potomac has never yet been checked, and let them preserve in battle perfect coolness and confidence, the sure forerunners of success. they must keep well together, throw away no shots, but aim carefully and low, and, above all things, rely upon the bayonet. commanders of regiments are reminded of the great responsibility that rests upon them; upon their coolness, judgment and discretion, the destinies of their regiments and success of the day will depend." chapter xiii. our communications with the chickahominy--porter's successes--despatches to the president--his reply--hanover court house--terrible storm and flood--hopes of the enemy--a sudden and strong attack--i act as an orderly--through the flood--my return and report--joyful news--my own disaster--scenes in the old mill--waiting on the wounded--my sufferings by the roadside--a hard-hearted chaplain--a stumbling block. for several days the enemy had been concentrating a large force on the right flank of the federals, with the intention of cutting off their communications with the river. a portion of fitz john porter's corps was detailed to dispose of this force, and also to cut the virginia central, richmond and fredericksburg railroads. the communication was cut off, and after two severe engagements the enemy retreated, leaving behind them several hundred prisoners, their cannon and camp equipage. on the same day the following despatch was sent to the secretary of war by the commanding general: "camp near new bridge, may th. porter has gained two complete victories over superior forces; yet i feel obliged to move in the morning with reinforcements to secure the complete destruction of the rebels in that quarter. in doing so i run some risk here, but cannot help it. the enemy are even in greater force than i had supposed. i will do all that quick movements can accomplish, but you must send me all the troops you can, and leave me to full latitude as to choice of commanders. it is absolutely necessary to destroy the rebels near hanover court house before i can advance." to which the president replied: "i am very glad of general porter's victory. still, if it was a total rout of the enemy, i am puzzled to know why the richmond and fredericksburg railroad was not seized again, as you say you have all the railroads but the richmond and fredericksburg. i am painfully impressed with the importance of the struggle before you, and shall aid you all i can consistently with my view of due regard to other points." two days later mcclellan telegraphs again: "from the tone of your despatches i do not think that you appreciate the value and magnitude of porter's victory. it has entirely relieved my right flank, which was seriously threatened, it has routed and demoralized a considerable portion of the rebel forces, taken over seven hundred and fifty prisoners, killed and wounded large numbers; one gun, many small arms, and much baggage taken. it was one of the handsomest things in the war, both in itself and in its results. porter has returned, and my army is again well in hand. another day will make the probable field of battle passable for artillery. it is quite certain that there is nothing in front of mcdowell at fredericksburg. i regard the burning of south anne bridge as the least important result of porter's movement." the battle of hanover court house was certainly a splendid affair, and a very important victory to the army of the potomac. three days after this battle, while the army was divided by the river, a portion of the troops having crossed over the day before, a most fearful storm swept over the peninsula, accompanied with terrible exhibitions of lightning and explosions of thunder. the water came down all night and all day in perfect floods, completely inundating the valley through which the chickahominy flows, turning the narrow stream into a broad river, converting the swamps into lakes, and carrying away one bridge and rendering the other unsafe. and still the rain came pouring down in torrents, reminding one of that crisis in the world's history when "the fountains of the great deep were broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened." had it not been for mcclellan's faith in the bible and in god's covenant with noah, he would no doubt have seriously contemplated building an ark, in order to save himself and his army from destruction. the rebels seemed to think this flood was sent as a judgment from the almighty upon their hated enemies, and was a direct interposition of providence in their behalf, which would enable them to visit wholesale destruction upon the yankees. on the thirtieth of may the enemy, taking advantage of this terrible state of things caused by the disastrous storm, came rushing down upon our troops in immense force. a battle opened at about one o'clock in the afternoon, and after three hours' desperate fighting, general casey's division, occupying the first line, was compelled to fall back in considerable disorder upon the second line, causing temporary confusion; but the rapid advance of generals heintzelman and kearney with their divisions soon checked the rebels. sumner, sedgwick, couch, keyes and the other commanders also labored valiantly to retrieve the injury effected by the unfortunate retirement of casey's command. the enemy, led by hill and longstreet, advanced in massive columns, with threefold lines, and came boldly on like an overwhelming wave, as if determined to crush all opposition by the suddenness and fierceness of the attack. total annihilation seemed to be their motto, and the determined and reckless daring of the fierce and bloodthirsty rebels in such overpowering numbers carried conviction to many loyal hearts that they would succeed in driving that devoted fragment of an army into the chickahominy, before it would be possible for reinforcements to arrive. at this time i was in military uniform, mounted upon my rebel horse, and was acting orderly for general k. several aides and orderlies had been sent with messages and despatches, but no reinforcement had yet arrived, and, taking a federal view of it, the picture presented a gloomy appearance. general k. reined in his horse abruptly, and taking from his pocket an envelope, he hastily wrote on the back of it with a pencil--"in the name of god bring your command to our relief, if you have to swim in order to get here--or we are lost." handing it to me he said--"go just as fast as that horse can carry you to general g., present this with my compliments, return immediately, and report to me." i put poor little "reb" over the road at the very top of his speed until he was nearly white with foam, then plunged him into the chickahominy and swam him across the river. i met general g. about a hundred rods from the river making the best of his way toward the bridge. engineers were at once set to work strengthening the crazy structure, which was swaying to and fro with the rushing tide. the eager, excited troops dashed into the water waist deep, and getting upon the floating planks went pouring over in massive columns. i preferred to swim my horse back again rather than risk myself upon such a bridge, for i looked every moment to see it give way and engulf the whole division in the turbid waters of the swollen creek. however, all reached the other side in safety, and started along the flooded road on the double quick. this was cheering news to carry back to general k., so i started again for the field in order to claim the reward of "him who bringeth good tidings." i found general k. in the thickest of the fight, encouraging his men and shouting his orders distinctly above the roar and din of battle. riding up to him and touching my hat, i reported--"just returned, sir. general g., with his command, will be here immediately." it was too good to keep to himself, so he turned to his men and shouted at the top of his voice--"reinforcements! reinforcements!" then swinging his hat in the air he perfectly electrified the whole line as far as his voice could reach, and the glorious word "reinforcements" was passed along until that almost exhausted line was reanimated and inspired with new hope. while i was thus watching with delight the effects of this joyful news upon the soldiers, my attention was directed to another object. general h., who had made himself conspicuous by his gallant conduct, was struck by a ball which shattered his arm badly. he was only a few rods from me, and there was none near to help him. i asked general k. if i might go to him, and after obtaining permission i rode up to him, leaped from my horse, and hitched him near by. i then removed the clothing from his arm, gave him some water, poured some on the wound, and went to my saddle-bags to get some bandages, when my rebel pony laid hold of my arm with his teeth and almost tore the flesh from the bone. not content with that, he turned his heels in an instant and kicked with both feet, sending me about a rod. my arm was now almost as bad as general h.'s, and i could do but little to help him, for in ten minutes it was swollen terribly, and i could not raise it to my head; finally i was ordered back to an old saw-mill about a mile and a half from the field, where were considerable quantities of quarter-masters' and commissary stores, with orders to have them removed further to the rear; and all who were able to come to the front, together with the surgeon and a portion of the hospital corps who had been left there in charge of the sick, were to lose no time in reporting themselves for duty on the field. [illustration: acting orderly.--page .] upon arriving at the old saw-mill i found it crowded with wounded men who had crawled there from the battle-field, to have their wounds dressed if possible, and if not to lie down and suffer where the shot and shell could not reach them. i delivered my orders. in a few moments more there was not a soul left to minister to those poor fellows who were huddled together in that mill by the score; all had gone to the front, and i was left there in a sad plight. i put my vicious little "reb" in a building near the mill, where there was plenty of hay and corn, but did not dare to unsaddle him. i then examined the extent of the injury done to my arm, and found it was worse than i had supposed. it was badly mangled by the horse's teeth, and in one place a large piece of flesh was torn from the arm and hung by small shreds. but the arm was not the worst; he had kicked me in the side, which had lamed and bruised me sadly. yet this was no time to groan over a slight kick from a horse, when so many lay around me with shattered limbs and ghastly saber wounds, some of them even now in the very agonies of death. so, resolutely saying to pain and lameness, "stay thou here while i go yonder," i bound up my arm in a sling, and set about removing the blood-clotted clothing from the wounds of those who needed it most; but having neither knife or scissors, i was obliged in many instances to use my teeth in order to tear the thick woolen garments stiffened and saturated with blood, the very remembrance of which now makes me feel rather uncomfortable in the gastric region; but then there was no unpleasant sensation. the next thing to be thought of was, how i could procure some bandages; but as to getting them from the saddle-bags, i would as soon have thought of bearding a lion in his den, as of tempting the jaws of that ferocious animal again. however, there were two houses within a mile, and i decided to try my fortune in that direction. first of all i went among the sick, who were left there by the surgeon, and inquired if there were any who were able to assist me in dressing wounds. yes, i found two; one a little mail-carrier, and the other a commissary sergeant, both of whom were scarcely able to stand alone. these two i set to work pouring cold water upon the wounded limbs occasionally, and giving the men water to drink until i returned. at the first house i went to they would not let me in at all, but raised the window and wished to know what was wanted. i told them, anything that would admit of tearing up for bandages. no, they had nothing of the kind, and closed the window again. i limped along to the next house. a man came to the door, holding it, to prevent my attempting to get in. the same question was asked, and a similar answer returned. by this time my patience and strength were both exhausted, and my mind was made up with regard to the course i should pursue. therefore, drawing both my pistols from my belt, i demanded some cotton, new or old--sheets, pillow-cases, or any other article which would answer the purpose for bandages. the man trembled from head to foot, and called his wife to know if she could let me have anything of the sort; yes, she could, if i would pay her for it; and of course i was willing to pay her; so she brought me an old sheet, a pair of pillow-cases, and three yards of new factory cotton cloth, for which she demanded five dollars. happening to have only three dollars in change, i told her i thought that would be sufficient; and so saying, i left immediately. i did not know, until i had proceeded some distance, that the blood was running from my arm in a perfect stream. in my excitement and determination, i had grasped one of my pistols with the lame hand and started those terrible gashes bleeding afresh. i grew faint and dizzy, and sat down by the road-side to gather a little strength before proceeding further. while i sat there i saw a horseman coming in the distance, but could not tell whether it was friend or foe, for it was growing dark. i waited until he came nearer, when i was rejoiced to see that it was a chaplain; not mr. b., but of course he was a good man, being a chaplain and a federal. so i felt that relief was at hand. but imagine my disappointment and chagrin when he came up and, priest-like, looked upon me, "and passed by on the other side." well, after all, i did not care so much for myself, but i thanked heaven that he had come on the poor men's account, for he would, no doubt, do much during the night to relieve their sufferings. taking courage, i made my way slowly toward the mill, where i found, on my arrival, the chaplain dismounted, coat off, and wisp in hand, rubbing and brushing every speck of mud from his horse. after performing this important duty, he then went to the nearest house, ordered supper, and after partaking of a warm meal, he returned to the mill. oh how glad i was that all these preliminaries were gone through with, for now he would at once enter upon the care of the wounded, and my heart ached for those two sick boys, who were still attending to the wants of such as they could assist, notwithstanding they required waiting upon themselves. the wounded were coming in faster than ever, and i was busy tearing up the cotton in strips, and trying to bind up some of the poor mangled limbs, the little sick sergeant being my right hand man. i looked around for the chaplain, but he was no where to be seen. i hobbled out to the building where i had seen him put his horse, to see if he had really gone away; no, he had not gone. there he lay on the floor, upon which was a quantity of hay, wrapped up in his blanket, apparently unconscious that there was any such thing as suffering in the world. oh how i wanted to go to him, quietly lay my hand on him, and say: "chaplain, will you be so kind as to take the saddle from my horse; it has been on since early morning, and i am not able to take it off." not that i cared particularly for having the saddle removed, but just for sake of having "reb" bring the chaplain to his senses, and give him a little shaking up, so that he might realize that these were war times, and that consequently it was out of the question for chaplains in the army, especially in time of battle, to be carried to the skies on flowery beds of ease; while others fought to win the prize, and sailed through bloody seas. but instead of doing so, i sat down and wept bitter tears of disappointment and sorrow, and then, with a heavy heart and aching limbs, i returned again to the mill. all that weary night my heart burned with indignation, and i seemed endowed with supernatural powers of endurance, for when morning came and found me still at my post, without having tasted food for twenty-four hours, i felt stronger and fresher than i had done the day before. my two young sick friends had been persuaded to lie down, and were now fast asleep, side by side with the wounded. but where was the chaplain? what had become of him? he had escaped with the earliest dawn, without so much as inquiring whether the men were dead or alive. this was the conduct of a man who professed to be a faithful follower of him who went about doing good! this was a man whom i had reverenced and loved as a brother in christ. oh, what a stumbling-block that man was to my soul; for weeks and months satan took occasion to make this a severe temptation and trial to me. i was tempted to judge every christian by that unholy example, and to doubt the truth of every christian experience which i heard related from time to time. but, thank god, i had the example of my faithful friend, mr. b., to counterbalance this, and by god's grace i was enabled to rise above this temptation. my doubts were gradually removed, and my faith in christians re-established--but i never sufficiently recovered from my feelings of disgust towards that particular chaplain, to ever again be able to persuade myself to listen to a sermon delivered by him, or to attend any religious meeting at which he presided. i always looked upon him afterwards, as "one who had stolen the livery of heaven to serve the devil in;" a mere whited sepulchre, and unworthy the sacred name of a minister of the gospel. oh, may our sympathizing breasts that generous pleasure know; kindly to share in others' joy, and weep for others' woe. when poor and helpless sons of grief in deep distress are laid; soft be our hearts their pains to feel, and swift our hands to aid. on wings of love the saviour flew, to bless a ruined race; we would, o lord, thy steps pursue, thy bright example trace. chapter xiv. renewal of the battle--victory for the federal arms--address to the army--more despatches--my battle trophy--pony reb's performances--the hospital tree--touching scenes--bishop simpson--the cross and the flag--after the battle--delays by storms, floods and mud--mcclellan's call for more men--in readiness to march--promised reinforcements. night brought a cessation of hostilities to the weary troops, but to neither side a decided victory or defeat. both armies bivouaced on the bloody field, within a few rods of each other. there they lay waiting for the morning light to decide the contest. the excitement and din of battle had ceased; those brief hours of darkness proved a sweet respite from the fierce struggle of the day, and in the holy calm of that midnight hour, when silence brooded over the blood-washed plain, many brave soldiers lay down on that gory field-- the weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. sunday, the first of june, dawned beautifully, a day of hallowed rest and promise to the millions who rose to their devotions, ere the bell called them to the house of prayer, but not of rest to the weary, broken armies the drum-beat called from their wet and muddy beds to renew the contest. at a quarter-past seven o'clock the battle again commenced, and raged fiercely until about noon. both armies fought with determination and heroic bravery until the rebels were compelled to yield, and victory once more perched upon the banners of the national troops. i came on the field about ten o'clock, and remained until the close of the battle, but could do little more than look upon the terrible scene. general mcclellan was on the field when i arrived. i saw him ride along the entire battle-front, and if i had not seen him, i could not have long remained in ignorance of his presence--for the cheers from all parts of the federal lines told as plainly as words could express that their beloved commander was with them, amid that desperate struggle for victory. it was a terrible slaughter--more than fifteen thousand lay upon the field. it was enough to make angels weep, to look down upon that field of carnage. the dead and wounded of the enemy fell into the hands of the unionists, which added fearfully to the labors of that exhausted, battle-worn army. on the evening of the third of june, general mcclellan issued the following address to his troops, which was read on dress parade, and was received with tremendous cheering: "soldiers of the army of the potomac! i have fulfilled at least a part of my promise to you. you are now face to face with the rebels, who are held at bay in front of their capital. the final and decisive battle is at hand. unless you belie your past history, the result cannot be for a moment doubtful. if the troops who labored so faithfully at yorktown, and fought so bravely, and won the hard fights at williamsburg, west point, hanover court-house and fair oaks, now prove themselves worthy of their antecedents, the victory is surely ours. the events of every day prove your superiority; wherever you have met the enemy, you have beaten him; wherever you have used the bayonet, he has given way in panic and disorder. "i ask of you, now, one last crowning effort. the enemy has staked his all on the issue of the coming battle. let us meet him, crush him here, in the very centre of the rebellion. soldiers! i will be with you in this battle, and share its dangers with you. our confidence in each other is now founded upon the past. let us strike the blow which is to restore peace and union to this distracted land. upon your valor, discipline and mutual confidence, the result depends." every battle fought on the peninsula fearfully reduced the strength of the army of the potomac, and proved to a demonstration that the enemy far outnumbered the union forces. still there were no reinforcements, notwithstanding mcclellan's daily urgent despatches to the president and secretary of war, and the great impending battle in front of the rebel capital so near at hand. the next day mcclellan sent another despatch, as follows: "please inform me at once what reinforcements, if any, i can count upon having at fortress monroe or white house, within the next three days, and when each regiment may be expected to arrive. it is of the utmost importance that i should know this immediately. the losses in the battle of the thirty-first and first will amount to seven thousand. regard this as confidential for the present. after the losses in our last battle, i trust that i shall no longer be regarded as an alarmist. i believe we have at least one more desperate battle to fight." the day after the battle of fair oaks, a splendid sword was presented to me. it had been struck from the hand of a rebel colonel, while in the act of raising it to strike one of our officers after he had fallen from his horse. oh, how proud i felt of that beautiful silver-mounted trophy, from the bloody field of fair oaks, which had so recently been wielded by a powerful arm, but powerless now, for he lay in the agonies of death, while his splendid sword had passed into my feeble hands. i presume if he had known this, it would have added another pang to his already agonized spirit. the sword was presented by general k., to whom i gave my rebel pony, with the comforting assurance that he was only intended for ornament, and not for use; for generals were too scarce on the peninsula to risk their precious lives by coming in contact with him. the general was delighted with him, and without paying the slightest attention to my suggestion deliberately walked up to the pony and commenced patting him and handling his limbs as if he were the most quiet creature in the world, while "reb" stood eyeing his new master with apparent satisfaction, and seemed to rejoice that he had passed from my insignificant hands, and was henceforth to be the honored bearer of shoulder-straps. after thoroughly examining him he said: "he is certainly a splendid horse, and worth three hundred dollars of any man's money; all he requires is kind treatment, and he will be as gentle as any one could desire." but "reb" very soon gave him to understand decidedly that he was overrating his good qualities; for no sooner had the general turned his back toward him than he struck him between the shoulders with both hind feet, sending him his full length upon the ground; and as soon as he attempted to rise he repeated the same performance until he had knocked him down four or five times in succession. by that time the general was pretty thoroughly convinced that "reb's" social qualities were somewhat deficient, his bump of combativeness largely developed, and his gymnastics quite impressive. on the evening of the same day in which the victory was won i visited what was then, and is still called, the "hospital tree," near fair oaks. it was an immense tree under whose shady, extended branches the wounded were carried and laid down to await the stimulant, the opiate, or the amputating knife, as the case might require. the ground around that tree for several acres in extent was literally drenched with human blood, and the men were laid so close together that there was no such thing as passing between them; but each one was removed in their turn as the surgeons could attend to them. i witnessed there some of the most heart-rending sights it is possible for the human mind to conceive. read what a massachusetts chaplain writes concerning it: "there is a large tree near the battle-ground of fair oaks, the top of which was used as an observatory during the fight, which stands as a memento of untold, and perhaps never to be told, suffering and sorrow. many of the wounded and dying were laid beneath its branches after the battle, in order to receive surgical help, or to breathe their last more quietly. what heart-rending scenes did i witness in that place, so full of saddened memories to me and to others. brave, uncomplaining men were brought thither out of the woodland, the crimson tide of whose life was ebbing away in the arms of those who carried them. almost all who died met death like heroes, with scarcely a groan. those wounded, but not mortally--how nobly they bore the necessary probings and needed amputations! two instances of this heroic fortitude deserve to be specially mentioned. one of them is that of william c. bentley, of the second rhode island regiment, both of whose legs were broken by a bomb-shell, whose wrist and breast were mangled, and who yet was as calm as if he suffered no pain. he refused any opiate or stimulant that might dim his consciousness. he asked only that we should pray for him, that he might be patient and submissive, and dictated a letter to be sent to his mother. then, and not till then, opiates were given him, and he fell gently asleep, and for the last time. "the other case was that of francis sweetzer, of company e, of the sixteenth massachusetts regiment, who witnessed in death, as he had uniformly done in life, a good confession of christ. 'thank god,' he said, 'that i am permitted to die for my country. thank god more yet that i am prepared to die;' and then after a moment's thought he modestly added, 'at least i hope i am.' when he died he was in the act of prayer, and in that position his limbs grew rigid, and so remained after the spirit had left his body." oh, who that has witnessed such triumphant deaths on the battle-field will presume to doubt that the spirit of that patriot who falls amid the terrible clash of arms and the fierce surge of battle, is prepared to go from that scene of blood and strife, and to enter into that rest that god has prepared for them that love him? yes, the noble men who have gone from under the sheltering wings of the different evangelical churches throughout the land, have gone in the strength of god, and with the full assurance that if they should fall fighting for the god-given rights of humanity, there, amid the shock of battle, the still, small voice of jesus would be heard speaking peace to the departing soul, and that their triumphant spirits would go home rejoicing to be forever with the lord! when i see a man first lay himself upon the altar of god, and then upon the altar of his country, i have no fear for that man's happiness in time or in eternity. good bishop simpson, of the methodist episcopal church, soon after the outbreak of the great rebellion, delivered a sermon on the national crisis, at chicago. it is represented as one of the ablest efforts of this clergyman, so distinguished for his power in the pulpit. as it was one of the anniversaries of the denomination, thousands were present to hear the discourse. suddenly, at one point in the sermon, and as the fitting close of a most impassioned paragraph, he gave utterance to the following noble sentiment: "we will take our glorious flag, the flag of our country, and nail it just below the cross! that is high enough. there let it wave as it waved of old. around it let us gather: first christ's; then our country's." oh, that the sentiments of the following beautiful lines were the sentiments of every heart in the united states: o lord of hosts! almighty king! behold the sacrifice we bring! to every arm thy strength impart, thy spirit shed through every heart! wake in our breasts the living fires, the holy faith that warmed our sires; thy hand hath made our nation free; to die for her is serving thee. be thou a pillar'd flame to show the midnight snare, the silent foe, and when the battle thunders loud, still guide us in its moving cloud. god of all nations! sovereign lord! in thy dread name we draw the sword, we lift the starry flag on high that fills with light our stormy sky. no more its flaming emblems wave to bar from hope the trembling slave; no more its radiant glories shine to blast with woe one child of thine! from treason's rent, from murderer's stain, guard thou its folds till peace shall reign, till fort and field, till shore and sea, join our loud anthem, praise to thee! i cannot better describe the state of affairs after the battle of fair oaks than by giving the following despatch from mcclellan, dated june th: "in reply to your despatch of p. m. to-day, i have the honor to state that the chickahominy river has risen so as to flood the entire bottoms to the depth of three or four feet; i am pushing forward the bridges in spite of this, and the men are working night and day, up to their waists in water, to complete them. the whole face of the country is a perfect bog, entirely impassable for artillery, or even cavalry, except directly in the narrow roads, which renders any general movement, either of this or the rebel army, entirely out of the question until we have more favorable weather. i am glad to learn that you are pressing forward reinforcements so vigorously. i shall be in perfect readiness to move forward and take richmond the moment mccall reaches here and the ground will admit the passage of artillery. i have advanced my pickets about a mile to-day, driving off the rebel pickets and securing a very advantageous position. the rebels have several batteries established, commanding the debouches from two of our bridges, and fire upon our working parties continually; but as yet they have killed but few of our men." again, june th, he says: "i am completely checked by the weather. the roads and fields are literally impassable for artillery--almost so for infantry. the chickahominy is in a dreadful state. we have another rain storm on our hands. i wish to be distinctly understood that whenever the weather permits i will attack with whatever force i may have, although a larger force would enable me to gain much more decisive results. i would be glad to have mccall's infantry sent forward by water at once, without waiting for his artillery and cavalry." the next day the secretary of war replied: "your despatch of . p. m. yesterday has been received. i am fully impressed with the difficulties mentioned, and which no art or skill can avoid, but only endure. be assured, general, that there never has been a moment when my desire has been otherwise than to aid you with my whole heart, mind and strength, since the hour we first met; and whatever others may say for their own purposes, you never have had, and never can have, any one more truly your friend, or more anxious to support you, or more joyful than i shall be at the success which i have no doubt will soon be achieved by your arms." the above despatch has the appearance of the genuine article--but i am inclined to think it a clever counterfeit. while mcclellan's requests were cheerfully complied with, as far as promises were concerned, little was done to strengthen his weakened forces in view of the coming struggle with an overwhelming force in front, and the flooded chickahominy in the rear. by unreliable promises he was filled with delusive hopes, and lead on to more certain destruction--to disaster and failure, at least. chapter xv. leave of absence--visit to the williamsburg hospitals--effective preaching--yorktown revisited--longings--white house landing--tired of idleness--preparations to return to duty--stuart's cavalry raid--a train fired into--fair oaks grove--the strength of the enemy--trying times on the peninsula--the endurance of our soldiers--labors of mr. alvord. while preparations were going on for the great battle in front of richmond, i obtained leave of absence for a week, and recruited my shattered health, lame side and arm. mr. and mrs. b. were both gone home on furlough, and nellie was at the williamsburg hospital. i thought i should like to visit the different hospitals, while i was thus riding round from place to place in search of something of interest. i visited williamsburg hospitals, both union and rebel, and found many things amusing and interesting. nellie was delighted to see me, and told me much of her experience since the battle of williamsburg. her hand was still in a sling, which reminded me of my first shot at a rebel female. she was a most faithful nurse, and had endeared herself to all the boys by her kindness and patience toward them. she introduced me to several of her favorites, calling each by some pet name, to which they seemed to answer as a matter of course. i spent a day and a night there, and attended a meeting in the evening, which was held by a minister from the christian commission for the benefit of the wounded soldiers. oh, what a sermon was that! the tender mercies of the father, the love of the son of god, were described; the wailings of the lost and the raptures of the redeemed were portrayed in the most powerful and touching manner. i have never heard the sinner invited to the cross in more persuasive strains than flowed from his lips. his countenance was pleasing, his manners courteous, and his deportment unassuming. he did not preach one of those high-toned, intellectual discourses which we so often hear, and which almost invariably fail to reach the heart. but he preached christ with such winning simplicity, such forgetfulness of self, and with such an eager yearning after souls, that even the most depraved were melted to tears. how soul-refreshing is this simple mode of preaching! i seem to see him standing before me now, with uplifted hands, glowing cheeks and streaming eyes--and though i have forgotten much of the discourse, yet i can distinctly remember the impression which it made upon me then. it was good, humbling, purifying. he was evidently not a highly educated man, yet he proclaimed the unsearchable riches of christ in such a way as to make the proudest eloquence and the most profound philosophy, seem in comparison, "like sounding brass or tinkling cymbal." often, when hearing a certain class of ministers preach, i am reminded of the saying of a good baptist clergyman with regard to a. and b., two ministers of his own denomination: "when i hear brother a. preach, i am in love with the man; but when i hear brother b. preach, i am in love with jesus." this is the kind of preaching we want--that which makes us fall in love with jesus, instead of the preacher. oh, that there were more of christ, and less of self, preached. after leaving williamsburg, i kept on down the peninsula until i came to yorktown. after visiting the hospitals there, i then went to the old camp where i had spent so many weeks. there were the dear old familiar places, but all that gave them interest were gone now. the old saw-mill, too, was gone, and all that remained was a heap of ruins, to tell where it once stood. but there was a spot undisturbed, away in the corner of the peach orchard, under an isolated pear tree, a heaped up mound, underneath which rested the noble form of lieutenant v. it was sweet to me to visit this spot once more. i knew that in all probability it would be the last time; at least for a long period, perhaps forever. when this frail body shall be done with earth, and this heart shall be free from care; when my spirit enters that other world, oh, say, shall i know thee there? when the last hours of life are closing around and death's summons cometh to me; will god send an angel messenger down? shall i know the bright spirit as thee? rest weary heart, rest patient and wait, till thy happiness cometh to thee; thou'lt meet and thou'lt know when thou gainest that shore which opes to eternity. from yorktown i went to the white house landing, where everything looked neat, orderly, peaceful and happy, as a quiet little country village. the grounds were laid out in broad streets and squares, which were swept clean as a floor, and there were long rows of snow-white tents, with their neatly printed cotton sign-boards, "to guide the traveler on his way" to the different head-quarters, provost marshal, hospital, sutlers, blacksmith, etc. after spending a day there, and beginning to feel tired of idleness, i made up my mind to return to camp again. so going to colonel ingalls, i procured transportation for myself and horse, and stepping aboard of a provision train destined for fair oaks station, i anticipated a pleasant ride; but, as usual, was blessed with quite a little adventure before i reached my destination. the train started, and, after steaming over the road for some time at its usual rate, had reached the vicinity of tunstall's station, when we heard the down train whistle, and immediately after a sharp volley of musketry was fired in the same direction. the engineer switched off the track, and awaited the other train. it came thundering on as if the engineer was possessed by the _sauve qui peut_ spirit, and, as it passed, the wildest confusion was visible on board, and the groans of the wounded could be heard above the screaming of the engine. on it went, like a streak of lightning, signaling for our train to follow. there was no time to be lost; our train was immediately in hot pursuit of the other, and both were soon at the white house. among those i saw taken from the cars wounded, was the spy whom i had met in the rebel camp in front of yorktown, and heard haranguing his fellow countryman upon the important service he had rendered the confederate government, and confessing himself to be the cause of lieutenant's v's death. everything was thrown into wild confusion by the arrival of the trains and the news of the attack. the troops at the white house were immediately called out under arms to protect the depot. all this excitement had been produced by a detachment of stuart's cavalry, consisting of about fifteen hundred men, and which resulted in the slight disaster to the train; the burning of two schooners laden with forage, and fourteen government wagons; the destruction of some sutler's stores; the killing of several of the guard and teamsters; some damage done to tunstall's station; and the tearing up of a portion of the railroad. there was but little damage done to the train, considering that there were three hundred passengers. some military officers of high rank were on board, who would have been a rich prize for the rebels if they had succeeded in capturing the train; but it had eluded their grasp by the admirable conduct and presence of mind of the engineer, who crowded on all possible steam, and escaped with his freight of human life with only a loss of fourteen in killed and wounded. as soon as the wounded were taken care of i visited the provost marshal, and made known the fact that there was among the wounded a rebel spy who required immediate attention. he sent a guard with me, who searched his person and found satisfactory proof that my statement was correct. he was only slightly wounded, and by the time the railroad was repaired he was able to bear the fatigue of a journey to headquarters, and i returned to camp. on the twenty-fifth of june the battle of fair oaks grove was fought. hooker's command had been ordered to occupy a new and important position, when they were suddenly attacked while passing through a dense thicket and almost impassable swamp. the foe was gradually pushed back until he was obliged to seek safety behind his rifle-pits. about noon general mcclellan, who had remained at headquarters to communicate with the left wing, rode upon the field and, to the joy of his soldiers, ordered them again to advance. the order was cheerfully obeyed, and after renewed desperate fighting, at sunset the day was won by the federal arms. at this time it was not necessary for me to use any stratagem in order to visit the rebel encampment, for all that was necessary to be known of the rebel force and movements had been already ascertained. consequently i was quietly awaiting further developments, and while waiting was trying to make myself generally useful in the hospitals. a singular case came under my notice there: that of a man being stunned by the near approach of a cannon-ball. it did not come in contact with even his clothing, and yet he was knocked down senseless, and for several days he could neither hear nor speak. i think the most trying time that the army of the potomac ever had on the peninsula was in front of richmond, just before the seven days' battle--that is to say, if anything could be worse than the seven day's battle itself. a heavy and almost incessant firing was kept up day and night, along the entire left wing, and the men were kept in those rifle pits, (to say in water to the knees is a very moderate estimate), day after day, until they looked like fit subjects for the hospital or lunatic asylum, and those troops in camp who were not supposed to be on duty, but were kept in reserve, were often called out ten times in one night. the firing would become so alarmingly hot that it was supposed a general engagement was at hand; but on going out to the front, perhaps it would cease for a moment, then they would be ordered back to camp again. in that manner i have known the entire force to be kept in motion almost all night, and sleep for any one was a thing out of the question. it soon became evident that there was some movement on foot which was not understood by the great mass of the army, and i have no doubt it was a good thing that the troops did not even imagine that a retreat was already being planned by their commander. the men endured all these hardships most uncomplainingly; yes, cheerfully; and every day was supposed to be the last ere they would walk the streets of richmond triumphantly, and thus reap the fruits of their summer's campaign. the constant fire kept up along the entire line, and the frequent charges made upon rifle-pits, rapidly increased the numbers in the hospital, and kept the surgeons and nurses busy night and day, and then they could not attend to all who required assistance. just at this particular juncture i remember the timely aid afforded by the members of the christian commission and tract society. they brought relief not only in one sense, but in many. spiritual food for the hungry, dying soldier--consolation for the worn out and discouraged--delicacies for the sick and feeble--warm-gushing heart sympathy for the suffering, and actual assistance with their own hands in cases of amputations, and the removal of the sick from one place to another. rev. mr. alvord gives a very modest account of the services which he rendered, when he says: "i went to the hospitals, where i worked hour after hour with the surgeons. men were brought in with all sorts of wounds. surgeons were scarce and were engaged in amputations, so you know i could attend to minor matters. where the bullet had gone through body or limb, i could dress it perhaps as well as any one; also, all sorts of flesh wounds. i cannot tell you of the variety of operations i performed. the wounds had been stiffening since the day before, not having been dressed. i enjoyed the work, as in every case such relief was given. then i could carry water to the thirsty, and speak words of comfort to the dying; for, as you may suppose, there were many in this state." again he says: "just now, by my side, lies a philadelphia zouave, a fine boy to whom i have been ministering. i gave him some hot tea, with the charming crackers mr. broughton sent; he is now sitting up, looking more cheerful. i mention this in detail, that you may have a specimen of the work which occupies one every moment through the day and night, who is able or willing to work in this department. on the other side of me, as i write here on my knees, lies a colored boy, haggard and sick, to whom i have given medicine and similar food. his dark face is full of gratitude." many an hour i have worked and watched in hospitals by the side of mr. alvord, and marked his cheerful christian spirit and warm sympathies for the sufferers. and often, on a march, i have gone to him, and asked if he would let some weary sick soldier ride in his carriage, who had fallen out by the way--and my request was never refused, although to do so he would sometimes have to walk through the mud himself, his horse being frequently heavily loaded. i have also distributed publications for him, and have stood by the cot of many a dying soldier where he has ministered consolation to the departing spirit. he is one of those who will have many stars in his crown of rejoicing when eternity unfolds the results of his faithful labors. chapter xvi. change of base across the peninsula--evacuation of white house--the movement--battle of mechanicsville--gaines' mill--a repulse--mcclellan's despatch--hospitals in danger--convalescent officers--lending my horse--a lottery--inspecting farm stock--catching a colt--danger of capture--riding for life--between two fires. the employment of general mcdowell's force in the defense of washington, and its failure to co-operate by land with mcclellan, necessitated on the part of the army of the potomac an immediate change of base across the peninsula. such a change in the face of a powerful enemy is considered one of the most hazardous undertakings in war. but mcclellan had no doubt of the ability of his army to fight its way, even against superior numbers, through to the james river, and thus secure a new position for an advance against richmond. the entire energy of the army was now directed to this object. a despatch was sent by general van vliet, chief quartermaster of the army of the potomac, to colonel ingalls, quartermaster at white house, as follows: "run the cars to the last moment, and load them with provision and ammunition. load every wagon you have with subsistence, and send them to savage's station, by way of bottom's bridge. if you are obliged to abandon white house, burn everything that you cannot get off. you must throw all our supplies up the james river as soon as possible, and accompany them yourself with all your force. it will be of vast importance to establish our depots on james river, without delay, if we abandon white house. i will keep you advised of every movement so long as the wires work; after that you must exercise your own judgment." all these commands were obeyed. so excellent were the dispositions of the different officers in command of the troops, depots and gunboats, and so thorough was the warning of the approach of the enemy, that almost everything was saved, and but a small amount of stores was destroyed to prevent them from falling into the hands of the enemy. general stoneman's communications with the main army being cut off, he fell back upon white house station, thence to yorktown, when white house was evacuated. on the twenty-sixth instant orders were sent to all the corps commanders on the right bank of the chickahominy to be prepared to send as many troops as they could spare on the following day to the left bank of the river. general franklin received instructions to hold general slocum's division in readiness by daybreak on the twenty-seventh, and if heavy firing should at that time be heard in the direction of general porter, to move at once to his assistance without further orders. at noon, on the twenty-sixth, the approach of the enemy, who had crossed above meadow bridge, was discovered by the advanced pickets at that point, and at half-past twelve in the afternoon they were attacked and driven in. all the pickets were now called in, and the regiment and battery at mechanicsville were withdrawn. about three o'clock in the afternoon the enemy formed his line of battle, and came down upon our troops like a torrent--attacking the entire line. mcclellan, anticipating a fierce onset, was prepared for such an event, and gave him a warm reception. our artillery occupied positions commanding all the roads and open ground. timber had been felled, rifle-pits dug, and the infantry were under cover of the thick woods. all remained quiet until the rebel mass came rushing on--yelling as they came--within a short distance of our line, when every battery and division opened simultaneously a most destructive fire, which drove the enemy back with tremendous slaughter. several other attacks were made on our lines during the afternoon, which proved disastrous to the enemy. at nine o'clock in the evening the firing ceased, the action having lasted six hours. during the night the heavy siege guns and wagons were removed to the right bank of the chickahominy, and most of the troops withdrawn, unknown to the enemy. about noon the next day another general engagement came on, and after seven hours hard fighting the left flank of the federal line was turned, and they were driven from their position. general mcclellan says: "about seven o'clock in the evening they threw fresh troops against general porter with still greater fury, and finally gained the woods held by our left. this reverse, aided by the confusion that followed an unsuccessful charge by five companies of the fifth cavalry, and followed as it was by more determined assaults on the remainder of our lines, now outflanked, caused a general retreat from our position to the hill in rear overlooking the bridge. french's and meagher's brigades now appeared, driving before them the stragglers who were thronging toward the bridge. these brigades advanced boldly to the front, and by their example, as well as by the steadiness of their bearing, reanimated our troops and warned the enemy that reinforcements had arrived. it was now dusk. the enemy, already repulsed several times with terrible slaughter, and hearing the shouts of the fresh troops, failed to follow up their advantage. this gave an opportunity to rally our men behind the brigades of generals french and meagher, and they again advanced up the hill, ready to repulse another attack. during the night our thinned and exhausted regiments were all withdrawn in safety, and by the following morning all had reached the other side of the stream." a despatch from general mcclellan to secretary stanton, on the twenty-eighth, tells a sad story, a part of which i quote: "had i twenty thousand, or even ten thousand fresh troops to use to-morrow, i could take richmond; but i have not a man in reserve, and shall be glad to cover my retreat, and save the material and _personnel_ of the army. if we have lost the day, we have yet preserved our honor, and no one need blush for the army of the potomac. i have lost this battle because my force was too small. i again repeat that i am not responsible for this, and i say it with the earnestness of a general who feels in his heart the loss of every brave man who has been needlessly sacrificed to-day. "in addition to what i have already said, i only wish to say to the president that i think he is wrong in regarding me as ungenerous, when i said that my force was too weak. i merely intimated a truth which to-day has been too plainly proved. if, at this instant, i could dispose of ten thousand fresh men, i could gain the victory to-morrow. i know that a few thousand more men would have changed this defeat to a victory. as it is, the government must not and cannot hold me responsible for the result. "i feel too earnestly to-night. i have seen too many dead and wounded comrades to feel otherwise than that the government has not sustained this army. if you do not do so now, the game is lost. if i save this army now, i tell you plainly that i owe no thanks to you, or to any other persons in washington. you have done your best to sacrifice this army." while the battle of gaines' mill was in progress, i was despatched to several hospitals remote from the direct line of communication, with orders to the surgeons, nurses, and such of the patients as could walk, to take care of themselves as best they could, for no ambulances could reach them; that the army was retreating to the james river, and if they remained longer they would fall into the hands of the enemy. at one of the hospitals, about eight miles distant, i found a captain and three lieutenants with whom i was acquainted. they were just recovering from fever and unable to endure much fatigue, but could probably reach the james river if they should try. i was beset on every side to give up my horse to one and to another of them until i knew not what to say or do. i did not feel unwilling to give my horse to assist them in escaping from the rebels, and walk all the way myself, but i knew i was expected to return immediately and report to the officer in command of the ambulance corps, and undoubtedly would be required to perform other missions during the day. but all such excuses as these were thrown into the shade by the powerful oratory of the convalescent captain, who poured forth a vehement torrent of overwhelming arguments which would have made a less experienced messenger believe that the horse was for the captain individually, had been sent for his especial benefit, and was consequently entirely at his disposal. his eloquence had not quite this effect upon me, notwithstanding i decided to give up my horse and to take the consequences. i did not feel so particularly drawn toward captain a. as to let him have the horse entirely to himself, and to leave the other three poor fellows to live or die. upon coming to the conclusion, after mature deliberation, to part with my faithful horse, the same one i rode on the bull run battle-field, i informed those officers of my intention. but, said i, not for the benefit of any one of you in particular, but for the mutual benefit of all four; then i proceeded to make arrangements that two of them should ride alternately, and not faster than the other two could walk. then i took two slips of paper and told them to cast lots to see who should ride first. after they had drawn the lots to settle this matter, and the poor captain was doomed to foot it the first part of the journey, and i saw that he looked rather maliciously at me, as much as to say that i had assisted fate in deciding that he should walk instead of ride, the thought struck me that there would probably be some trouble when it came his turn to ride. so i delivered the following brief lecture, which was especially intended for his ear: "gentlemen, you are aware that by giving you my horse i am running the risk of incurring major n.'s displeasure, and am exposing myself to the very danger from which i am assisting you to escape. now, in return, i make one request of you, that is that you all do as you have agreed to; don't play false one with the other. those who ride are not to go faster than the others can walk, and you are to ride equal distances as near as you may be able to judge, unless otherwise arranged among yourselves. the horse you are to have taken care of when you arrive at your destination. i trust these matters to your honor, but if honor should forget to assert its rights, the case will be reported at headquarters." there were several others in the same hospital, but some were unconscious of the state of affairs around them; others were conscious, but unable to help themselves in the least. one of the noble hearted nurses refused to leave those helpless men, whom he had taken care of so long, and was taken prisoner. i marked that noble boy's countenance, dress and general appearance, and by making inquiry afterwards i found out that his name was j. robbins, of the second michigan regiment, and after he had undergone the hardships of imprisonment and had been exchanged, i had the honor of meeting and congratulating him, i felt that it was a greater honor than to converse with many of our major generals. as i turned to retrace my steps i began to think over the lottery business, and wondered if i had not introduced a species of gambling into my charitable deed. i did not feel clear on this point until i thought of reading in the bible something about casting lots. yes, it must be right, for there were instances of it in the bible. i tried to remember an instance to find out in what connection i had read it, but my mind was quite confused, and it required some time to recall one of those passages. after a while, however, i thought of the one where the roman soldiers cast lots for the vestments of the saviour, but this text did not bring much comfort to my mind; i was somehow reminded of the woman who had named her child beelzebub because it was a scripture name, and i concluded to leave the further discussion of the subject until a more convenient season. i remembered now of having noticed a farm house when i came that way in the mornings around which were a number of horses, mules, or something of that sort, and i thought it would be well to investigate the matter. moving along in that direction as fast as possible, i soon came to the house and saw the animals there, feeding as before. whatever i intended to do must be done quickly, for the near approach of the cannonading warned me that the army was fast retreating and i would soon be cut off from the james river road. i went at once to examine the stock on the farm for the purpose of ascertaining whether there was anything worth appropriating. there were four splendid mules and a colt, but whether the colt was a two year old or ten i could not tell, for it was very small and very handsome, looking much like an indian pony, and it might be a dozen years old. but the all absorbing questions in my mind were how was i going to secure this colt, and if i should catch him what was i going to do with him, having neither saddle nor bridle? i went to the barn, looked around and found an old halter that, for want of something better, would be of service. now was the time to catch the colt, but this was easier said than done, for upon going towards it i found that it was about as wild as a young buffalo. not discouraged, however, i started it, together with the mules, in the direction of the barn, and opened a door leading into a long shed connected with the barn. this plan succeeded admirably, for they all ran into the shed without the least trouble. but the greatest difficulty was to put the halter on the colt and get on his back; however, i at length succeed, and, mounting it, started toward james river. the enemy had by this time succeeded in driving the federals from their first position, and were now between them and me. turning off from the main road, i struck out into the woods and rode as fast as possible. the woods were open and clear so that i could see a long way ahead. on i went until i came near a little thicket so dense that i could not see anything beyond its border. not daring to go into any place which looked suspicious, i turned to go round it, when my ear caught the click, click of a dozen rifles, and a shower of minnie balls came round me thick as hailstones, but not one of them pierced even my clothing. my colt took fright at this unexpected salute, and plunged into the woods in another direction with the speed of lightning. [illustration: riding for life.--page .] i soon came to an open field and saw in the distance a large number of soldiers. one glance convinced me that they were federals, for they wore united states uniform. bounding over the field in an instant i had come within a hundred yards of them before i noticed that they were prisoners, guarded by a band of rebels. the first thing that caused me to discover this fact was one of the prisoners waving his hand for me to go in another direction, upon seeing which one of the rebel guards sprang forward and struck the prisoner with the butt of his musket. this little demonstration revealed to me at once my position, and turning i fled in the direction indicated by the prisoner, when another volley followed me which proved as harmless as the first. i began now to think that i was about as safe inside the rebel lines as anywhere, for their bullets seemed quite harmless so far as i was personally concerned. i remembered that when i was a child, i heard my mother once tell a scotch presbyterian clergyman she was afraid i would meet with some violent death, for i was always in some unheard of mischief, such as riding the wildest colt on the farm, firing off my father's shot-gun, and climbing to the highest point of the buildings. to which the good old predestinarian replied: "ah weel, my guid woman, dinna fret; it is an auld saying, an' i believe a true one, 'a wean that's born to be hung 'ill ne'er be droon'd.'" then turning to me and laying his hand on my head, he said: "but, me wee lassie, ye mauna tempt providence wi' your madcap antics, or ye may no live oot half your days." i did not know after all but that the fates were reserving me for a more exalted death on the scaffold at richmond--for the old minister's words would occasionally ring in my ears: "if the wean is born to be hung it will ne'er be droon'd"--and, i added, or be shot either. i was now outside of the rebel lines, but i was just between two fires, and tremendous hot ones at that, for the whole lines were a perfect blaze both of musketry and artillery. nothing but the power of the almighty could have shielded me from such a storm of shot and shell, and brought me through unscathed. it seems to me now that it was almost as much of a miracle as that of the three hebrew children coming forth from the fiery furnace without even the smell of fire upon them. chapter xvii. withdrawal to malvern hill--the soldier's last watch--trowbridge's grave--scenes in a hospital--capture of the wounded--a noble surgeon--line of battle--hard fighting--the enemy repulsed--hunting for food--in a farm-house--perilous position--securing the spoils--relief of the famishing--sublime scene--on the march--general keyes--gun-boats--arrival at harrison's landing--sad condition of troops--our losses--mcclellan's address to the army. when i reached the main army the troops had gained a new position, and were driving the enemy back. the troops were well nigh exhausted, yet fighting bravely and determinedly. night came and put an end to that day's battle, but instead of spending the night in taking care of our poor wounded men, we were obliged to retreat, under cover of darkness, to malvern hill, and leave our wounded in the hands of the enemy. of the many who died from exhaustion, as well as wounds, during our retreat from the vicinity of richmond, i know of none more worthy of record than that of a young man of my acquaintance who died on the field the night after this battle. he was not wounded, but died at his post from sheer exhaustion. in the course of the evening, i had seen and offered him some brandy from my flask, which i had for the wounded. he was then scarcely able to stand on his feet, yet he refused to take the brandy, saying, "that others needed it more than he did; and besides," said he, "i never take any intoxicating liquor under any circumstances." a notice of his death by an eye-witness, given under the heading, "the soldier's last watch," says: "a lonely grave, a little apart from others, stands on the ground of one of the battles fought in the retreat from richmond, in the summer of , which bears on its wooden head-board simply the name, trowbridge. "the turf covers the remains of a youthful soldier who was not only brave and patient, but exemplary as a christian. those battles renewed from day to day, and attended by so many hardships, destroyed many lives, in addition to those lost in conflict with the enemy. hundreds and thousands of our gallant men, worn out by marches, fighting, hunger, and loss of sleep, became discouraged, and either recklessly threw themselves into the jaws of death, or fell into the hands of the enemy, because they were unable to keep up with their more robust, though not braver companions. "the circumstances of the death of one of these silent martyrs to their country were taken down from the lips of a soldier who was with him in his last hours. it is all that may be known, save to a few bleeding hearts, of one who, alas! like so many others, sleeps in that saddest of all places, a battle-field. the worn-out soldier, the day before his death, said to his lieutenant, 'i am so weak and helpless, i do not know what i can do further.' he was told to lie down, and get what rest he could on the battle-field. about ten at night, said his companion, as we were talking together, an officer of the company came up, and told us we should retreat at two o'clock in the morning. he ordered us to stand guard till then, two hours each in turn. we took straws, and drew lots to decide who should stand first. the lot fell on trowbridge. i threw myself on the ground, under a tree, with my blanket drawn over me, and was soon fast asleep. at twelve i was aroused, but said, 'you must be mistaken; it cannot be five minutes since i lay down.' we had been ordered not to speak aloud, or to have a light; and he replied in a whisper, 'feel the hands of my watch--it is twelve.' "i took his place, and he was soon asleep, or seemed to be. at half-past one o'clock the order came to move. i went to awake trowbridge, but had no answer, except that he groaned heavily once and again. i tried to soothe him, and awake him gently, but he turned aside his head, groaned once more, and was gone. i struck a match, and looked upon his features; they were set, and ghastly in death. i placed his hand on my cheek, and asked him if he was still conscious to press it. there was no response; life was evidently extinct. "i made an attempt to find the surgeon, or chaplain, but they had both gone forward with the army. so i searched his pockets, and taking from them six dollars for his mother, and a letter directed to himself, i replaced the envelope, that his name, at least, might be known to those who should find the body. several days after this, i was one of the number detailed to go back to that spot and bury the dead. on searching near the place where trowbridge died, i found a grave with a wooden tablet, bearing his name. not far distant was a house at which i called, and asked the inmates if they knew anything of that grave. the woman of the family then brought forward an envelope, (the very one that i had replaced), and said they had buried a soldier there, from whose pocket it was taken. it was a relief to know what had become of the body. of course i wrote to his mother, sending the money, and giving an account of her son's last moments, and his burial." this is only a solitary instance of the bravery and faithfulness of the men who fought those terrible battles, day after day, many of whom died with their muskets in their hands, and without receiving a wound, died from hunger, thirst, and fatigue. there was a farm-house near the battle-field, to which the wounded were carried, and the surgeons of the union army made it their headquarters during the battle. i will not attempt to describe the scenes which i witnessed in that building, for it beggars all description. the poor fellows seemed to know that they could not be removed, and would inevitably fall into the hands of the enemy. one man asked a surgeon, who had just performed an operation on one of his arms, "doctor, is there no alternative--must i be taken prisoner?" the doctor was only a boy in appearance, a little scotchman, and as noble-hearted a man as ever amputated a limb. he replied, in broad scotch, "no, my man, there is no alternative; but keep up a good heart, i am not going to leave you, i shall be a prisoner for your sakes, and will take care of you as long as i can." he did so, and was really taken prisoner, but was not permitted to do much for those for whom he had made such a noble sacrifice. he was doctor cleland, of detroit, michigan. when the order was given to retreat that night, i started with my colt, having a good saddle and bridle on him now, which i had taken off a dead horse on the battle-field, and reached malvern hill about two o'clock in the morning. after hitching my horse, and unstrapping a small bag of oats and my blanket from the saddle, i fed him, and proceeded to take a glance around, to see how things looked. the artillery was already in position, and the weary troops were in line of battle, but flat on the ground and fast asleep--all except the guards, who were pacing backward and forward in front of the line, ready to arouse the sleepers at any moment. feeling safe to consign myself to the arms of morpheus after this reconnoissance, i returned, wrapped myself in my blanket, and slept until the thundering of cannon awoke me in the morning. malvern hill is an elevated plateau, about a mile and a half by three-fourths of a mile in area, nearly cleared of timber, and with several converging roads running over it. in front there are numerous ravines. the ground slopes gradually toward the northeast to the wooded plain beyond, giving clear ranges for artillery in different directions. the batteries were advantageously posted on those hills, while the reserve troops were sheltered as much as possible by the ravines. the artillery of the reserve was placed in position so as to bring the concentrated fire of sixty guns to bear upon the enemy's front and left, approaching from richmond or white oak swamp. the brave colonel tyler, first connecticut, with great exertion succeeded in getting ten of his siege guns in position on the highest point of the hill; the men having to haul many of them up by hand. commodore rodgers, commanding the flotilla on james river, placed his gun-boats in position to protect the left flank and to command the approaches from richmond. the battle commenced about nine o'clock in the morning, and raged all day with terrible fury. at three in the afternoon the enemy attacked our right and center with tremendous force both of artillery and infantry. the artillery was replied to with good effect, but our infantry lay upon the ground and withheld their fire until the advancing column was within short musket range, when they sprang to their feet and poured in a deadly volley which entirely broke the attacking force, and drove the rebels back some eight hundred yards in great confusion. the battle raged most furiously hour after hour, the enemy advancing in massive column, often without order, but with perfect recklessness; and the concentrated fire of our gun-boats, batteries and infantry mowing down the advancing host in a most fearful manner, until the slain lay in heaps upon the field. at four o'clock the firing ceased along the rebel line, and it was supposed the battle was over; but it proved only a calm before a more terrible storm. at six o'clock the enemy suddenly opened upon the left of our line with the whole strength of his artillery, and fiercely pushed forward his column of attack to carry the hill. his infantry in immense force formed under cover of the woods, and starting on a run across the open space, charging almost up to the muzzle of the guns of our advance batteries, came rushing on with yells and imprecations--but in a moment the whole hill was one blaze of light--those terrible siege guns had belched forth a murderous fire, and a simultaneous volley from the gun boats, infantry and numerous batteries, sent the enemy reeling back to shelter, leaving the ground covered with their dead and wounded. then our men dashed forward with the bayonet, with wild shouts and cheers, capturing prisoners and colors, and driving the routed rebels in confusion from the field. at a little past four in the afternoon, when there was a lull in the terrible storm of grape and cannister, i ventured to go to a house which stood about half way between our line of battle and that of the enemy. i found a large quantity of flour, bacon, smoked ham, etc. the appearance of everything in the house indicated that the family had left suddenly, without disturbing anything. the dishes were on the table, as if the family had risen from dinner; the beds and bedding too remained undisturbed; the late inhabitants seemed to have thought of nothing but of saving their lives and escaping from the yankees. [illustration: food for the famishing.--page .] i was not long in searching cupboard, pantry and store-room, and appropriating tea, baking-soda, cream-of-tartar, et cetera. but in order to reach the house unobserved by the rebels i had been obliged to crawl there on my hands and feet, and now the question arose how was i to carry anything back with me? taking a bed-quilt i spread it on the floor and commenced selecting the most important articles, such as a small bag of flour, ham, an iron spider, a large coffee-pot, and some other things; after tying these up in the quilt i attached a long bed-cord to the bundle, intending to drag it along the ground. just as i was completing my arrangements, a shell came crashing through the side of the house, and passing through the window on the opposite side, it made the house tremble as if shaken by an earthquake. then another and another came in quick succession until i was obliged to seek refuge in the cellar. the rebels evidently thought that the house contained a band of our sharpshooters, and were determined to dislodge them if possible, for they brought three pieces to bear upon it for about twenty minutes, until they succeeded in setting it on fire. before the echo of the last shot had died away i heard the crackling of the fire above my head, and thought it prudent to make an attempt to escape. i did not find it very difficult to do so, as the fire was principally confined to the upper part of the house. so taking my precious burden of provisions, which still lay unharmed on the floor, i began my retreat in the same manner in which i had advanced, drawing my pack after me by means of the cord. i could not make much progress, however, for i found it very difficult to drag that immense weight over the rough ground. but i at length succeeded in reaching the lines, and was hailed by hearty cheers from those who were anxiously awaiting the result of my hazardous mission. several of the boys caught up the spoil and carried it to the rear, where we built a fire and commenced cooking immediately. an hour later we had a nice lot of hot bread, fried ham and tea ready for disposal. oh, i shall never forget the thrill of pleasure which i experienced when i carried this food and set it before those famishing men, and saw them eat it with a sort of awe and reverence as if it had fallen from heaven. one of the men looked up, with moistened eyes, and said: "bob, do you know that this food has been sent us by our heavenly father, just as much as the manna was sent to the children of israel? that boy risked his life in procuring it for us, but he never would have returned from that burning building if god had not shielded him from the bursting shell. i believe it has just come in time to save me from sharing the fate of poor trowbridge." the battle of malvern hill presented, by far, the most sublime spectacle i ever witnessed. all the battles i had seen before, and those which i have seen since, were nothing to be compared to it. the elevated position which the army occupied, the concentration of such an immense force in so small compass, such a quantity of artillery on those hills all in operation at the same time, the reflection of the flashes of fire from hundreds of guns upon the dense cloud of smoke which hung suspended in the heavens, turning it into a pillar of fire which reminded one of the camp of the israelites and of god's dealings with his people of old, the vivid flashes of lightning, the terrific peals of thunder mingled with the continuous blaze of musketry, sudden explosions of shell and the deafening roar of cannon, combined to make a scene which was _awfully grand_. my soul was filled with the sublimity and grandeur of the scene, notwithstanding the ghastly wounds and piteous groans of the mangled, helpless ones around me. thus it continued from seven to nine in the evening, the most thrilling picture which the imagination can conceive. as soon as the firing ceased the rear of the army began to move off in the direction of harrison's landing, and the exhausted troops in front threw themselves upon the ground to rest. the greater portion of the transportation of the army having been started for harrison's landing during the night, the order was at once issued for the movement of the army upon the final repulse of the enemy at malvern hill. the troops were to move by the left and rear; general keyes' corps being ordered to remain in position until all had moved off--then to cover the retreat. general mcclellan, in his official report, awards great credit to general keyes for the manner in which he carried out these orders. he took every advantage of the ground to open new avenues to aid the movement, and made preparations to obstruct the roads as soon as the army had withdrawn. in this way the march to harrison's landing was continued; the bridges were all destroyed and timber felled across the roads immediately after the army passed, thus rendering any rapid pursuit by the enemy impossible. the trains were kept in the middle of the road, leaving room for the infantry on each side, so as to be in good position to repel any attack which might be made during the march. his dispositions were so successful that, to use his own words: "i do not think more vehicles or any more public property were abandoned on the march from turkey bridge than would have been left, in the same state of the roads, if the army had been moving toward the enemy instead of away from him; and when it is understood that the carriages and teams belonging to the army, stretched out in one line, would extend not far from forty miles, the energy and caution necessary for their safe withdrawal from the presence of an enemy in vastly superior numbers will be appreciated." "high praise," says the commanding general, "is also due to the officers and men of the first connecticut artillery, colonel tyler, for the manner in which they withdrew all the heavy guns during the seven days and from malvern hill. owing to the crowded state of the roads the teams could not be brought within a couple of miles of the position; but these energetic soldiers removed the guns by hand for that distance, leaving nothing behind." the enemy followed the army with a small force, and occasionally threw a few shells at the rear-guard, but were quickly dispersed by our batteries and gun-boats, and on the evening of the third of july the entire army reached the landing. the troops presented a most distressing appearance as they drew up in line, and stacked their guns at harrison's bar. the rain had been pouring down most of the night, and was still drenching the poor battle-worn, foot-sore soldiers, and turning the roads into beds of mortar, and the low marshy ground at the landing into such a condition that it was impossible to get along dry shod, except for those who rejoiced in the possession of high boots. the aggregate of our entire losses in the seven days' battles, from the twenty-sixth of june to the first of july, inclusive, was ascertained, after arriving at harrison's landing, to be fifteen thousand two hundred and forty-nine, namely: fifteen hundred and eighty-two killed; seven thousand seven hundred and nine wounded, and five thousand nine hundred and fifty-eight missing. on the fourth of july the following address was issued to the troops by general mcclellan: "headquarters, army of the potomac _camp near harrison's landing_, july , . "soldiers of the army of the potomac:--your achievements of the last ten days have illustrated the valor and endurance of the american soldier. attacked by superior forces, and without hope of reinforcements, you have succeeded in changing your base of operations by a flank movement, always regarded as the most hazardous of military expedients. you have saved all your material, all your trains and all your guns, except a few lost in battle, taking in return guns and colors from the enemy. upon your march, you have been assailed day after day, with desperate fury, by men of the same race and nation, skillfully massed and led. under every disadvantage of number, and necessarily of position also, you have in every conflict beaten back your foes with enormous slaughter. your conduct ranks you among the celebrated armies of history. no one will now question that each of you may always with pride say: 'i belong to the army of the potomac.' you have reached the new base, complete in organization and unimpaired in spirit. the enemy may at any moment attack you. we are prepared to meet them. i have personally established your lines. let them come, and we will convert their repulse into a final defeat. your government is strengthening you with the resources of a great people. on this, our nation's birth-day, we declare to our foes, who are enemies against the best interests of mankind, that this army shall enter the capital of the so-called confederacy; that our national constitution shall prevail, and that the union, which can alone insure internal peace and external security to each state, 'must and shall be preserved,' cost what it may in time, treasure, and blood." chapter xviii. return of old acquaintances--the wounded colonel--i visit washington--military display--epaulets--aristocracy--spirit of johnny bull--soldiers' free library--contraband camp--negro testimony--patient charley--painful position--brother's last conversation--return to the army--christian commission--general howard's speech. about a week after we arrived at harrison's landing a number of our absent ones joined us, among whom were mr. and mrs. b., nellie, jack, my wounded darkie friend from williamsburg hospital, and last and least of all came that pusillanimous coward, colonel ----, whom i had assisted in carrying from the field at the battle of williamsburg, and whom doctor e. had ordered back to his regiment under penalty of being reported to his superior officer. the next day after the arrival of this individual i received a message requesting me to appear at the headquarters of the ---- regiment. i started immediately, and found to my astonishment that it was this colonel who desired an interview with me. he had been gone on furlough ever since the battle of williamsburg, and had played his cards so well that he had been promoted to the command of a brigade. he had also managed, by false representations, to have the following notice inserted in the leading newspapers of his native state, viz.: "colonel ---- was severely wounded at the battle of williamsburg, while gallantly leading a desperate charge on the enemy's works, and was carried from the field, but no sooner had the surgeons bound up his wound than the noble and patriotic colonel returned again to his command and led his men again and again upon the foe, until the day was won; when he sank upon the ground, exhausted from loss of blood and fatigue, and was carried the second time by his men from the field." the paper in which this false statement was published found its way to camp, and doctor e. replied to it, somewhat changing the editor's sentiments with regard to the conduct of the "noble and patriotic colonel." he, the colonel, had now returned to wreak vengeance upon doctor e. going to his tent i found the colonel alone. he arose as i entered, and in rather an excited manner spoke as follows: "i am informed that you are one of the persons who carried me off the field when i was wounded at williamsburg, and witnessed the infamous conduct of doctor e., and heard the insulting language which he used toward me." i did not reply, but stood gazing at the man before me. he looked me in the face for the first time since i entered, and discovering the smile of contempt which i could not suppress, he seized me roughly by the arm and exclaimed: "see here boy, what do you mean? why do you not answer me?" i replied with provoking coolness and the same sarcastic smile: "pardon me, sir, i was not aware that you asked me a direct question; i understood you to say that you were informed that i was one of the persons who carried you off the battle-field at williamsburg. i have the honor to inform you that thus far your informant was correct." "then you saw the treatment which i received, and heard the abusive language which doctor e. made use of on that occasion?" "i saw doctor e. examine you carefully and thoroughly, and when he could discover no cause for your being brought there, i heard him say--'colonel, you are not wounded at all. you had better let these boys carry you back to your regiment;' and when you so suddenly recovered your strength and sprang to your feet, making use of threats and profane language, he said: 'if you do not return to your regiment within fifteen minutes i will report you to general ----.'" suddenly relaxing his grasp of my arm, he assumed a fawning tone and manner, and taking a paper from his pocket he asked me to put my name to it, and he would reward me handsomely. i took the document from his hand and read it carefully. it was drawn up, as near as i can remember after the following manner: "this is to certify that colonel ---- has been infamously treated and maliciously slandered by doctor e., while said colonel was suffering from a wound received at williamsburg battle. two of the undersigned carried him bleeding from the field, and witnessed the cruel treatment and insulting language of doctor e." after reading the document, i said very calmly and decidedly, "colonel, i must decline signing this paper." by this time i had become indignant, and determined to cut short the interview; so touching my hat in mock respect, i left him to his own reflections. now it came my turn to visit washington--and the very next boat that left the landing bore me over the quiet waters of the james river. in due time i reached the capital, and spent three days in visiting the hospitals in washington, georgetown and alexandria, and various other places of interest. i was commissioned with numerous orders and had any amount of messages to deliver for officers and others; as many of our men were in the different hospitals in those cities, and i was expected to find them and deliver letters, packages, etc. the military display made in washington is certainly astonishing, especially to those who are accustomed to see major generals go round in slouched hats and fatigue coats, without even a star to designate their rank. but cocked and plumed hats, scarlet lined riding cloaks, swords and sashes, high boots and spanish spurs, immense epaulets, glittering stars, and gaily caparisoned horses, are to be seen by the hundred around willard's hotel and other places of resort. i noticed that some in particular wore painfully tight uniforms and very small caps, kept on by some new law of gravitation, as one portion rested on the bump of self esteem and the other on the bridge of the nose. "miss periwinkle" says of this class of military heroes: "they look like stuffed fowls, and ride as if the safety of the nation depended upon their speed alone." chaplain a. h. quint manfully defends the multiplicity of epaulets in washington, and very appropriately remarks: "willard's is the news depot. consider how easily a hundred, interested to read the bulletin there, could assemble. first, the general-in-chief is in washington, and has a staff necessarily. secondly, the quartermaster general, the adjutant general, the military governor, the paymaster-general, and the surgeon-general, have each a staff. thirdly, what military force there is in the city has officers. fourthly, there is a multitude of surgeons easily mistaken for army officers, as they wear uniforms. add to these the convalescent officers just able to move about, and you have hundreds necessarily in washington. and of course the display of epaulets is great." notwithstanding the "troublous times," there are generally gay times at the capital. levees and public receptions are frequent, except during the reign of terror, when some bold dash of rebel cavalry is made upon the devoted city, and then there is a genuine panic for a short time. in washington i think there is as much of the aristocratic spirit as you will find in the united states. people there are respected and graded according to their uniform; everything is regulated according to caste, and it is as david crocket says about dining: common people dine at twelve, common clerks in departments at one, head clerks at two, representatives at three, heads of departments at four, senators at five, ambassadors at six, and the president--well, he doesn't dine till the next day. in one of my rambles i visited the senate chamber. it was unoccupied, except by a few specimens of young america, who were playing leapfrog over the seats and desks. i leisurely surveyed every item of interest--sat in sumner's chair, and recalled the scene enacted there a few years previous, and in imagination thrashed brooks until he was a fit subject for a hospital--then giving him a farewell _coup de pied_, i betook me to the picture galleries. after admiring pocahontas sufficiently, and gazing at expiring heroes, who all "appeared to be quitting their earthly tabernacles in convulsions," ruffled shirts, and a tremendous shower of bomb-shell, until my head ached; i then turned for relief to the noble form of "the father of his country," which looked out from the canvas in all the princely majesty which characterized that _great_ and _good_ man. i stood wrapped in profound reverence, when a friend drew my attention to two paintings which i had not noticed before. they represented the surrender of lord cornwallis and general burgoyne. i felt a warm current of blood rush to my face, as i contemplated the humiliating scene--the spirit of johnny bull triumphed over my yankee predilections--and i left the building with feelings of humiliation and disgust. next in order, i visited the "soldier's free library," in fifth street, under the superintendence of john a. fowle, esq. he has accumulated over two thousand five hundred volumes of well selected historical, biographical and religious works. the soldiers in the different hospitals have the free use of the library, which is open daily. the room is nicely furnished, and the pictures hanging on the walls give it a cheerful, home-look, and the soldiers come there by the score. it is an excellent arrangement. thanks to the benevolent hearts and hands that have provided such a luxury for the soldier. an hour's walk through the contraband camp was amusing and instructive. here were specimens of all grades of the negro character, from the genuine pious, cheerful trusting christian, to the saucy, lazy, degraded creature, which generations of slavery has made almost on a level with the beasts of the field. but all of them kind-hearted, merry-tempered, and quick to feel and accept the least token of kindness. their cheerfulness is proverbial; old women, with wool white with age, bent over the wash-tub, grinned and gossiped in the most cheerful manner--girls romped with their dusky sweethearts, and mothers tossed their babies with that tender pride and mother-love which beautifies the blackest and homeliest face. all were happy, because they were free--and there seemed to be no room for anything like gloom or despondency in their hearts. men, women, and children sang, whistled and laughed together--and whether their songs were of heaven, or of hoe-cakes, they were equally inspiring. i found a young lady there, from the north, who had come to washington with the intention of nursing the sick soldiers, but her sympathies being divided between sick america and down-trodden africa, she decided to teach the contrabands instead. she seemed delighted with her employment, and the little black faces were beaming with joy as they gathered around her to receive instruction. one colored man stood listening to the questions which were being asked and answered, and looked as if he would like to give in his testimony. i turned to him, and asked: "how is it with you? do you think you can take care of yourself, now that you have no master to look after you?" "gosh a-mighty, guess i can! ben taking car' of self and massa too for dis fifteen year. guess i can take car' of dis nig all alone now." while at one of the hospitals in alexandria, the head steward told me the following touching incident, which occurred in that hospital. said he: "a young man had been placed under our care, who had a severe wound in the thigh. the ball passed completely through, and amputation was necessary. the limb was cut up close to the body, the arteries taken up, and he seemed to be doing well. subsequently, one of the small arteries sloughed off; an incision was made, and it was taken up. 'it is well it was not the main artery,' said the surgeon, as he performed the operation. 'he might have bled to death before it could have been taken up.' but the patient, (charley, as we always spoke of him), got on finely for a time, and was a favorite with us all. "i was passing through the ward one night, about midnight, when suddenly, as i was passing charley's bed, he spoke to me: 'h----, my leg is bleeding again.' i threw back the bedclothes, and the blood spirted in the air. the main artery had sloughed off. "fortunately, i knew just what to do; and in an instant i had pressed my thumb on the place, and stopped the bleeding. it was so close to the body that there was barely room for my thumb, but i succeeded in keeping it there, and arousing one of the convalescents, sent him for the surgeon, who came in on a run. "'i am so thankful,' said he, as he saw me, 'that you were up, and knew what to do, for otherwise he must have bled to death before i could have got here.' "but on examination of the case, he looked exceedingly serious, and sent for other surgeons. all came who were within reach, and a consultation was held over the poor fellow. one conclusion was reached by all. there was no place to work, save the spot where my thumb was placed; they could not work under my thumb, and if i removed it he would bleed to death before the artery could be taken up. there was no way to save his life. "poor charley! he was very calm when they told him, and he requested that his brother, who was in the same hospital, might be called up. he came and sat down by the bedside, and for three hours i stood, and by the pressure of my thumb kept up the life of charley, while the brothers had their last conversation on earth. it was a strange position for me to occupy, to feel that i held the life of a fellow mortal in my hands, and stranger yet to feel that an act of mine must cause that life to depart. loving the poor fellow as i did, it was a hard thought; but there was no alternative. the last words were spoken. charley had arranged all his business affairs, and sent tender messages to absent ones, who little dreamed how near their loved one stood to the grave. the tears filled my eyes more than once as i listened to those parting words. the last good-bye was spoken; then turning to me, he said: 'now, h----, i guess you had better remove your thumb.' 'oh, charley! how can i,' said i. 'but it must be done, you know,' he replied. 'i thank you very much for your kindness, and now, good-bye.' he turned away his head. i raised my thumb--once more the life-current gushed forth, and in three minutes he was dead." having heard and seen considerable on my little pleasure trip, and my leave of absence having nearly expired, i prepared to return once more to duty, and on my way to the boat i was fortunate enough to meet with some of the christian commission delegates, who were going to harrison's landing on the same boat, and had quite a supply of good things for our sick and wounded. may god bless the christian commission--it is doing a noble work, not only for the sick and wounded, but for our soldiers generally. general howard, of maine, that noble christian patriot of whom i have spoken in a previous chapter, was one of the speakers at the great meeting in philadelphia, january twenty-eighth, the second anniversary of the united states christian commission. he delivered a most touching and appropriate address on that occasion, and as it expresses my own sentiments, both with regard to the christian commission and the religion of christ generally, i will quote a portion of his speech, for the benefit of my readers who may not have read it elsewhere: "i may be allowed to speak freely to the friends who are here to-night. let me tell you one thing which i need not suppress if i could, and that is, that i feel in my heart a deep and abiding interest in the cause of my redeemer. i know that this is also the cause of the christian commission, and therefore i love it, and identify myself with it; and i doubt not that you love it, and will do everything to sustain it, for a like reason. and now i ask you, as i am to go back to the field to take up my cross anew, and to stand up night and day, evening and morning, for the cause of him i love, that your earnest, importunate prayers may follow me, and that god would bless the soldiers, that evil may be repressed among them, and that when they go into battle they may go without a fear, because they know in whom they have believed. "i assert that the highest type of courage is christian courage. when your spirit yearns up to god in prayer, 'oh, lord, be my protector, and in this peril let me run under the shadow of thy wing,' then you will fear no evil, though you walk through the valley and the shadow of death. my friends, these things are realities with me. by the blessing of god, by his spirit, he has enabled me to have a clear conviction that should he take me away i shall go to be with him. not because i am good, or holy, or righteous; but because i have a saviour; an all-sufficient saviour, who is able to save even the chief of sinners unto the utmost. therefore, i am able to say that i can go into the battle fearing no evil. and would to god, for their sakes, that every officer in the army and every soldier in the ranks could declare, in sincerity from the depths of his heart, that god had done such great things for him! these, to me, are settled, solemn convictions; and i speak them freely and frankly, as i am encouraged to do on this auspicious occasion. "it may seem to some that it is expressing one's feelings too publicly; but i think it well for me to bear such testimony in a work like yours, which contemplates this great and all-important result, the promotion of heart religion and the salvation of souls. and especially do i feel this in these times of excitement and terror--over the mere temporal accessories of war, the dreadful sacrifice of lives, the horrible sights of wounds, the caring for the sick and wounded, the lamentations for the dead--amid all this i fear that the still, small voice has not always been listened to; the silent and beautiful, though wonderful work of the spirit of god has not been seen, and its importance felt as it should be in our land. this the christian commission is striving to accomplish; it seeks to keep alive the spirit of christianity among our soldiers. their agency is the leaven in our armies. may they leaven the whole lump! "it is this only that will prepare us for our liberty. this bond, the bond of christian love, is the true bond after all that shall permanently unite us. there is no other. we speak of the claims of commerce and trade, of corn and cotton, that will unite the sections of our country; but these are temporary, fluctuating, perishing links. the religion of jesus christ is the lasting bond that connects not only maine with massachusetts and massachusetts with connecticut, but maine with texas and florida with wisconsin. "we boast of being an asylum for all nations. from england, ireland, france, germany, russia, and almost every country beyond the ocean, come men, women and children, who settle down in our midst. how shall we cause them to assimilate to us? how shall we ever make them good and useful citizens? will it be, think you, by merely giving them land on which to settle? will they become one with us because they grow in material wealth and prosperity? no, no! nothing but an education, a true education of heart and morals, such as the religion of jesus christ imparts, can ever truly and safely assimilate all these heterogeneous elements, and enable us to be truly one people. "the gospel has its victories to achieve for us as well as the sword. many of the rebels hated us worse before the war than they do now. they respect us much more than they once did, after seeing that we are not afraid to expose our bodies to be burned, if necessary, in a just cause--the cause of our country that we love; that we shrink from no sacrifice of money, time or life in order to maintain and perpetuate the beautiful government that our fathers bequeathed to us. but this is not all. they have felt, too, the power of the spirit of kindness and love, of which the religion of jesus has borne so many fruits in this struggle. "they have been astonished at the kindness which has been shown to them when they have fallen into our hands. it was this that demoralized them at vicksburg. in the west the rebels are not so violent as they were. when they come into our lines now they say they were forced to fight, that they are union men, and always were union men. and they are coming in every day. we have just heard that when general rosecrans took command of the cumberland army, eight thousand delivered themselves up to us. and do they hate us? no! we have melted them down by christian kindness and love. and, my friends, this is the way to disarm them. i believe, and say it with emphatic assurance, that if we all have the spirit of the master in our hearts we shall demoralize them wherever we find them! "i do not advocate any shrinking back or checking of the terrible steeds of war. no! fill up the ranks. make the next campaign more vigorous than any that has gone before it, so that it shall be, by the divine help, perfectly impossible for the rebels to keep the field. but let us wield this power along with the alleviating and saving influences of the religion of christ. let these, as diffused by the christian commission and in other ways, follow our armies everywhere, blessing friend and foe alike, and we shall then cause the enemy to come within our lines, not only by the eight thousand, but by the sixteen and sixty thousand. it is this that will ruin their cause, and finally break down their opposition." chapter xix. my constant companion--dispelling the blues--gentle nellie--faces in the hospital--asleep and awake--my horse again--at harrison's landing--impatient to move--dissatisfaction in the army--retreat from richmond--return to newport news--suspicious quarters--searching the house and finding rebel soldiers--thanks to the army--our arrival at acquia creek. while we remained at harrison's landing i spent much of my time in the hospitals. nellie was now my faithful friend and companion, my colleague when on duty, and my escort on all occasions in my rides and rambles. she was a splendid woman, and had the best faculty of dispelling the blues, dumps and dismals of any person i ever met. when we went to a hospital and found the nurses looking tired and anxious and the patients gloomy and sad, it never required more than half an hour for us to get up a different state of feeling, and dispel that "hark-from-the-tombs-a-doleful-sound" sort of spirit, and we invariably left the men in a more cheerful mood, evidently benefited by having a little respite from that depressing melancholy so prevalent among the sick, and so often indulged by nurses. in our own hospital we generally managed to so assort and arrange the patients as to have all of the same temperament and disease together, so that we knew just what to do and what to say to suit each department. we had our patients divided into three classes; one was our working department, another our pleasure department, and a third our pathetic department. one we visited with bandages, plasters and pins; another, with books and flowers; and the third, with beef tea, currant wine, and general consolation. sometimes nellie would sit and fan the patients for hours in the latter department, and sing some soothing pieces in her soft, sweet strains, until she would have them all asleep, or quiet as babies. i think the soldiers may truly say of the gentle nellie: her soothing tones with peace beguile the weary hours of pain, and make the lonely sufferer smile and joy to come again. still let me often hear thy voice, which gently whispers peace, and let my troubled heart rejoice, and strains of sadness cease; still speak to me of pleasant things-- of faith, and hope, and joy; then shall i rise on lightsome wings where pains no more annoy. i used to watch with much interest the countenances of those men as they lay fast asleep, and i often thought that i could read their characters better when asleep than when awake. some faces would grow stern and grim--they were evidently dreaming of war, and living over again those terrible battles in which they had so recently participated; some groaned over their wounds, and cursed the rebels vigorously; others grew sad, and would talk in the most pathetic tones, as if the pain borne so silently through the day revenged itself now by betraying what the man's pride concealed so well while awake. often the roughest grew young and pleasant when sleep smoothed away the hard lines from the brow, letting the real nature assert itself. many times i would be quite disappointed, for the faces which looked merry and pleasing when awake would suddenly grow dark and hideous, as if communing with some dark spirits of another world. one poor fellow, whose brain was injured more than his body, would wear himself out more in an hour when asleep than in a whole day when awake. his imagination would conjure up the wildest fancies; one moment he was cheering on his men, the next he was hurrying them back again; then counting the dead around him, while an incessant stream of shouts, whispered warnings and broken lamentations would escape from his lips. i became acquainted with a young man from rhode island in one of the hospitals, who was the most patient and cheerful person it has been my lot to meet under such circumstances. i find the following notice with regard to him: "i came out here," said he, "as rough and as bad as any of them. but i had left a praying mother at home. while in camp at poolesville i heard that she was dead. after that her image was never out of my thoughts. it seemed as if her form appeared to me as in a mirror, and always as wrestling for her wayward son. go where i might i felt as if i saw her in her place of prayer, kneeling and putting up her petitions to god, and not even the roar of battle could drown the soft tones of her voice." he was at the battle of fair oaks, and when it ceased sat down on a log, exhausted, by the wayside, and then, to use his own words, he "thought over the matter." heaps of dead men lay on every side of him. they had fallen, but he was still unharmed. the melting words of his mother's prayer came back to his mind with new power. he thought of his own condition, and of her happy home, so far removed from the strife and agony of war. a pious soldier of his company noticed that he was very thoughtful, and inquired the reason. to this friend he opened his mind freely, and told him how he felt. they sought occasion for private conference, communed together and prayed; strength was given him to make the "last resolve," and the soldier who had been so rough and had became a soldier in the army of jesus. the sainted mother had not prayed in vain. a battle had just been fought, a victory won, which was spreading joy throughout the nation; but here, too, was a triumph, a different triumph, such as cause the angels of god in heaven to rejoice. just as i am, without one plea, but that thy blood was shed for me, and that thou bid'st me come to thee, o lamb of god! i come. one day, while employed in the hospital assisting nellie in some new arrangement for the amusement of the men, i received a letter from the captain to whom i had given my horse for the use of himself and three companions on the retreat from before richmond. he and his friends had reached the james river in safety, and had been so fortunate as to get on board of one of the transports which had been sent for the wounded, and were now comfortably installed in a hospital in washington. he also wrote that he had given my horse in charge of one of the quartermasters of general g.'s brigade, a piece of information which i was exceedingly glad to hear, for my colt was well nigh spoiled on the retreat, and if it had not been, was not fit to ride much, or indeed at all, to do it justice, for it proved to be not quite two years old. but upon finding the quartermaster i was politely informed that he had bought and paid for the horse, and of course i could not have it. i said nothing, but went to general m.'s headquarters, stated the case, and procured an order which brought the horse in double-quick time, and no thanks to the quartermaster. a month passed away, and everything remained quiet at harrison's landing and vicinity. the troops, having rested, began to grow tired of the routine of camp life, and were anxious for another brush with the enemy. the vigilant eye of mcclellan noted the impatience of the men, and he daily kept urging the necessity of reinforcements, and protested against leaving the peninsula, as retreat, in his opinion, would prove disastrous both to the army and the cause. our commander's patience was well nigh exhausted, as the following brief despatch of july th indicates: "i hope that it may soon be decided what is to be done by this army, and that the decision may be to reinforce it at once. we are losing much valuable time, and that at a moment when energy and decision are sadly needed." about this time an order came from washington for all the sick to be sent away, without giving any definite information with regard to the intended movements of the army. august fourteenth orders came for the army to evacuate harrison's landing. none knew whither they were going, but notwithstanding every pain was taken to conceal the destination from the troops, it was evident that we were retreating; for the ominous fact that we turned our backs toward richmond was very suggestive of a retreat. this had a demoralizing effect upon the troops, for they had confidently expected to advance upon richmond and avenge the blood of their fallen comrades, whose graves dotted so many hillsides on the peninsula, and whose remains would now be desecrated by rebel hands. the men were deeply moved; some wept like children, others swore like demons, and all partook in the general dissatisfaction of the movement. on the morning of the sixteenth the whole army was _en route_ for parts unknown. our destination proved to be newport news--a march of nearly seventy miles. it was well for us we did not know it then, or probably there would have been more swearing and less weeping among the soldiers. so far as i was personally concerned, i had a very pleasant time during that march. mr. and mrs. b., dr. e., nellie and myself, made up a small party, independent of military discipline, and rode fast or slow, just as it suited our fancy, called at the farm-houses and bought refreshments when we were hungry, and had a good time generally. nellie rode my confiscated colt, and pronounced it a perfect gem. dr. e. playfully said that he supposed she admired it because it was a rebel, and i suggested that he too must be a rebel, from the same premises. time passed away pleasantly until we drew near to yorktown, where sad memories interrupted the animated conversation. nellie was near her former home, with all its pleasant and sad associations. we visited the grave of lieutenant v. i could but rejoice that he had been taken away from the evil to come. he had been saved from all those terrible marches and horrible battles, and from this distressing and humiliating retreat. we hitched our horses and remained some time there, some of the party gathering the rich, ripe fruit, which hung in abundance from the peach trees around us. before leaving, we all bowed around the grave of our friend. chaplain b. offered up an ardent prayer that we might all be faithful, and follow the example of our departed loved one, as he had followed christ, and meet him where war and strife would be heard no more. i know thou art gone to a clime of light, to a world of joy and love, beyond the reach of the sunbeam's flight, in the shadowless above. and i will rejoice in thy smiles again, and hap'ly thy whisper hear; dispelling the gloom of sorrow and pain, when the twilight of death is near. we stopped at a farm-house one evening during our march, and engaged lodgings for the night. the house was very large, and afforded ample accommodations. it was the first one on the peninsula at which i had seen a strong, healthy-looking man, attending to his farm as if there was no such thing as war in the land. the lady of the house was an active, business-like sort of woman, and went to work to make us comfortable. but there was evidently something in or about that house which was not just right--and we had not been there long when i detected suspicious movements, and drew the attention of dr. e. to the fact. the man seemed very uneasy and restless, going from one room to another, shutting the doors very carefully behind him, carrying parcels up stairs in a half frightened way which increased our suspicion. i proposed to our little party that they should remain while i rode back to the army for a detachment of the provost-guard. my proposal was agreed to, and i started back in the direction of the main column. the family seemed alarmed, and asked a great many questions concerning my departure, to which i replied: "i am only going a short distance; i shall probably be back by the time supper is ready." i made all haste after i disappeared from view of the house, and in an hour i was on my way back again, having succeeded in finding the provost-marshal, and getting a corporal and six men to go with me. they entered the house boldly, and told the inmates that they had been informed that there were rebels concealed in the house, and they had come for the purpose of searching it; adding, that they would not disturb anything, if their suspicions were unfounded. the lady said that she had some sick persons in the house, and did not wish them disturbed, assuring them that her family were all union, and they would not harbor any rebels whatever. but all her excuses and pretensions did not deter the guard from accomplishing their object. so marching up stairs, they searched every room. in one room were found four rebel soldiers, or guerillas, all of whom pretended to be very ill. dr. e. was called to examine the patients, and pronounced them well as he was. in another room were two officers; they made no excuse at all, but said that they were the landlord's sons; had been in the rebel service, and were now home on furlough. they said they had been home ever since stuart's cavalry raid at white house, and were waiting for another such dash in order to get back again. the provost-guard marched them all back to headquarters, which was in the saddle, and our little party thought proper to take shelter that night under the wing of the main column, instead of at a farm-house where we were not sure but that our lives would pay for that piece of information given, before morning. the army marched on until it reached the transports. some embarked at yorktown, some at newport news, and others at fortress monroe. the troops were literally worn out and discouraged, caring but little where they went, or what they did. they were huddled on board of transports, and were landed at aquia creek. general mcclellan finding his army, as he had anticipated, much depressed and discouraged in consequence of the retreat from the peninsula, sent the following appeal to general halleck: "please say a kind word to my army, that i can repeat to them in general orders, in regard to their conduct at yorktown, williamsburg, west point, hanover court-house, and on the chickahominy, as well as in regard to the seven days, and the recent retreat. no one has ever said anything to cheer them but myself. say nothing about me; merely give my men and officers credit for what they have done. they deserve it." the army of the potomac had performed an enormous amount of labor in making entrenchments, constructing roads, bridges, etc., and did it with the most gratifying cheerfulness and devotion to the interests of the service. during the entire campaign they had fought ten severely contested battles, and had beaten the enemy on every occasion, showing the most determined bravery and invincible qualities it was possible for an army to exhibit. they had submitted to exposure, sickness and death, without a murmur; and they deserved the thanks of the government and the people for their services. on arriving at aquia creek, we found ourselves the victims of another rainstorm. five of us went on board of a little steam-tug, and thus escaped a severe drenching during the night, for we had not yet seen our tents. when morning came we were treated to breakfast, and the captain was very kind indeed. we were just congratulating ourselves on our good fortune, when we discovered that all our little valuables, relics which we had brought from the peninsula, toilet arrangements, and even our bibles, had been stolen while we were asleep. nellie and i were indulging in some uncharitable remarks concerning those persons upon whose hospitality we had fared sumptuously and slept comfortably, and who had so generously refused to take any remuneration in the shape of greenbacks, but who had helped themselves to things more precious to us than money, when good chaplain b. entered just in time to catch the most unchristian-like sentence we had uttered, and forthwith gave us a lecture upon the heinous sin of ingratitude. when he had concluded, instead of saying amen, i said: "from such hospitality in future, good lord deliver us." we did not remain long at aquia creek, but were ordered to embark immediately for alexandria, virginia. when we arrived there, pope's army was in danger of annihilation; and, consequently, as fast as the army of the potomac arrived, it was ordered to pope's assistance; one portion in one direction, and another in another direction, until it was cut up into sections, and general mcclellan was left at washington, without an army or anything to command except his staff. chapter xx. pope's army--a general's request--again a contraband--entering the rebel lines as a spy--my escape to the federal lines--in peril--kearney killed--crawling through the woods--burial of a picket--looking for a general--mr. negative--mcclellan and pope--the battle of antietam--a touching death-scene--an interesting patient--burial of a female soldier. immediately after arriving at alexandria, i started for the battle-field, where a portion of mcclellan's army had gone to reinforce pope. everything seemed to be in a confused state. there was no definite information with regard to the force of the enemy in that direction, and it seemed impossible to obtain any from reliable sources. mcclellan's troops were ordered to the front, under new commanders, just as they came off the transports in which they arrived from the peninsula, without any rest, or a proper supply of clothing, shoes, or blankets; all of which they much needed, after such a march as they had just accomplished. while the battle raged, and the roar of cannon was reverberating over the national capital, mcclellan sent the following request to general halleck: "i cannot express to you the pain and mortification i have experienced to-day, in listening to the distant firing of my men. as i can be of no further use here, i respectfully ask that, if there is a probability of the conflict being renewed to-morrow, i may be permitted to go to the scene of battle with my staff, merely to be with my own men, if nothing more. they will fight none the worse for my being with them. if it is not deemed best to intrust me with the command even of my own army, i simply ask to be permitted to share their fate on the field of battle." the troops under pope were several days in the vicinity of the shenandoah valley, with no rations but those they found in the fields, such as fruit, green corn, and vegetables. they certainly were in a poor condition to fight, and there was evidently a lack of that cheerful, enthusiastic spirit, which had characterized them on the peninsula. i was ordered by general h. to pass the rebel lines, and return as soon as possible. i took the train at warrenton junction, went to washington, procured a disguise, that of a female contraband, and returned the same night. i passed through the enemy's lines in company with nine contrabands, men, women, and children, who preferred to live in bondage with their friends, rather than to be free without them. i had no difficulty whatever in getting along, for i, with several others, was ordered to headquarters to cook rations enough, the rebels said, to last them until they reached washington. [illustration: at rebel headquarters.--page .] the officers generally talked in low tones, but would sometimes become excited, forget that there were darkies around, and would speak their minds freely. when i had been there a few hours, i had obtained the very information which i had been sent for. i had heard the plan of the morrow discussed, the number of troops at several important points, and the number expected to arrive during the night; and this, too, from the lips of the commanding general and his staff. the rebel lines were guarded so strongly and so faithfully, that i did not dare to return that night, but waited anxiously for the dawn of the morrow. early on the following morning, while assisting the cook to carry in breakfast, i removed a coat from a camp-stool which stood in my way, and a number of papers fell from its pockets, which i instantly transferred to my own. i then hurried my arrangements in the tent, lest the documents should be missed before i could make my escape. breakfast was announced, and i suddenly disappeared. going toward the picket line nearest the federals, and seeing an old house in the distance, i went and hid myself in the cellar. soon, firing commenced in different directions, and grew hotter and hotter, until the shot and shell began to shake the old house in which i had taken refuge, and by and by it came tumbling down around me. a part of the floor was broken down, but still i remained unharmed, and did not attempt to leave the ruins. i remembered that good old elijah remained in the cave during the tempest, the earthquake and the fire, and afterward came the still small voice. so i waited patiently for the still small voice, and felt secure; knowing that the lord was a sure refuge, and could protect me there as well as in a drawing-room in the quiet city. it was not long before deliverance came, and the rebels were obliged to fall back and take a new position. when the firing ceased, i was safely within the federal lines. i went immediately to headquarters, and reported myself as having just returned from rebeldom; gave a brief relation of my experience, and delivered the documents which i had brought from rebel headquarters. these proved to be orders intended for the different corps commanders, with instructions how and when to move, so as to act in concert with the entire plan of the morrow, and insure the capture of washington. during those battles and skirmishes of pope's memorable campaign, i visited the rebel generals three times at their own camp-fires, within a period of ten days, and came away with valuable information, unsuspected and unmolested. while the second battle of bull run was in progress, i was a part of the time with the confederates, and then back again to the federals, having made my escape while the battle raged most fiercely by concealing myself in a ravine, and watching until the rebels charged upon a battery. while they were engaged in a hand-to-hand fight, i escaped unobserved by friend or foe. the last of these visits was made the night before the battle of chentilla, in which the brave kearney was killed. i was within a few rods of him when he fell, and was in the act of returning to the union camp under cover of the extreme darkness of that never-to-be-forgotten night. i saw him ride up to the line, but supposed him to be a rebel officer until the pickets fired at him, and even then i thought they had fired at me, until i saw him fall from his horse, and heard their exclamations of joy when they discovered who he was; for the one-armed general was known throughout both armies for his bravery and brilliant career, and the name of kearney had become a word of terror to the rebels. when i learned who was their victim, i regretted that it had not been me instead of him, whom they had discovered and shot. i would willingly have died to save such a general to the union army. but he was taken, while i, poor insignificant creature, was left; but left with a heart and soul as fully devoted to the union cause as kearney's was; only lacking the ability to accomplish the same results. i lost no time in making good my escape, while the attention of the pickets were drawn in another direction. when i came to our lines, i found it almost as difficult to get through as i had found it on the other side. the night was so dark i could not make any sign by which the pickets could recognize me, and i was in the depths of the forest, where the rustling of the leaves and the crackling of dry branches under my feet betrayed my foot-steps as i went along. however, after crawling up pretty close to the line, and getting behind a tree to screen me from the bullets, if they should fire, i managed to make myself understood. the picket said: "all right," and i passed through in safety. coming within the lines, i saw a group of men kneeling on the ground digging a grave with their bayonets, with the least possible noise; for the picket lines were within half musket shot of each other. one of their comrades had been killed, and they were thus preparing his last resting-place. they buried him darkly at dead of night, the turf with their bayonets turning. but there were no "struggling moonbeams," or glimmering stars, to shed a ray of light upon the midnight gloom of that solitary funeral--naught save the vivid flashes of lurid flame which the lightning cast upon the sad scene, lighting up for a moment the surrounding forest, and then dying away, leaving the darkness more intolerable. we may well say of such as die at their post: sweet be the death of those who for their country die; sleep on her bosom for repose, and triumph where they lie. after reaching headquarters and donning another costume, i was dispatched to washington with official documents to mcclellan, who was now in command of the defenses of the capital, and had control of all the troops who came streaming in from the disastrous battle-field. i arrived in the city just as the morning light was breaking, drenched from head to foot, and looking as if mud was my native element. making my way to where i supposed headquarters to be, i saw an important looking individual near by, whom i addressed, and inquired if he could tell me where general mcclellan was to be found? "no, i can not." could he tell me when he was expected at headquarters? "no." was there any person there of whom i could inquire? "not a person." did he know of any place where the necessary information could be obtained? "not a place." could he make any suggestion, or throw the least ray of light upon the subject, which might lead to the whereabouts of the general? "not the slightest." turning away in disgust, i said to the man, "well, good-by, mr. negative. i hope the effort which you have made to assist me will not injure you mentally or physically;" and so saying i rode away, feeling that if i was as big as he imagined himself, and as strong as he was indifferent, i would give him a vigorous shaking before leaving him. i went next to general h.'s headquarters. no one there could tell me anything more definite than that the general had been gone all night, carrying out general halleck's orders and making the best possible disposition of the troops as fast as they came in, for the whole army was now in full retreat. after two hours search i found him, delivered the despatches, and returned to washington, where i remained until the next day, being completely tired out, not having had a night's sleep for five nights previous. on the first of september, general mcclellan had an interview with the president, who requested him to use all his influence with the army of the potomac to insure its hearty co-operation with general pope's army. in compliance with the president's request, mcclellan sent the following despatch to general porter: "i ask of you, for my sake, that of the country, and the old army of the potomac, that you and all my friends will lend the fullest and most cordial co-operation to general pope in all the operations now going on. the destinies of our country, the honor of our arms, are at stake, and all depends upon the cheerful co-operation of all in the field. this week is the crisis of our fate. say the same thing to my friends in the army of the potomac, and that the last request i have to make of them is, that, for their country's sake, they will extend to general pope the same support they ever have to me." immediately after this followed the brilliant and triumphant victories at south mountain and antietam, which more than counterbalanced the disastrous campaign of pope, and which sent a thrill of joy throughout the north. but in this, as in most other instances of earthly bliss, the joy was not unmixed with sorrow--sorrow for the noble dead and wounded upon those bloody fields. at the memorable battle of antietam there were nearly two hundred thousand men and five hundred pieces of artillery engaged during a period of fourteen hours without cessation; and at its termination two thousand seven hundred of the enemy's dead lay upon the field. the report of the federal general in command says: "thirteen guns, thirty-nine colors, upwards of fifteen thousand stand of small arms, and more than six thousand prisoners, were the trophies which attest the success of our army in the battles of south mountain, crampton's gap, and antietam. not a single gun or color was lost by our army during these battles." at the close of the battle i stood by the side of a dying officer of one of the massachusetts regiments, who had passed through the thickest of the fight unhurt, but just at the close of the battle he was struck by a random shot which wounded him mortally. as he lay there, conscious of approaching death, the musicians of the regiment happened to pass by. he requested that they might be asked to play the "star-spangled banner." they cheerfully complied with the dying man's request, and while they played the grand old tune his countenance beamed with joy. he inquired the result of the battle, and when told that it was a victory he exclaimed--"oh! it is glorious to die for one's country at such a time as this!" then turning to the chaplain he spoke in the most affecting manner; he said his trust was in the redeemer; then he sent loving messages to his mother and friends at home. the chaplain read some comforting passages of scripture and prayed with him, and soon after the happy spirit passed away. some one very appropriately says: "when such sacrifices are laid upon the altar of our country, we have surely new incentives to uphold the cause for which they are made, and, with god's help, not to allow the treason which has slain so many victims, to accomplish its purpose. and, through this bloody baptism, shall not our nation be purified at length, and fitted to act a nobler part in the world's history?" god grant it. in passing among the wounded after they had been carried from the field, my attention was attracted by the pale, sweet face of a youthful soldier who was severely wounded in the neck. the wound still bled profusely, and the boy was growing faint from loss of blood. i stooped down and asked him if there was anything he would like to have done for him. the soldier turned a pair of beautiful, clear, intelligent eyes upon me for a moment in an earnest gaze, and then, as if satisfied with the scrutiny, said faintly: "yes, yes; there is something to be done, and that quickly, for i am dying." [illustration: an interesting patient.--page .] something in the tone and voice made me look more closely at the face of the speaker, and that look satisfied me that my suspicion was well founded. i went to one of the surgeons in attendance, and requested him to come and see my patient. he did so, and after a moment's examination of the wound told me that nothing could be done whatever to save him. he then left me, and i administered a little brandy and water to strengthen the wounded boy, for he evidently wished to tell me something that was on his mind before he died. the little trembling hand beckoned me closer, and i knelt down beside him and bent my head until it touched the golden locks on the pale brow before me; i listened with breathless attention to catch every sound which fell from those dying lips, the substance of which was as follows: "i can trust you, and will tell you a secret. i am not what i seem, but am a female. i enlisted from the purest motives, and have remained undiscovered and unsuspected. i have neither father, mother nor sister. my only brother was killed to-day. i closed his eyes about an hour before i was wounded. i shall soon be with him. i am a christian, and have maintained the christian character ever since i entered the army. i have performed the duties of a soldier faithfully, and am willing to die for the cause of truth and freedom. my trust is in god, and i die in peace. i wish you to bury me with your own hands, that none may know after my death that i am other than my appearance indicates." then looking at me again in that earnest, scrutinizing manner, she said: "i know i can trust you--you will do as i have requested?" i assured her that she might place implicit confidence in me, and that i would do as she had desired me. then i sought out a chaplain, who came and prayed with her. she was calm and peaceful. i remained with her until she died, which was about an hour. then making a grave for her under the shadow of a mulberry tree near the battle-field, apart from all others, with the assistance of two of the boys who were detailed to bury the dead, i carried her remains to that lonely spot and gave her a soldier's burial, without coffin or shroud, only a blanket for a winding-sheet. there she sleeps in that beautiful forest where the soft southern breezes sigh mournfully through the foliage, and the little birds sing sweetly above her grave. her race is run. in southern clime she rests among the brave; where perfumed blossoms gently fall, like tears, around her grave. no loving friends are near to weep or plant bright flowers there; but birdlings chant a requiem sweet, and strangers breathe a prayer. she sleeps in peace; yes, sweetly sleeps, her sorrows all are o'er; with her the storms of life are past: she's found the heavenly shore. chapter xxi. after antietam--surgeons on the field--the hospitals--lieutenant-colonel dwight mortally wounded--a brutal surgeon--a wounded captain--agony from thirst--christian soldiers--praying and fighting--fops on the field--a rebel programme--pennsylvania to be stripped--camp life--daily routine--burial services. after the battle of antietam, one of the chaplains who was on the field paid a fitting tribute to the colonel commanding the regiment to which he belonged, and vividly described many scenes that came under my own observation on that day, he says: "how faithfully many a surgeon labored! our own assistant surgeon was a hero; regardless of bullets in the hottest fire, he kept coolly on in his work, while near by dr. kendall, of the twelfth massachusetts, was killed. the nearest hospital, that of our own corps, was necessarily in range of the enemy's shell, which every now and then fell around and beyond. near by were five other hospitals, all for one wing. here were generals and privates brought together. general mansfield i saw dying, and a few feet off, an unknown private; general hartsuff badly wounded, and by his side a throng of others now on the same level. there is no distinction as to what body or soul needs then. "our own regiment helped to fill these hospitals. our gallant dead are remembered with all the other dead of massachusetts. but one we lost, hard to replace: our brilliant, brave, generous, kind-hearted lieut.-colonel wilder dwight, shot mortally, but living two days. of wonderful promise at home, cheerful, resigned, strong in faith and trust, ready to die; his only wish being to see his father and mother. while lying in the garden, moved only on a stretcher, he sent our own surgeon to relieve the wounded who were lying all around, the surgeons being occupied in amputating limbs of men in the hospitals; and again and again sent water provided for himself to the poor fellows calling for it. yet colonel dwight was not free from brutal insolence. while waiting there in the night for an ambulance in which to place him, only for shelter, suddenly a harsh voice insisted on turning him out with all our men. "i found a pompous little surgeon angry and furious. i informed him why the men were there, assured him of their good behavior, and requested permission for them to remain as we were momentarily expecting the ambulance. it was all in vain. colonel dwight himself was treated most harshly, although of higher rank than the brute himself; and notwithstanding i told the surgeon he was mortally wounded, he ordered the guard to turn them out at the point of the bayonet, and to prevent their return even to remove colonel dwight; refusing to tell his rank and even his name, until i obtained it of another party. the men were driven away while actually giving water to the wounded who had been calling in vain for help. i assured him i would take care that his conduct was made known, knowing from several scenes i had witnessed that day that he was, from brutality, pomposity and harshness, utterly unfit to be in charge of wounded men, and from gross disrespect to an officer higher in rank, unfit to be in the army. this fellow was a medical director in general reynolds' corps, pennsylvania reserves," and the writer adds, "too good a corps to have such a fellow among them." the ordinary scene which presents itself after the strife of arms has ceased, is familiar to every one. heaps of slain, where friend and foe lie side by side, mangled bodies, shrieks and groans of the wounded and dying, are things which we always associate with the victories and defeats of war. but we seldom expect or hear of songs of praise and shouts of triumph from dying lips on the dreadful battle-field. the following account was received from the lips of a brave and pious captain in one of the western regiments, as some friends were conveying him to a hospital from the battle-field: "the man had been shot through both thighs with a rifle bullet; it was a wound from which he could not recover. while lying on the field he suffered intense agony from thirst. he supported his head upon his hand, and the rain from heaven was falling around him. in a short time a little pool of water collected near his elbow, and he thought if he could reach that spot he might allay his raging thirst. he tried to get into a position which would enable him to obtain a mouthful of the muddy water, but in vain; and he must suffer the torture of seeing the means of relief within sight, while all his efforts were unavailing. "'never,' said he, 'did i feel so much the loss of any earthly blessing. by and by the shades of night fell around us, and the stars shone out clear and beautiful above the dark field, where so many others lay wounded, writhing in pain or faint from loss of blood. thus situated, i began to think of the great god who had given his son to die a death of agony for me, and that he was in the heavens to which my eyes were turned; that he was there above that scene of suffering and above those glorious stars; and i felt that i was hastening home to meet him, and praise him there. i felt that i ought to praise him then, even wounded as i was, on the battle-field. i could not help singing that beautiful hymn-- "'when i can read my title clear to mansions in the skies, i'll bid farewell to every fear, and wipe my weeping eyes.' "'and though i was not aware of it till then,'" he continued, "'it proved there was a christian brother in the thicket near me. i could not see him, but was near enough to hear him. he took up the strain from me, and beyond him another, and another, caught the words, and made them resound far and wide over the terrible battle-field. there was a peculiar echo in the place, and that added to the effect, as we made the night vocal with our hymns of praise to god.'" the presence of such men in the army, animated by faith in god, and conscious of serving him in serving their country, adds materially to its elements of strength and success. the religious element has always been acknowledged as a great power in military success. the more intelligent that principle is, the more efficient it must be in securing this result. there is every reason, natural as well as rational, why those who hold their lives in their hand should acknowledge the god of battle, and pray for themselves and their country in the midst of danger. the simplest expression of the relations of praying and fighting was, perhaps, the blunt order of the puritan chief, "put your trust in god, and keep your powder dry." cromwell and his praying puritans were dangerous men to meet in battle. "the sword of the lord and of gideon was exceeding sharp, tempered as it was by hourly prayers." who can but admire the sublime spectacle which gustavus adolphus and his vast army presented on the eve of the battle of lutzen, in which the king fell, praying on bended knees, and then chanting: be of good cheer; your cause belongs to him who can avenge your wrongs; leave it to him our lord. the king fell, but the battle was gloriously won. "and so," says a writer upon this subject, "unless we are untrue to our better nature, it must ever be. before going into battle, the foolish, wicked oath is silent. with the bracing of the nerves for the shock of battle, there goes up a silent prayer for strength, and valor and deliverance. the wounded pray to be saved from death; the dying recall the words of old petitions learned in childhood, and in those broken accents commit their souls to god." the only amusing incident after a battle is, the crowd of spectators from washington and other places. if they are in carriages, their vehicles are sure to get smashed, and then the trouble arises, what are they to do with their baggage? carry it, of course, or leave it behind. even the wounded soldiers cannot help laughing at their sorry plight, gesticulations, and absurd questions. among all this class of individuals, there are none to be compared with government clerks for importance and absurdity. on one of these occasions i remember of a number of those pompous creatures being distressed beyond measure, because they could not return to washington on a train which was crowded beyond description with the wounded. after the cars moved off there they stood gazing after it in the most disconsolate manner. said one, "i came out here by invitation of the secretary of war, and now i must return on foot, or remain here." one of the soldiers contemptuously surveyed him from head to foot, as he stood there with kid gloves, white bosom, standing collar, etc., in all the glory and finery of a brainless fop, starched up for display. "well," said the soldier, "we don't know any such individual as the secretary of war out here, but i guess we can find you something to do; perhaps you would take a fancy to one of these muskets," laying his hand on a pile beside him. the clerk turned away in disgust, and disdaining to reply to the soldier, he inquired, "but where shall i sleep to-night?" the soldier replied, "just where you please, chummy; there is lots of room all around here," pointing to a spot of ground which was not occupied by the wounded. a chaplain stepped up to him, and said: "if you wish to sleep, there is some hay you can have;" and went on to give him a brief lecture upon the impropriety of a young man, in perfect health, just fresh from the city, talking about comfortable lodgings, and a place to sleep, when so many wounded and dying lay all around him. he was horrified, and disappeared immediately. before the rebels attempted to cross into maryland in force, the richmond papers were full of editorials, of which the following is a specimen: "let not a blade of grass, or a stalk of corn, or a barrel of flour, or a bushel of meal, or a sack of salt, or a horse, or a cow, or a hog, or a sheep, be left wherever the confederate troops move along. let vengeance be taken for all that has been done, until retribution itself shall stand aghast. this is the country of the would-be-gentleman, mcclellan. he has caused a loss to us, in virginia, of at least thirty thousand negroes, the most valuable property that a virginian can own. they have no negroes in pennsylvania. retaliation, therefore, must fall upon something else. a dutch farmer has no negroes, but he has horses that can be seized, grain that can be confiscated, cattle that can be killed, and houses that can be burned." but when they really attempted to accomplish these feats, and found with whom they had to contend, they were very glad to re-cross the potomac, without confiscating property or burning houses, and to escape, leaving their dead and wounded on the field. after the battle of antietam, the army was not in a condition to follow up the rebels; but as soon as the capital was safe, and the rebels were driven from maryland and pennsylvania, vigorous efforts were made to recruit, clothe, and reorganize the army. harper's ferry was again occupied, every weak point strengthened, and all the fords were strongly guarded. while the army thus remained inactive for a few weeks, camp duties and discipline were again strictly enforced and attended to. i would not have my readers think that camp-life in the army is so very unpleasant, after all. i do not think so, for i have spent some of the pleasantest, happiest hours of my life in camp, and i think thousands can give the same testimony. one of our good chaplains from the north says that even the city of new york itself can bear no favorable comparison to military life in the army of the potomac. "after all," he says: "new york is a humbug compared with the army. it is tattoo, as i write; what music it is, compared with the nuisance noises of those city streets! our candles are not brilliant; but the sight of the lights of the camps all around, is more pleasant than the glare of the city gas. the air is the pure air of heaven, not the choky stuff of the metropolis. the men are doing something noble, not dawdling away these glorious days in selling tape and ribbons. the soldier lives to some purpose, and if he dies it is a hero's death. the silks of that wealthy mart may be coveted by some; but what are the whole to our bullet-riddled old flag, which passed from the stiffening hands of one color-bearer to another, in the days of many a battle?" to give my reader a more definite idea of the routine of camp life, i will enter into a detail of it more fully. at sunrise _reveille_ beats, drum echoing to drum until the entire encampment is astir, and busy as a bee-hive. roll-call immediately follows, which brings every man to his place in the ranks, to answer to his name. an hour later breakfast call is sounded by fife and drum, and the company cooks, who are detailed for that purpose, deal out the rations to the men as they sit or stand around the cook's quarters. at half-past seven o'clock sick call announces to surgeons and patients that they are expected to appear at the dispensing tent--if able to go there. then comes a general examination of tongues and pulses, and a liberal distribution of _quinine_ and blue pills, and sometimes a little _eau de vie_, to wash down the bitter drugs. guard mounting at eight, which is an imposing affair in itself. the band marches to the usual place of dress parade and strikes up some appropriate piece, which is the signal for the regimental details to march to the place of inspection. the line is formed, arms inspected, and general appearance noted. then the men are marched in review, and divided into three reliefs--one of which is marched to the post of each sentinel, where, after various important conferences, the old sentinel is relieved and the new one takes his place, and so on around the whole camp. the old guard is then marched to their quarters and formally dismissed, having been on duty two hours out of every six during the last twenty-four hours. at nine o'clock the music sounds for company drill, which drill lasts an hour and a half. the bugle announces dinner at one o'clock. at three in the afternoon battalion drill commences, which occupies an hour. at half-past four is heard the first call for evening parade, and at five o'clock comes off the great display of the day--dress parade. supper at six, tattoo at half past eight, and roll-call again at nine; immediately after which comes "taps" on the drum, which means "lights out." but between all these calls drills and parades are more interesting services and duties. away in one corner of the camp is our canvas or log meeting-house, and besides our regular preaching, we have conference and prayer meetings, debating clubs, military lectures, and numerous musical entertainments. then, too, comes visiting the sick in different hospitals, distribution of reading matter and delicacies, and the blessed privilege of religious conversation. and often the solemn services in connection with burying the dead. i will here give a brief description of this service: the burial of a soldier in camp is a most solemn scene. a suitable escort is formed in two ranks opposite the tent of the deceased, with shouldered arms and bayonets unfixed. on the appearance of the coffin the soldiers present arms. the procession then forms--on each side of the coffin are the pall-bearers without muskets--and the escort moves forward with arms reversed, viz.: musket under the left arm, barrel downward, and steadied behind the back with the right hand. the band marches in front, with slow and measured tread and muffled drum they move, pouring out their melancholy wailings for the dead--a sadder dirge than which never fell upon mortal ear. on reaching the place of interment the coffin is lowered into the grave, the soldiers leaning upon their muskets, muzzle downward, the hands clasped upon the butt of their guns, with heads uncovered and reverently bowed upon their hands. the chaplain, who has walked in the rear of the procession, conducts the burial service, at the end of which three volleys are fired over the grave, the trench is filled up, and the soldiers return to duty. warrior, rest! thy toils are ended: life's last fearful strife is o'er; clarion-calls, with death-notes blended, shall disturb thine ear no more! peaceful is thy dreamless slumber; peaceful, but how cold and stern! thou hast joined that silent number in the land whence none return! warrior, rest! thy banner o'er thee hangs in many a drooping fold; many a manly cheek before thee stain'd with tear-drops we behold. thine was not a hand to falter when thy sword should leave its sheath: thine was not a cheek to alter, though thy duty led to death! warrior, rest! a dirge is knelling solemnly from shore to shore: 'tis a nation's tribute, telling that a patriot is no more! and thy young bride weeps in sorrow that no more she hears thy tread; that the night which knows no morrow darkly veils thy laurel'd head! warrior, rest! we smooth thy pillow, for thy last, long earthly sleep; and beneath yon verdant willow storms unheard will o'er thee sweep! there, 'tis done! thy couch awaits thee! softly down thy head we lay; here repose, till god translates thee from the dust to endless day! chapter xxii. a military execution--the preparations--the death--harper's ferry--old john brown--contrast--advance into virginia--condition of the army--a dreary ride--a green guard--seeking shelter--a guerrilla fight--my horse killed--playing possum--my pockets picked--a narrow escape--return to camp--an interesting meeting. about this time one of those horrible and soul-revolting sights, a "military execution," took place; in other words, a soldier was shot in cold blood by his comrades. i did not witness the execution, although it occurred within a short distance of camp, and i give the particulars relating to it from the record of the chaplain who attended the unhappy man to the place of execution: "a painful episode, the first of the kind i have witnessed, took place last friday. it was a military execution. the person thus punished belonged to the third maryland, which is in our division. on tuesday last his sentence was formally read to him. he was to be shot to death with musketry on the next friday, between the hours of noon and four in the afternoon. he had learned the decision on the sunday before. the day of his execution was wet and gloomy. that morning, in the midst of the provost guard, he was sitting on a bag of grain, leaning against a tree, while a sentry with fixed bayonet stood behind, never turning away from him, save as another took his place. useless seemed the watch, for arms and feet had been secured, though not painfully, since the sentence was read. the captain of the guard had humanely done all he could, and it was partly by his request that i was there. a chaplain could minister where others would not be allowed. the rain fell silently on him; the hours of his life were numbered, even the minutes. he was to meet death, not in the shock and excitement of battle, not as a martyr for his country, not in disease, but in full health, and as a criminal. i have seen many a man die, and have tried to perform the sacred duties of my station. i never had so painful a task as this, because of these circumstances. willingly, gladly, he conversed, heard and answered. while such a work is painful, yet it has its bright side, because of the 'exceeding great and precious promises' it is one's privilege to tell. "when the time came for removal to the place of execution, he entered an ambulance, the chaplain accompanying him. next, in another ambulance, was the coffin; before, behind, and on either side a guard. half a mile of this sad journey brought him within a short distance of the spot. then leaving the ambulance, he walked to the place selected. the rain had ceased, the sun was shining on the dark lines of the whole division drawn up in three sides of a hollow square. with guard in front and rear, he passed with steady step to the open side of the square, accompanied by the chaplain. there was a grave dug, and in front of it was his coffin. he sat upon the coffin; his feet were reconfined, to allow of which he lifted them voluntarily, and then his eyes were bandaged. in front of him the firing party, of two from each regiment, were then drawn up, half held in reserve, during which there was still a little time for words with his chaplain. "the general (not mcclellan) stood by, and the provost marshal read the sentence and shook hands with the condemned. then a prayer was offered, amid uncovered heads and solemn faces. a last hand-shake with the chaplain, which he had twice requested; a few words from him to the chaplain; a lingering pressure by the hand of the condemned, his lips moving with a prayer-sentence which he had been taught, and on which his thoughts had dwelt before; and he was left alone. the word of command was immediately given. one volley, and he fell over instantly, unconscious. a record of the wounds were made by the surgeons who immediately examined him. the troops filed by his grave, and returned by the way they came. he left a mother and sister, and was twenty years of age." soon after i spent a night at harper's ferry. john brown is still remembered there, and the soldiers go round singing "his soul goes marching on." that medley of a song does not seem so senseless after all, for the spirit of john brown does seem to march along wonderfully fast, and our troops are becoming imbued with it to a greater extent than is generally supposed. i also visited the court-house, where public service was held by a massachusetts chaplain in the very room where john brown was tried, convicted and sentenced. there was the spot where he had lain upon his litter. there in front of the judge's platform were the juror's seats. the chair which the judge had occupied was now tenanted by an abolition preacher. oh! if old john brown had only lived to see that day! but he is gone, and his soul goes marching on. on the th of october, the pontoon bridges being completed at harper's ferry and at berlin, the army once more advanced into virginia. the ninth corps and pleasanton's cavalry occupied lovettsville, a pretty little village reminding one of new england. the army was now in admirable condition and fine spirits, and enjoyed this march exceedingly, scarcely a man dropping out of the ranks for any cause whatever, but entering into the spirit of the campaign with an energy which surpassed all their former enthusiasm. as the army marched rapidly over the country from village to village, the advance guard driving the enemy's pickets from one covert to another, many thrilling adventures occurred, several of which came under my own observation, and as i am expected particularly to relate those in which i was personally concerned, i will here relate one which came very near being my last on this side the "river." on the morning of the third day after we left lovettsville i was sent back to headquarters, which was said to be some twelve miles in the rear. i was then with the advance guard, and when they started forward at daylight i went to the rear. in order to go more quickly i left all my traps in an ambulance--blankets, overcoat and grain, excepting enough to feed once. then starting at a brisk canter i soon lost sight of the advancing column. i rode on mile after mile, and passed train after train, but could find no one that could tell me where mcclellan's headquarters were. on i went in this way until noon, and then found that i was six miles from headquarters. after riding a distance which seemed to me all of ten miles, i at length found the place sought for. i fed my horse, attended to the business which i had been sent to transact, and then tried to find something in the way of rations for myself, but failed utterly. not a mouthful could i procure either at the sutler's headquarters, cook-house, or in any other place. i went to two houses and they told me they had not a mouthful in the house cooked or uncooked--but of course i believed as much of that story as i pleased. the day had been very cold; there had been several smart showers during my ride, and now it began to snow--a sort of sleet which froze as fast as it fell. this was an october day in old virginia. oh! what an afternoon i spent in the saddle on my return; hungry, wet, and shivering with cold. i traveled as fast as my horse was able to go until ten o'clock at night, with the hope of overtaking the troops i had left in the morning, but all in vain, for the whole line of march and programme for the day had been changed, in consequence of coming in contact with the enemy and having a sharp skirmish, which resulted in our troops being nearly outflanked and cut off from the main body of the army. of course i had no opportunity of knowing this that night, so on i went in another direction from that in which the advance guard had gone. by and by i came to some fresh troops just from the north, who had lately enlisted and been sent down to washington, and now were on their way to join mcclellan's army. they had been put on guard duty for the first time, and that too without any definite orders, their officers having concluded to remain there until the main column came up, and they scarcely knew where they were or what orders to give their men. as i rode up, one of the boys--for if boy he was, not more than sixteen summers had graced his youthful brow--stepped out in the middle of the road with his musket at a "trail arms," and there he stood till i came up close to him, and then he did not even say "halt," but quietly told me that i could not go any farther in that direction. why not? well, he didn't exactly know, but he was put there on guard, and he supposed it was to prevent any one from going backward or forward. whether they have the countersign or not? well, he did not know how that was. i then asked him if the officer of the guard had given him the countersign. yes, but he did not know whether it was right or not. "well," said i, "perhaps i can tell you whether it is correct; i have just come from headquarters." he seemed to think that there could be no harm in telling me if i had been at headquarters, so he told me without any hesitation. whereupon i proceeded to tell him of the impropriety of doing so; that it was a military offense for which he could be punished severely; and that he had no right to give the countersign to any one, not even the general in command. then told him how to hold his musket when he challenged any one on his beat, and within how many paces to let them approach him before halting them, etc. the boy received both lecture and instructions "in the spirit of meekness," and by the time i had finished a number of the men were standing around me eager to ask questions, and especially if i knew to what portion of the army that particular regiment was to be assigned. after passing along through these green troops i rode on till i came to a little village, which i never learned the name of, and intended to stop there the remainder of the night; but upon learning that a band of guerrillas occupied it, i turned aside, preferring to seek some other place of rest. i traveled till two o'clock in the morning, when my horse began to show signs of giving out; then i stopped at a farm-house, but not being able to make any one hear me, i hitched my horse under cover of a wood-shed, and taking the blanket from under the saddle, i lay down beside him, the saddle-blanket being my only covering. the storm had ceased, but the night was intensely cold, and the snow was about two or three inches deep. i shall always believe that i would have perished that night, had not my faithful horse lain down beside me, and by the heat of his beautiful head, which he laid across my shoulders, (a thing which he always did whenever i lay down where he could reach me,) kept me from perishing in my wet clothes. it will be remembered that i had started at daylight the previous morning, and had never been out of the saddle, or fed my horse but once since i started, and had not eaten a mouthful myself for twenty-four hours, and had ridden all day and almost all night in the storm. in the morning my feet and hands were so chilled that they were perfectly numb, and i could scarcely stand. however, as soon as daylight came i started again. about a mile from there i went into a field where the unhusked corn stood in stacks, and fed my horse. while employed in this manner, there came along a party of our cavalry looking after that band of guerrillas which i had passed the night before. it was known that they were in the neighborhood, and these men were sent out in search of them. i told them what i knew about it, and intimated that if i were not so hungry, i would go back with them to the village. that objection was soon removed, by supplying me with a substantial breakfast from their haversacks. we started for the village, and had gone about five miles when we were suddenly surprised and fired upon by the guerrillas. two of our men were killed on the spot, and my horse received three bullets. he reared and plunged before he fell, and in doing so the saddle-girth was broken, and saddle and rider were thrown over his head. i was thrown on the ground violently which stunned me for a moment, and my horse soon fell beside me, his blood pouring from three wounds. making a desperate effort to rise, he groaned once, fell back, and throwing his neck across my body, he saturated me from head to foot with his blood. he died in a few minutes. i remained in that position, not daring to rise, for our party had fled and the rebels pursued them. a very few minutes elapsed when the guerrillas returned, and the first thing i saw was one of the men thrusting his sabre into one of the dead men beside me. i was lying partially on my face, so i closed my eyes and passed for dead. the rebels evidently thought i was unworthy of their notice, for after searching the bodies of the two dead men they rode away; but just as i was making up my mind to crawl out from under the dead horse, i heard the tramp of a horse's feet, and lay perfectly still and held my breath. it was one of the same men, who had returned. dismounting, he came up and took hold of my feet, and partially drew me from under the horse's head, and then examined my pockets. fortunately, i had no official documents with me, and very little money--not more than five dollars. after transferring the contents of my pockets to his own, he re-mounted his horse and rode away, without ever suspecting that the object before him was playing possum. [illustration: playing possum.--page .] not long after the departure of the guerrillas, our party returned with reinforcements and pursued the rebel band. one of the men returned to camp with me, letting me ride his horse, and walked all the way himself. the guerrillas were captured that day, and, after searching them, my pocket-book was found upon one of them, and was returned to me with its contents undisturbed. it lies before me, while i write, reminding me of that narrow escape, and of the mercy of god in sparing my unprofitable life. a sov'reign protector i have, unseen, yet forever at hand; unchangeably faithful to save,-- almighty to rule and command. after returning to camp, i found that i had sustained more injury by my fall from the horse than i had realized at the time. but a broken limb would have been borne cheerfully, if i could only have had my pet horse again. that evening we held our weekly prayer-meeting, notwithstanding we were on a march. chaplain and mrs. b., nellie, and dr. e. were present, and joined heartily in singing the following hymn: and are we yet alive, and see each other's face? glory and praise to jesus give, for his redeeming grace. preserved by power divine to full salvation here, again in jesus' praise we join, and in his sight appear. what troubles have we seen! what conflicts have we past! fightings without, and fears within, since we assembled last! but out of all the lord hath brought us by his love; and still he doth his help afford, and hides our life above. chapter xxiii. mcclellan relieved--his address--burnside in command--on the march--falmouth--my ride--old battlefields--sad sights--"yankee skulls"--"bone ornaments"--shelling fredericksburg--pontoon bridges--occupation of the city--aide-de-camp--dreadful slaughter--a gallant major--strange sights--dark night--death of general bayard--someone's pet--recrossing the rappahannock. after reaching warrenton the army encamped in that vicinity for a few days--during which "father abraham" took the favorable opportunity of relieving the idol of the army of the potomac from his command, and ordered him to report at trenton, new jersey, just as he was entering upon another campaign, with his army in splendid condition. after a brief address and an affecting farewell to officers and men, he hastened to comply with the order. his farewell address was as follows: "november th, . officers and soldiers of the army of the potomac: an order of the president devolves upon major-general burnside the command of this army. in parting from you i cannot express the love and gratitude i bear you. as an army you have grown up under my care. in you i have never found doubt or coldness. the battles you have fought under my command will proudly live in our nation's history. the glory you have achieved, our mutual perils and fatigues, the graves of our comrades fallen in battle and by disease, the broken forms of those whom wounds and sickness have disabled--the strongest associations which can exist among men--unite us still by an indissoluble tie. we shall ever be comrades in supporting the constitution of our country and the nationality of its people." that was a sad day for the army of the potomac. the new commander marched the army immediately to falmouth, opposite fredericksburg. of the incidents of that march i know nothing, for i went to washington, and from thence to aquia creek by water. i did not return to washington on the cars, but rode on horseback, and made a two days' trip of it, visiting all the old places as i went. the battle-ground of the first and second bull run battles, centerville, fairfax court house, and chentilla. but how shall i describe the sights which i saw and the impressions which i had as i rode over those fields! there were men and horses thrown together in heaps, and some clay thrown on them above ground; others lay where they had fallen, their limbs bleaching in the sun without the appearance of burial. there was one in particular--a cavalryman: he and his horse both lay together, nothing but the bones and clothing remained; but one of his arms stood straight up, or rather the bones and the coatsleeve, his hand had dropped off at the wrist and lay on the ground; not a finger or joint was separated, but the hand was perfect. i dismounted twice for the purpose of bringing away that hand, but did not do so after all. i would have done so if it had been possible to find a clue to his name or regiment. the few families who still live in that vicinity tell horrid stories of the brutal conduct of the rebels after those battles. a southern clergyman declares that in the town where he now resides he saw rebel soldiers selling "yankee skulls" at ten dollars apiece. and it is a common thing to see rebel women wear rings and ornaments made of our soldiers' bones--in fact they boast of it, even to the union soldiers, that they have "yankee bone ornaments." this to me was a far more sickening sight than was presented at the time of the battles, with dead and wounded lying in their gore. i looked in vain for the old "brush heap" which had once screened me from the rebel cavalry; the fire had consumed it. but the remains of the stone church at centerville was an object of deep interest to me. i went from washington to aquia creek by steamer, and from thence to falmouth on horseback. i found the army encamped in the mud for miles along the rappahannock river. the river is very narrow between falmouth and fredericksburg, not more than a stone's cast in some places. i have often seen the pickets on both sides amusing themselves by throwing stones across it. some writer in describing the picturesque scenery in this locality says: "there is a young river meandering through its center, towards which slope down beautiful banks of mud on either side, while the fields are delightfully variegated by alternate patches of snow and swamp, and the numerous roads are in such condition that no matter which one you take you are sure to wish you had tried another instead." all the mud and bad roads on the peninsula could not bear the least comparison with that of falmouth and along the rappahannock. it was now december and the weather was extremely cold, yet the constant rains kept the roads in the most terrible state imaginable. on riding along the brink of the river we could see distinctly the rebel batteries frowning on the heights beyond the city of fredericksburg, and the rebel sentinels walking their rounds within talking distance of our own pickets. on the eleventh the city was shelled by our troops. the pontoon bridges were laid amid showers of bullets from the sharpshooters of the enemy, who were ensconced in the houses on the opposite bank. however, the work went steadily on, notwithstanding that two out of every three who were engaged in laying the bridges were either killed or wounded. but as fast as one fell another took his place. soon it was deemed expedient to take care of those sharpshooters before the bridges could be finished. several companies filed into boats and rowed across in a few minutes, the men of the seventh michigan leading the van, and drove the rebels from the houses, killing some and taking many prisoners. the bridges were soon completed, the troops marched over and took possession of the city. headquarters were established in the principal building, and a church and other large buildings were appropriated for hospital purposes. the following is an extract from my journal, written on the battlefield the second day after we crossed the river: battle-field, fredericksburg, va., _december , _. in consequence of one of general h.'s staff officers being ill i have volunteered to take his place, and am now aide-de-camp to general h. i wish my friends could see me in my present uniform! this division will probably charge on the enemy's works this afternoon. god grant them success! while i write the roar of cannon and musketry is almost deafening, and the shot and shell are falling fast on all sides. this may be my last entry in this journal. god's will be done. i commit myself to him, soul and body. i must close. general h. has mounted his horse, and says come--! of course it is not for me to say whose fault it was in sacrificing those thousands of noble lives which fell upon that disastrous field, or in charging again and again upon those terrible stone walls and fortifications, after being repulsed every time with more than half their number lying on the ground. the brave men, nothing daunted by their thinned ranks, advanced more fiercely on the foe-- plunged in the battery's smoke, fiercely the line they broke; strong was the saber stroke, making an army reel. but when it was proved to a demonstration that it was morally impossible to take and retain those heights, in consequence of the natural advantage of position which the rebels occupied, and still would occupy if they should fall back--whose fault was it that the attempt was made time after time, until the field was literally piled with dead and ran red with blood? we may truly say of the brave soldiers thus sacrificed-- their's not to reason why, their's not to make reply, their's but to do and die. among the many who fell in that dreadful battle perhaps there is none more worthy of notice than the brave and heroic major edward e. sturtevant, of keene, new hampshire, who fell while leading the gallant fifth in a charge upon the enemy. he was the first man in new hampshire who enlisted _for the war_. he was immediately authorized by the governor to make enlistments for the first new hampshire volunteers, and was eminently successful. he held the commission of captain in the first regiment, and afterwards was promoted major of the fifth. one of the leading papers of his native state has the following with regard to him: "he was in every battle where the regiment was engaged, nine or ten in number, besides skirmishes, and was slightly wounded at the battle of fair oaks. he commanded the regiment most of the time on the retreat from the chickahominy to james river. the filial affection of the deceased was of the strongest character, and made manifest in substantial ways on many occasions. his death is the first in the household, and deep is the grief that is experienced there; but that grief will doubtless be mitigated by the consoling circumstance that the departed son and brother died in a service that will hallow his memory forever. a braver man or more faithful friend never yielded up his spirit amidst the clash of arms and the wail of the dying." i well remember the desperate charge which that brave officer made upon the enemy just before he fell, and the thinned and bleeding ranks of his men as they returned, leaving their beloved commander on the field, reminded me of the "gallant six hundred," of whom tennyson has written the following lines: stormed at with shot and shell, they that had struck so well rode through the jaws of death, half a league back again up, from the mouth of hell-- all that was left of them. i have since had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with the bereaved family of the deceased, and deeply sympathize with them in the loss of one so noble, kind, and brave. major sturtevant was the son of george w. sturtevant, esq., and nephew of rev. david. kilburn--one of the pioneers of methodism--whom thousands will remember as a faithful and efficient minister of the gospel. during the progress of that battle i saw many strange sights--although i had been in many a fierce battle before. i never saw, till then, a man deliberately shoot himself, with his own pistol, in order to save the rebels the satisfaction of doing so, as it would seem. as one brigade was ordered into line of battle, i saw an officer take out his pistol and shoot himself through the side--not mortally, i am sorry to say, but just sufficient to unfit him for duty; so he was carried to the rear--he protesting that it was done by accident. another officer i saw there, a young and handsome lieutenant, disgrace his shoulder-straps by showing the white feather at the very moment when he was most needed. i rode three miles with general h. to general franklin's headquarters, the second night we were at fredericksburg, and of all the nights that i can recall to mind that was the darkest. on our way we had numerous ditches to leap, various ravines to cross, and mountains to climb, which can be better imagined than described. it was not only once or twice that horse and rider went tumbling into chasms head first, but frequently. as we passed along, we stopped at the headquarters of general bayard (general of cavalry) a few minutes--found him enjoying a cup of coffee under a large tree, which constituted his headquarters. we called again when we returned, but he was cold in death, having been struck by a stray shot, and died in a short time. he was killed just where we had left him, under the tree. he was a splendid officer, and his removal was a great loss to the federal cause. his death cast a gloom over his whole command which was deeply felt. of the wounded of this battle i can say but little, for my time was fully occupied in the responsible duties which i had volunteered to perform; and so constantly was i employed, that i was not out of the saddle but once in twelve hours, and that was to assist an officer of the seventy-ninth, who lay writhing in agony on the field, having been seized with cramps and spasms, and was suffering the most extreme pain. he was one of the brave and fearless ones, however, and in less than an hour, after having taken some powerful medicine which i procured for him, he was again on his horse, at the general's side. on going to the church hospital in search of doctor e., i saw an immense shell which had been sent through the building and fell on the floor, in the centre of those wounded and dying men who had just been carried off the field, and placed there for safety. but strange to say, it did not burst or injure any one, and was carried out and laid beside the mangled limbs which had been amputated in consequence of contact with just such instruments of death. i saw the remains of the rev. a. b. fuller, chaplain of the sixteenth massachusetts, as they were removed to the camp. he was faithful to his trust, and died at his post. on one of my necessary rides, in the darkness of that dreadful night, i passed by a grave-yard near by where our reserves were lying--and there, in that hour of darkness and danger, i heard the voice of prayer ascend. a group of soldiers were there holding communion with god--strengthening their souls for the coming conflict. there are, scattered over the battle-fields and camping-grounds of this war, bethels, consecrated to god, and sacred to souls who have wrestled and prevailed. this retirement was a grave-yard, with a marble slab for an altar, where that little band met to worship god--perhaps for the last time. but among all the dead and wounded, i saw none who touched my heart so much as one beautiful boy, severely wounded; he was scarcely more than a child, and certainly a very attractive one. some one writes the following, after he was sent to a hospital: "among the many brave, uncomplaining fellows who were brought up to the hospital from the battle of fredericksburg, was a bright-eyed and intelligent youth, sixteen years old, who belonged to a northern regiment. he appeared more affectionate and tender, more refined and thoughtful than many of his comrades, and attracted a good deal of attention from the attendants and visitors. manifestly the pet of some household which he had left, perhaps, in spite of entreaty and tears. he expressed an anxious longing for the arrival of his mother, who was expected, having been informed that he was mortally wounded, and failing fast. ere she arrived, however, he died. but before the end, almost his last act of consciousness was the thought that she had really come; for, as a lady sat by his pillow and wiped the death-dews from his brow, just as his sight was failing, he rallied a little, like an expiring taper in its socket, looked up longingly and joyfully, and in tones that drew tears from every eye whispered audibly, 'is that mother?' then drawing her toward him with all his feeble power, he nestled his head in her arms, like a sleeping child, and thus died, with the sweet word, 'mother,' on his lips." raise me in your arms, dear mother, let me once more look on the green and waving willows, and the flowing brook; hark, those strains of angel music from the choirs above! dearest mother, i am going, truly "god is love." a council of war was held by our generals, and the conclusion arrived at that the enterprise should be abandoned, and that the army should recross the rappahannock under cover of darkness. everything was conducted in the most quiet manner; so quiet, indeed, that the enemy never suspected the movement, and the retreat was accomplished, and the bridges partially removed, before the fact was discovered. chapter xxiv. after the battle--sufferings of the wounded--general burnside's order--"stuck in the mud"--hooker in command--western campaign--cavalry reconnoissance--another disguise--again in dixie--a wedding party--in a trap--rebel conscript--on the march--a rebel captain--a fierce engagement--again under the old flag--paying a debt of gratitude. after the battle of fredericksburg the weather was very cold, and the wounded suffered exceedingly--even after they were sent to aquia creek, and other places--for they could not all be provided for and made comfortable immediately. our troops returned to their old camps in the mud, and remained stationary for several weeks, notwithstanding our daily orders were to be ready to march at a moment's notice. the unnecessary slaughter of our men at fredericksburg had a sad effect upon our troops, and the tone of the northern press was truly distressing. the wailing for the noble dead seemed wafted on every breeze, for in the city, in the village, in the hamlet far away, sit the mothers, watching, waiting, for their soldier boys to-day. they are coming, daily coming, one by one, and score by score, in their leaden casings folded, underneath the flag they bore. on the twentieth of january general burnside issued the following order to the army, which was joyfully received; for of all places for an encampment, that seemed to be the most inconvenient and disagreeable: head-quarters, army of the potomac, _camp near falmouth, va._, jan. , . general orders--no. . the commanding general announces to the army of the potomac that they are about to meet the enemy once more. the late brilliant actions in north carolina, tennessee and arkansas, have divided and weakened the enemy on the rappahannock, and the auspicious moment seems to have arrived to strike a great and mortal blow to the rebellion, and to gain that decisive victory which is due to the country. let the gallant soldiers of so many brilliant battle-fields accomplish this achievement, and a fame the most glorious awaits them. the commanding general calls for the firm and united action of officers and men, and, under the providence of god, the army of the potomac will have taken the great step towards restoring peace to the country, and the government to its rightful authority. by command of major-general burnside. lewis richmond, _assistant adjutant-general_. soon after this order was issued a portion of the army did really move--but the pontoons became "stuck in the mud," and the troops returned again. in this manner the winter wore away, and a severe winter i thought it was; for in riding a distance of two miles, in two instances, i had my feet frozen. general hooker was now put in command of the army of the potomac, and burnside, with the ninth army corps, ordered to the western department. being desirous of leaving the army of the potomac, i now applied for permission to go with the ninth corps, which was granted. i did not go with the troops, however, but went to washington first, and remained several days; then took the cars and proceeded to louisville, kentucky, and arrived there before the troops did. the last entry in my journal, before leaving the army of the potomac, was as follows: "the _weather_ department is in perfect keeping with the war department; its policy being to make as many changes as possible, and every one worse than the last. may god bless the old army of the potomac, and save it from total annihilation." on the arrival of the troops at louisville, they were sent in detachments to different places--some to bardstown, some to lebanon, and others to guard different portions of the railroad. the third day after my arrival i went out with a reconnoitering expedition, under command of general m. it was entirely composed of cavalry. we rode thirty-six miles that afternoon--the roads were splendid. when we were about twelve miles from our lines we changed our course and struck through the woods, fording creeks and crossing swamps, which was anything but pleasant. after emerging from the thick undergrowth, on one occasion, we came upon an inferior force of the enemy's cavalry; a sharp skirmish ensued, which resulted in the capture of five prisoners from the rebel band, and wounding several. three of our men were slightly wounded, but we returned to louisville in good order, and enjoyed the luxury of a good supper at a hotel, which is a rare thing in that city. i took the cars the next day and went to lebanon--dressed in one of the rebel prisoner's clothes--and thus disguised, made another trip to rebeldom. my business purported to be buying up butter and eggs, at the farm-houses, for the rebel army. i passed through the lines somewhere, without knowing it; for on coming to a little village toward evening, i found it occupied by a strong force of rebel cavalry. the first house i went to was filled with officers and citizens. i had stumbled upon a wedding party, unawares. captain logan, a recruiting officer, had been married that afternoon to a brilliant young widow whose husband had been killed in the rebel army a few months before. she had discovered that widow's weeds were not becoming to her style of beauty, so had decided to appear once more in bridal costume, for a change. i was questioned pretty sharply by the handsome captain in regard to the nature of my business in that locality, but finding me an innocent, straightforward kentuckian, he came to the conclusion that i was all right. but he also arrived at the conclusion that i was old enough to be in the army, and bantered me considerably upon my want of patriotism. the rebel soldier's clothes which i wore did not indicate any thing more than that i was a kentuckian--for their cavalry do not dress in any particular uniform, for scarcely two of them dress alike--the only uniformity being that they most generally dress in butternut color. i tried to make my escape from that village as soon as possible, but just as i was beginning to congratulate myself upon my good fortune, who should confront me but captain logan. said he: "see here, my lad; i think the best thing you can do is to enlist, and join a company which is just forming here in the village, and will leave in the morning. we are giving a bounty to all who freely enlist, and are conscripting those who refuse. which do you propose to do, enlist and get the bounty, or refuse, and be obliged to go without anything?" i replied, "i think i shall wait a few days before i decide." "but we can't wait for you to decide," said the captain; "the yankees may be upon us any moment, for we are not far from their lines, and we will leave here either to-night or in the morning early. i will give you two hours to decide this question, and in the mean time you must be put under guard." so saying, he marched me back with him, and gave me in charge of the guards. in two or three hours he came for my decision, and i told him that i had concluded to wait until i was conscripted. "well," said he, "you will not have long to wait for that, so you may consider yourself a soldier of the confederacy from this hour, and subject to military discipline." this seemed to me like pretty serious business, especially as i would be required to take the oath of allegiance to the confederate government. however, i did not despair, but trusted in providence and my own ingenuity to escape from this dilemma also; and as i was not required to take the oath until the company was filled up, i was determined to be among the missing ere it became necessary for me to make any professions of loyalty to the rebel cause. i knew that if i should refuse to be sworn into the service after i was conscripted, that in all probability my true character would be suspected, and i would have to suffer the penalty of death--and that, too, in the most barbarous manner. i was glad to find that it was a company of cavalry that was being organized, for if i could once get on a good horse there would be some hope of my escape. there was no time to be lost, as the captain remarked, for the yankees might make a dash upon us at any moment; consequently a horse and saddle was furnished me, and everything was made ready for a start immediately. ten o'clock came, and we had not yet started. the captain finally concluded that, as everything seemed quiet, we would not start until daylight. music and dancing was kept up all night, and it was some time after daylight when the captain made his appearance. a few moments more and we were trotting briskly over the country, the captain complimenting me upon my horsemanship, and telling me how grateful i would be to him when the war was over and the south had gained her independence, and that i would be proud that i had been one of the soldiers of the southern confederacy, who had steeped my saber in yankee blood, and driven the vandals from our soil. "then," said he, "you will thank me for the interest which i have taken in you, and for the _gentle persuasives_ which i made use of to stir up your patriotism and remind you of your duty to your country." in this manner we had traveled about half an hour, when we suddenly encountered a reconnoitering party of the federals, cavalry in advance, and infantry in the rear. a contest soon commenced; we were ordered to advance in line, which we did, until we came within a few yards of the yankees. the company advanced, but my horse suddenly became unmanageable, and it required a second or two to bring him right again; and before i could overtake the company and get in line the contending parties had met in a hand to hand fight. all were engaged, so that when i, by accident, got on the federal side of the line, none observed me for several minutes, except the federal officer, who had recognized me and signed to me to fall in next to him. that brought me face to face with my rebel captain, to whom i owed such a debt of gratitude. thinking this would be a good time to cancel all obligations in that direction, i discharged the contents of my pistol in his face. this act made me the center of attraction. every rebel seemed determined to have the pleasure of killing me first, and a simultaneous dash was made toward me and numerous saber strokes aimed at my head. our men with one accord rushed between me and the enemy, and warded off the blows with their sabers, and attacked them with such fury that they were driven back several rods. [illustration: paying a debt of gratitude.--page .] the infantry now came up and deployed as skirmishers, and succeeded in getting a position where they had a complete cross-fire on the rebels, and poured in volley after volley until nearly half their number lay upon the ground. finding it useless to fight longer at such a disadvantage they turned and fled, leaving behind them eleven killed, twenty-nine wounded, and seventeen prisoners. the confederate captain was wounded badly but not mortally; his handsome face was very much disfigured, a part of his nose and nearly half of his upper lip being shot away. i was sorry, for the graceful curve of his mustache was sadly spoiled, and the happy bride of the previous morning would no longer rejoice in the beauty of that manly face and exquisite mustache of which she seemed so proud, and which had captivated her heart ere she had been three months a widow. our men suffered considerable loss before the infantry came up, but afterward scarcely lost a man. i escaped without receiving a scratch, but my horse was badly cut across the neck with a saber, but which did not injure him materially, only for a short time. after burying the dead, federal and rebel, we returned to camp with our prisoners and wounded, and i rejoiced at having once more escaped from the confederate lines. i was highly commended by the commanding general for my coolness throughout the whole affair, and was told kindly and candidly that i would not be permitted to go out again in that vicinity, in the capacity of spy, as i would most assuredly meet with some of those who had seen me desert their ranks, and i would consequently be hung up to the nearest tree. not having any particular fancy for such an exalted position, and not at all ambitious of having my name handed down to posterity among the list of those who "expiated their crimes upon the gallows," i turned my attention to more quiet and less dangerous duties. then sweet thoughts of home came stealing over my mind, and i exclaimed: adieu, dear land, with beauty teeming, where first i roved a careless child; of thee my heart will e'er be dreaming-- thy snow-clad peaks and mountains wild. dear land, that i cherish, o, long may'st thou flourish! my memory must perish ere i forget thee. chapter xxv. appointed detective--i visit louisville--secesh acquaintances--seeking employment--peddling--rebel spies--acting as clerk--trapping spies--start for vicksburg--pro-slavery troops--cruelty to negroes--visiting hospitals--touching scenes--an armless soldier--patient suffering--triumphant death--rally round the flag--western chaplains--soldiers' testimony--effect of prayer in battle--carrying the wounded. being prohibited from further explorations in that region outside of our lines, i was appointed to act as detective inside of the lines, as there were many spies in our midst who were daily giving information to the enemy, and had baffled all attempts at discovery. i forthwith dressed in citizen's clothes and proceeded to louisville, and there mingled freely with the citizens, visited the different places of public resort, and made many secesh acquaintances. at length i found a merchant who was the most bitter in his denunciations of the yankees that it has ever been my lot to meet, and i thought he would be a pretty good person to assist me in my undertakings. stepping into his store one morning i inquired if he was in need of a clerk. he replied that he would require help in a few days, as one of his clerks was going to leave. then came the interrogatory process--who was i, where did i come from, and what had brought me to that city? well, i was a foreigner, and wishing to see a little of this great american war, i had come "down south;" and now that i was here, finding myself scarce of money, i would like to find some employment. this was literally true. i was a foreigner, and very often scarce of money, and really wished him to employ me. he finally told me that i might come in the course of a week; but that did not suit my purpose, so i told him i would rather come at once, as i would be learning considerable before the other clerk went away; adding that he might give me just whatever he pleased for the first week's work. that seemed to suit him and i was at once set to work. after i had been there several days, i was asked how i would like to go out to the nearest camp and sell some small articles to the soldiers. i would like it much; so was sent accordingly with an assortment of pocket knives, combs and suspenders. by the middle of the afternoon i had sold out my stock in trade, returned to the store, and gave a good account of myself and of the goods intrusted to my care. my employer was pleased with my success and seemed interested in me, and each day brought some new proof of his confidence. things went on this way for two weeks, in which time i had succeeded, by the good merchant's assistance, in finding a clue to three rebel spies then within our lines. i was often questioned by my employer with regard to my political sentiments, but of course i did not know anything about politics--in fact i hardly knew how to apply the terms federal and confederate, and often misapplied them when talking in the store, and was frequently told that i must not call the d--d yankees, confederates, and all due pains were taken to instruct me, and give me a proper insight into the true state of affairs, as seen by southern secessionists. at last i expressed a desire to enter the confederate service, and asked the merchant how i should manage to get through the yankee lines if i should decide to take such a step. after a long conversation, and much planning, we at last decided that i should go through our lines the next night with a person who was considered by our troops a thorough union man, as he had taken the oath of allegiance to the federal government--but who was in reality a rebel spy. that afternoon i was sent out again to dispose of some goods to the soldiers, and while i was gone took the favorable opportunity of informing the provost marshal of my intended escape the following night together with my brother spy. after telling him that i might not be able to leave the store again with any more definite information without incurring suspicion, and that he had better send some one to the store at a certain hour the next day to purchase some trifle, so that i might inclose in the parcel the necessary information, i went back to the store, and my clever employer told me that i had better not trouble myself any more about anything, but get ready for my journey. having but little preparation to make, however, i soon returned to the store. not long after a gentleman came in, to whom i was introduced, and was told that this was the person who proposed to conduct me through the lines. he was not announced in his true character, but i understood at once that this gentlemanly personage was no less than the spy before referred to. he questioned me pretty sharply, but i being "slow of speech," referred him to the merchant, whose eloquence had convinced me of my duty to the southern confederacy. my employer stood beside me and gave him a brief history of our acquaintance and of his confidence in me; also of his own peculiar faculty of impressing the truth upon unprejudiced minds. the spy evidently took me for a poor green boy whom the merchant had flattered into the idea of becoming a soldier, but who did not realize the responsibility of my position, and i confirmed him in that opinion by saying--"well, i suppose if i don't like soldiering they will let me go home again?" the provost marshal himself came in during the day, and i had my document ready informing him what time we would start and what direction we were to take. the night came, and we started about nine o'clock. as we walked along toward the rebel lines the spy seemed to think that i was a true patriot in the rebel cause, for he entertained me with a long conversation concerning his exploits in the secret service; and of the other two who were still in camp he said one of them was a sutler, and the other sold photographs of our generals. we were pursuing our way in the darkness, talking in a low, confidential tone, when suddenly a number of cavalry dashed upon us and took us both prisoners. as soon as we were captured we were searched, and documents found on my companion which condemned him as a spy. we were then marched back to louisville and put under guard. the next morning he was taken care of, and i was sent to general m.'s headquarters. the next thing to be done was to find the other two spies. the sutler was found and put under arrest, and his goods confiscated, but the dealer in photographs had made his escape. i never dared go back to louisville again, for i had ample reason to believe that my life would pay the penalty if i did. about this time the ninth army corps was ordered to vicksburg, where general grant had already commenced his siege. while the troops waited at the depot for transportation a little incident occurred which illustrates the spirit of the kentucky soldiers on the slavery question. two of our kentucky regiments were stationed as guards at the depot, and on this occasion were amusing themselves by throwing stones at every poor negro who had occasion to pass within a stone's throw of them. a michigan regiment marched into the depot on its way to vicksburg, and along with it some smart, saucy darkies, in the capacity of servants. the native soldiers began the same game with them, by throwing stones at and abusing them; but the michigan men informed them that "if they did not stop that kind of business immediately they would find more work on hand than they could attend to," as they considered their servants a necessary part of their regiment, and would not permit them to be abused or insulted any more than if they were white men. this gave rise to a warm discussion between the troops, and ended in the kentuckians forbidding and prohibiting the different regiments from taking a negro with them from the state under any circumstances. of course this incensed our patriotic troops, and in five minutes they were in line of battle arrayed against their pro-slavery brethren in arms. but before blood was shed the commander of the post was informed, and hastened to the spot to prevent further mischief. when the case was fully made known to him he could not settle the matter, for he was a kentuckian by birth, and his sympathies were with the native troops--yet he knew if he should decide in their favor that a bloody fight would be the consequence, as the troops still remained in line of battle awaiting the decision of the commander. he finally told them that they must remain there until he telegraphed to the headquarters of the department and received an answer. consequently the troops were detained two days waiting for the despatch that would decide the contest. the men became tired of the fun and marched back to camp. in consequence of this affair the poor negroes fared worse than ever, and the troops had no sooner gone back to camp than the kentuckians swore they would hang every "nigger" that came into their camp. during the day i was passing through the depot, and saw a little black urchin selling cakes and pies, who had no sooner made his appearance than the guards took his basket away from him. the boy commenced to cry, when four of the soldiers took hold of him, each one taking hold of a hand or foot, and pulled him almost limb from limb--just as i have seen cruel schoolboys torture frogs. when they threw him on the ground he could neither speak, cry, nor walk, but there he lay a little quivering, convulsive heap of pain and misery. the telegram came at last, and the troops were permitted to depart in peace--taking with them their colored friends, to the chagrin of the kentucky guards. before reaching vicksburg i visited several hospitals where the wounded had been brought from those terrible battles preceding the siege of vicksburg, where thousands lay, with all conceivable sorts of wounds. several i saw without either arms or legs, having been torn and mangled by shell so that it was impossible to save even a single limb--and yet they lived, and would probably recover. one handsome young man lay on one of the hospital boats who had lost both arms--a most noble specimen of the patient, cheerful, suffering soldier. of this young man the rev. mr. savage writes: "there he lay upon his cot, armless, and knowing that this must be his condition through life; but yet with a cheerful, happy countenance, and not a single word of complaint. i ministered to his wants, and as i cut up fruit in mouthfuls, and put them in his mouth, he would say, 'well, now, how good that is! how kind of you! the lord will bless you for it. i don't see why you are so kind to me. as if any one could be too kind to a man who had suffered such a loss in defense of his country. his soul seemed to be resting peacefully upon jesus amid all his great sufferings. one thing touched me exceedingly: as i spoke of his feelings, the tears coursed down his cheeks and lay upon them. he had no hands with which even to wipe away the tears from his own face; and as i took a handkerchief and tenderly performed this office, that beautiful passage of scripture occurred to me with a force it never did before: 'and god shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'" near by lay another young man, an officer, mortally wounded--fast breathing his life away--he seemed unconscious of his dying state. i asked the nurse, in a low whisper, if he knew he was dying, but before the nurse could reply, he looked up with a smile, and said: "yes, yes, i know it. praise god! there is not a cloud between my soul and jesus. i am waiting--i--waiting--." these were his last words. a few moments more and his tongue was silent in death. but he's gone to rest in heaven above, to sing his saviour's praise. one of the military agents at nashville relates a most thrilling incident, which he witnessed in a hospital at that place. he says: "last evening, when passing by the post hospital, my attention was arrested by the singing, in rather a loud voice, of 'rally round the flag, boys,' by one of the patients inside. while listening to the beautiful music of that popular song, i observed to a nurse standing in the door-way, that the person singing must be in a very merry mood, and could not be very sick. 'you are mistaken, sir,' said he; 'the poor fellow engaged in singing that good old song is now grappling with death--has been dying all day. i am his nurse,' he continued, 'and the scene so affected me that i was obliged to leave the room. he is just about breathing his last.' "i stepped into the ward, and true enough, the brave man was near his end. his eyes were already fixed in death. he was struggling with all his remaining strength against the grim monster, while at the same time there gushed forth from his patriotic soul incoherently the words: 'rally round the flag, boys,' which had so often cheered him through his weary march, and braced him up when entering the field of blood in defense of his country. finally he sank away into his death-slumber, and joined his maker's command, that is marching onward to that far-off, better land. the last audible sound that escaped his lips was, 'rally boys, rally once again!' as his eyes were closing, some dozen of his comrades joined in a solemn, yet beautiful hymn, appropriate to the occasion. take it altogether, this was one of the most affecting scenes i have ever witnessed in a hospital. it drew tears copiously from near one hundred of us. it occurred in the large ward which occupies the entire body of the church on cherry street. the deceased was an illinoisan, and had been wounded in one of the recent skirmishes." i noticed in the western department that the chaplains were much more faithful to their trust, and attentive to the sick and wounded, than the chaplains in the army of the potomac--taking them as a class. one man in speaking of his chaplain, said: "he is one of the best men in the world; he has a temperance meeting once a week, a prayer meeting twice a week, and other meetings as he is able to hold them; and then he labors personally among the men. he also comforts the sick and dying. i saw him with one of our comrades before he died, watching and praying with him; and when he died, he closed his eyes and prepared him for the grave with his own hands." another said: "over at frederickstown, as our lines were beginning to give way, and many thought the day was lost, our chaplain stepped right out from the ranks, between us and the enemy's lines, knelt down upon the ground, and lifted up his voice in most earnest prayer to god for divine help in that hour of need. i never felt so in all my life as i did at that moment. an inspiration, as from god, seemed to seize us all; we rallied, charged, drove the enemy before us, and gained the important victory at frederickstown, which perhaps has saved to us the state of mississippi." and yet another soldier gave testimony like the following, with regard to a chaplain who had followed his regiment through every battle in which it had participated. said he: "he was with us day after day, and as soon as a man fell wounded, he would take him up in his arms and carry him out where the surgeon could take care of him; and the last day i saw him, his clothes, from head to foot, were literally dripping with the blood of dead and wounded men that he had carried from the battle-field." this noble chaplain reminds me of a brave soldier in the army of the potomac, who was in the hottest of the battle at antietam, where the bullets were sweeping like death-hail through the ranks. the line wavered; there were strong symptoms of falling back on the part of his regiment. this man rushed toward the color-bearer, who stood hesitating, seized the standard and advanced with firm and rapid step several paces in front of the foremost man; then thrusting down the flag-staff into the ground he looked up at the banner, then at the wavering line, and said--"there, boys, come up to that!" chapter xxvi. a unionist from the rebel army--his testimony--southern hospitals--patriotism--female recruiting--crinoline--"sweet little man"--confederate system--north and south contrasted--rebel impressment--brothers' cruelty--dying for the union--fate of a tennessee patriot--on the mississippi--invisible attraction--an important question--moral sublimity--contraband's jubilee. at one of the hospitals near vicksburg i met a man who had served a year in the confederate army, having been conscripted by the rebels, and remained that length of time before he found an opportunity to escape. he was an educated, and highly intelligent young man, and it was deeply interesting to listen to his account of the southern side of this rebellion. he told me that the southern people, and especially the ladies, were much more patriotic than the people of the north. after a battle, the citizens, both men and women, come with one accord to assist in taking care of the wounded; bringing with them, gratuitously, every article of comfort and convenience that their means will admit, and their patriotism suggest. farmers come to the hospitals with loads of provisions, and the women come with fruits, wines, jellies, etc., and cheerfully submit to the hardships and fatigue of hospital labor without the slightest remuneration. said he: "the women down south are the best recruiting officers--for they absolutely refuse to tolerate, or admit to their society, any young man who refuses to enlist; and very often send their lovers, who have not enlisted, skirts and crinoline, with a note attached, suggesting the appropriateness of such a costume unless they donned the confederate uniform at once." i have often thought of this trait of the southern ladies' character, and contrasted it with the flattering receptions so lavishly bestowed upon our able-bodied "home guards," by the new-england fair ones who profess to love the old flag and despise its enemies. and i have wondered if an extensive donation of "crinoline" would not be more effectual in filling up our ranks, than graceful bows and bewitching smiles. and i would mildly suggest that each package of crinoline be accompanied by the following appropriate lines: now, while our soldiers are fighting our battles, each at his post to do all that he can, down among rebels and contraband chattels, what are _you_ doing, my sweet little man? all the brave boys under canvas are sleeping, all of them pressing to march with the van, far from their homes where their sweethearts are weeping; what are _you_ waiting for, sweet little man? you, with the terrible warlike mustaches, fit for a colonel or chief of a clan, you with the waist made for sword-belts and sashes, where are your shoulder-straps, sweet little man? we send you the buttonless garments of woman! cover your face lest it freckle or tan; muster the apron-string guards on the common-- that is the corps for the sweet little man. all the fair maidens about him shall cluster, pluck the white feathers from bonnet and fan, make him a plume like a turkey-wing duster-- that is the crest for the sweet little man. give him for escort a file of young misses, each of them armed with a deadly rattan, they shall defend him from laughter and hisses aimed by low boys at the sweet little man. and now, while i am contrasting the conduct of the north and south, i may as well give another testimony in favor of the confederate system. the following testimony comes from one who has served in the rebel army in the capacity of surgeon. he says: "the confederate military authorities have complete control of the press, so that nothing is ever allowed to appear in print which can in any way give information to the north or prove a clue to southern movements. in this it appears to me that they have an unspeakable advantage over the north, with its numberless papers and hundreds of correspondents in the loyal army. with what the correspondents tell and surmise, and what the confederates find out through spies and informers of various kinds, they are able to see through many of the plans of the union forces before they are put into execution. no more common remark did i hear than this as officers were reading the northern papers: 'see what d--d fools those yankees are. general a---- has left b---- for c----. we will cut him off. why the northern generals or the secretary of war tolerate this freedom of news we cannot imagine.'" and he further adds: "every daily paper i have read since i came north has contained information, either by direct statement or implication, by which the enemy can profit. if we meant to play into the hands of the rebels, we could hardly do it more successfully than our papers are doing it daily. sure am i that if a southern paper contained such information of their movements as do the northern of ours, the editor's neck would not be safe an hour. but some will say: 'we often see information quoted from the southern papers of their movements.' never, until the movement has been carried out. it is always safe to conclude, if you see in a southern paper any statement with regard to the movement of troops, or that the army is about to do a certain thing, that it will not be done, but something different." freedom of opinion and of the press is certainly a precious boon, but when it endangers the lives of our soldiers and frustrates the plans of our government, surely it is time to adopt measures to control it, just as much as it is necessary to arrest the spies who come within our lines. another relates the following touching incident of the southern style of increasing their army, and punishing offenders: "when the rebels were raising a force in eastern tennessee, two brothers by the name of rowland volunteered. a younger brother was a union man, and refusing to enlist, was seized and forced into the army. he constantly protested against his impressment, but without avail. he then warned them that he would desert the first opportunity, as he would not fight against the cause of right and good government. they were inexorable, and he was torn from his family and hurried to the field. at the battle of fort donaldson, rowland escaped from the rebels in the second day's fight, and immediately joined the loyal army. though now to fight against his own brothers, he felt that he was in a righteous cause, and contending for a worthy end. in the battle of pittsburg landing he was taken prisoner by the very regiment to which he had formerly belonged. this sealed his fate. on his way to corinth several of his old comrades, among them his two brothers, attempted to kill him, one of them nearly running him through with a bayonet. he was, however, rescued by the guard, and brought to camp. three days after the retreating army had reached corinth, general hardee, in whose division was the regiment claiming this man as a deserter, gave orders to have rowland executed. about four o'clock in the afternoon, the same day, some ten thousand tennessee troops were drawn up in two parallel lines, facing inward, three hundred yards apart. the doomed man, surrounded by the guard, detailed from his own regiment to shoot him, marched with a firm step into the middle of the space between the two lines of troops. here his grave was already dug, and a black pine coffin lay beside it. no minister of religion offered to direct his thoughts to a gracious saviour. the sentence was read, and he was asked if he had anything to say why it should not be executed. he spoke in a firm, decided tone, in a voice which could be heard by many hundreds, and nearly in the following words: 'fellow-soldiers, tennesseeans--i was forced into southern service against my will, and against my conscience. i told them i would desert the first opportunity i found, and i did it. i was always a union man, and never denied it; and i joined the union army to do all the damage i could to the confederates. i believe the union cause is right, and will triumph. they can kill me but once, and i am not afraid to die in a good cause. my only request is, that you let my wife and family know that i died in supporting my principles. my brothers there would shoot me if they had a chance, but i forgive them. now shoot me through the heart, that i may die instantly.' "after rowland had ceased to speak, he took off hat, coat and neck-tie, and laying his hand on his heart, he said, "aim here." the sergeant of the guard advanced to tie his hands and blindfold him. he asked the privilege of standing untied, but the request was not granted. his eyes were bandaged, he knelt upon his coffin and engaged in prayer for several minutes, and then said he was ready. the lieutenant of the guard then gave the word, 'fire!' and twenty-four muskets were discharged. when the smoke lifted, the body had fallen backward, and was still. several bullets had passed through his head, and some through his heart. his body was tumbled into the rough pine box, and was buried by the men who shot him." such was the fate of a tennessee patriot, who was not afraid to declare his love for the union, and his faith in its final triumph, in the very presence of some of the leading traitors, and of thousands of his rebellious countrymen, a moment, before sealing his patriotism with his blood. on board of a transport, on the mississippi river, as we glided toward our destination, i sat quietly listening to the variety of topics which was being discussed around me, until a peculiarly sweet voice caused me to turn and look in the direction from whence it proceeded. reader, has your heart ever been taken by storm, in consequence of the mere intonations of a voice--ere you beheld the individual who gave them utterance? on this occasion, i turned and saw "one of god's images cut in ebony." time had wrinkled his face, and the frosts of four-score winters had whitened his woolly locks, palsied his limbs, and dimmed his vision. he had been a slave all his life, and now, at the eleventh hour, when "the silver cord was almost loosed, and the golden bowl well nigh broken," he was liberated from bondage, and was rejoicing in freedom from slavery, and in that freedom wherewith christ makes his children free. by some invisible attraction, a large crowd gathered around this old, decrepid slave, and every eye was fixed upon his sable withered face, as he gave a brief and touching history of his slave life. when he had finished, the soldiers eagerly began to ask questions--but suddenly the old colored man turned querist, and raising himself up, and leaning forward toward the crowd, he asked, in a voice strangely thrilling and solemn, "are any of you soldiers of the lord jesus christ?" one looked at another with evident embarrassment; but at length some one stammered out--"we don't know exactly; that is a hard question, uncle." "oh no," said he, "dat is not a hard question--if you be soldiers of christ you _know_ it, you must know it; de lord does not do his work so poorly dat his people don't know when it's done. now jes' let me say a word more: dear soldiers--before eber you lebe dis boat--before eber you go into anoder battle--enlist for jesus; become soldiers ob de blessed redeemer, and you are safe; safe when de battle rages, safe when de chills ob death come, safe when de world's on fire." one of the men, desirous of changing the conversation, said: "uncle, are you blind?" he replied: "oh no, bless de lord, i am not blind to de tings ob de spirit. i see by an eye ob faith my blessed saviour sitting at de right hand ob god, and i'll soon see him more clearly, for jesus loves dis old blind darkie, and will soon take him home." now, when we talk of moral sublimity we are apt to point to alexander conquering the world, to hannibal surmounting the alps, to cæsar crossing the rubicon, or to lawrence wrapping himself in the american flag and crying "don't give up the ship!" but in my opinion here was a specimen of moral sublimity equal to anything that ever graced the pages of history or was ever exhibited upon a battle-field--a poor old, blind, palsied slave, resting upon the "rock of ages," while the waves of affliction dashed like mountains at his feet; yet, looking up to heaven, and trusting in the great and precious promises, he gave glory to god, and triumphed over pain and disease, rejoicing even in tribulation. while the old slave was talking to the soldiers a number of young darkies came forward, and when the conversation ceased they all struck up the following piece, and sang it with good effect: oh, praise an' tanks! de lord he come to set de people free; an' massa tink it day ob doom, an' we ob jubilee. de lord dat heap de red sea waves, he jes' as strong as den; he say de word--we las' night slaves, to-day de lord's free men. chorus--de yam will grow, de cotton blow, we'll hab de rice an' corn, o nebber you fear if nebber you hear de driber blow his horn. ole massa on his trabbles gone he lebe de land behind; de lord's breff blow him furder on, like corn-shuck in de wind. we own de hoe, we own de plow, we own de hands dat hold; we sell de pig, we sell de cow, but neber chile be sold. chorus--de yam will grow, etc. we know de promise nebber fail, an' nebber lie de word; so, like de 'postles in de jail, we waited for de lord. an' now he open ebery door, an' trow away de key, he tink we lub him so before, we lub him better free. chorus--de yam will grow, etc. then a collection was taken up among the soldiers and presented to the old blind colored man, who wept with delight as he received it, for said he--"i hab no home, no money, an' no friend, but de lord jesus." chapter xxvii. arrival at vicksburg--its surroundings--grant's army--assault on the rebel works--the seven color-bearers--pemberton's harangue--in the trenches--sufferings of the wounded--pemberton's proposed capitulation--grant's reply--terms of surrender--occupation of the city--loss of the enemy--complimentary letter--grant's success--attachment of his soldiers--"fighting dick"--gold lace--rebel sufferings--sights in vicksburg--incidents of the siege--cave life. our troops at length joined general grant's army near vicksburg, where those veterans had been digging and fighting so many weeks. the city of vicksburg is nestled among numerous terraced hills, and would under other circumstances present a magnificent and romantic appearance; but i could not at that time realize its beauty, for the knowledge of the sufferings and distress of thousands within its walls detracted materially from its outward grandeur. the enemy's works had consisted of a series of redoubts extending from haines' bluff to the warrenton road, a distance of some ten miles. it was a vast plateau, upon which a multitude of little hills seemed to have been sown broadcast, giving the enemy a position from which it could sweep every neighboring crest and enfilade every approach. but the rebels had already been driven from this position after a severe struggle. on the twenty-second of may, at two o'clock in the morning, heavy guns were opened upon the rebel works, and continued until ten o'clock, when a desperate assault was made by three corps moving simultaneously. after a severe engagement and heavy loss the flag of the seventh missouri was planted on one of the rebel parapets, after seven color-bearers had been shot down. after this contest the rebel general, pemberton, addressed his men as follows: "you have heard that i was incompetent and a traitor, and that it was my intention to sell vicksburg. follow me, and you will see the cost at which i will sell vicksburg. when the last pound of beef, bacon and flour, the last grain of corn, the last cow and hog, horse and dog shall have been consumed, and the last man shall have perished in the trenches, then, and not till then, will i sell vicksburg." it became evident that the works could not be carried by assault, and that nothing but a regular siege could reduce the fortifications. while the siege was in progress our soldiers endured hardships, privations and sufferings which words can but inadequately express. our men were closely packed in the trenches, often in water to the knees, and not daring to lift their heads above the brow of the rifle pits, as the rebel sharpshooters lost no time in saluting every unfortunate head which made its appearance above ground. the sufferings of the wounded were extreme. those who were wounded during the day in the trenches nearest the city could not be removed until the curtain of night fell upon the scene and screened them from the vigilant eye of the enemy. general grant steadily approached the doomed city by means of saps and mines, and continued to blow up their defenses, until it was evident that another day's work would complete the capture of the city. such was the position of affairs on the third of july, when general pemberton proposed an armistice and capitulation. major general bowen, of the confederate army, was the bearer of a despatch to general grant, under a flag of truce, proposing the surrender of the city, which was as follows: headquarters, vicksburg, _july d, _. major general grant, commanding united states forces: general--i have the honor to propose to you an armistice for--hours, with a view of arranging terms for the capitulation of vicksburg. to this end, if agreeable to you, i will appoint three commissioners to meet a like number to be named by yourself, at such place and hour to-day as you may find convenient. i make this proposition to save the farther effusion of blood, which must otherwise be shed to a frightful extent, feeling myself fully able to maintain my position for a yet indefinite period. this communication will be handed to you, under flag of truce, by major general james bowen. very respectfully, your obedient servant, j. c. pemberton. to which general grant replied: headquarters, department of tennessee, in the field, near vicksburg, _july d, _. lieutenant general j. c. pemberton, commanding confederate forces, etc.: general--your note of this date, just received, proposes an armistice of several hours for the purpose of arranging terms of capitulation, through commissioners to be appointed, etc. the effusion of blood you propose stopping by this course can be ended at any time you may choose by an unconditional surrender of the city and garrison. men who have shown so much endurance and courage as those now in vicksburg will always challenge the respect of an adversary, and, i can assure you, will be treated with all the respect due them as prisoners of war. i do not favor the proposition of appointing commissioners to arrange terms of capitulation, because i have no other terms than those indicated above. i am, general, very respectfully, your obedient servant, u. s. grant. then the following document was made out by general grant, and submitted for acceptance: general--in conformity with the agreement of this afternoon, i will submit the following proposition for the surrender of the city of vicksburg, public stores, etc. on your accepting the terms proposed, i will march in one division, as a guard, and take possession at eight o'clock to-morrow morning. as soon as paroles can be made out and signed by the officers and men, you will be allowed to march out of our lines, the officers taking with them their regimental clothing, and staff, field and cavalry officers, one horse each. the rank and file will be allowed all their clothing, but no other property. if these conditions are accepted, any amount of rations you may deem necessary can be taken from the stores you now have, and also the necessary cooking utensils for preparing them; thirty wagons also, counting two two-horse or mule teams as one. you will be allowed to transport such articles as cannot be carried along. the same conditions will be allowed to all sick and wounded officers and privates as fast as they become able to travel. the paroles for these latter must be signed, however, whilst officers are present authorized to sign the roll of prisoners. after some further correspondence on both sides this proposition was accepted, and on the fourth of july the federals took possession of the city of vicksburg. a paragraph from general grant's official despatch will best explain the result of his campaign, together with the surrender of vicksburg: "the defeat of the enemy in five battles outside of vicksburg, the occupation of jackson, the capital of the state of mississippi, and the capture of vicksburg and its garrison and munitions of war, a loss to the enemy of thirty-seven thousand prisoners, among whom were fifteen general officers, at least ten thousand killed and wounded, and among the killed generals tracy, tilghman and green, and hundreds, perhaps thousands, of stragglers, who can never be collected and organized. arms and munitions of war for an army of sixty thousand have fallen into our hands, besides a large amount of other public property, consisting of railroads, locomotives, cars, steamboats, cotton, etc., and much was destroyed to prevent our capturing it." on the thirteenth of july the president sent an autograph letter to general grant, of which the following is a copy: executive mansion, washington, _july th, _. to major general grant: my dear general--i do not remember that you and i ever met personally. i write this now as a grateful acknowledgment for the almost inestimable service you have done the country. i wish to say a word further. when you first reached the vicinity of vicksburg i thought you should do what you finally did--march the troops across the neck, run the batteries with the transports, and thus go below; and i never had any faith, except a general hope that you knew better than i, that the yazoo pass expedition and the like could succeed. when you got below and took port gipson, grand gulf and vicinity, i thought you should go down the river and join banks; and when you turned northward, east of the big black, i feared it was a mistake. i now wish to make a personal acknowledgment that you were right and i was wrong. yours, very truly, a. lincoln. it is stated on good authority that at the time the news of grant's success reached the president, there were several gentlemen present some of whom had just been informing mr. lincoln that there were great complaints against general grant with regard to his intemperate habits. after reading the telegram announcing the fall of vicksburg, the president turned to his anxious friends of the temperance question and said: "so i understand grant drinks whiskey to excess?" "yes," was the reply. "what whiskey does he drink?" "what whiskey?" doubtfully queried his hearers. "yes. is it bourbon or monongahela?" "why do you ask, mr. president?" "because if it makes him win victories like that at vicksburg, i will send a demijohn of the same kind to every general in the army." it is also stated on the same authority that general grant is strictly temperate. his men are almost as much attached to him as are the army of the potomac to general mcclellan. he is a true soldier, and shares all the hardships with his men, sleeping on the ground in the open air, and eating hard bread and salt pork with as good a grace as any private soldier. he seldom wears a sword, except when absolutely necessary, and frequently wears a semi-military coat and low crowned hat. the mistakes which people used to make, when coming to headquarters to see the general, often reminded me of a genuine anecdote which is told of general richardson, or "fighting dick," as we familiarly called him. it occurred when the troops were encamped near washington, and was as follows: the general was sauntering along toward a fort, which was in course of erection not far from headquarters, dressed in his usual uniform for fatigue, namely: citizen's pants, undress coat, and an old straw hat which had once been white, but was now two or three shades nearer the general's own complexion. along came one of those dashing city staff officers, in white gloves, and trimmed off with gold lace to the very extreme of military regulations. he was in search of general richardson, but did not know him personally. reining up his horse some little distance from the general, he shouted: "hallo, old fellow! can you tell me where general richardson's headquarters are?" the general pointed out the tent to him, and the young officer went dashing along, without ever saying "thank you." the general then turned on his heel and went back to his tent, where he found the officer making a fuss because there was no orderly to hold his horse. turning to general r., as he came up, he said: "won't you hold my horse while i find general r.?" "oh yes, certainly," said he. after hitching the horse to a post near by for that purpose, the general walked into the tent, and, confronting young pomposity, he said in his peculiar twang, "well, sir, what will you have?" when the federal troops marched into vicksburg, what a heart-sickening sight it presented; the half-famished inhabitants had crawled from their dens and caves in the earth, to find their houses demolished by shell, and all their pleasant places laid waste. but the appearance of the soldiers as they came from the entrenchments covered with mud and bespattered with the blood of their comrades who had been killed or wounded, would have touched a heart of stone. the poor horses, and mules, too, were a sad sight, for they had fared even worse than the soldiers--for there was no place of safety for them--not even entrenchments, and they had scarcely anything at all to eat for weeks, except mulberry leaves. one man, in speaking of the state of affairs in the city, during the siege, said: "the terror of the women and children, their constant screams and wailings over the dead bodies of their friends, mingled as they were with the shrieks of bursting shell, and the pitiful groans of the dying, was enough to appall the stoutest heart." and others said it was a strange fact that the women could not venture out of their caves a moment without either being killed or wounded, while the men and officers walked or rode about with but little loss of life comparatively. a lady says: "sitting in my cave, one evening, i heard the most heart-rending shrieks and groans, and upon making inquiry, i was told that a mother had taken her child into a cave about a hundred yards from us, and having laid it on its little bed, as the poor woman thought, in safety, she took her seat near the entrance of the cave. a mortar-shell came rushing through the air, and fell upon the cave, and bursting in the ground entered the cave; a fragment of the shell mashed the head of the little sleeper, crushing out the young life, and leaving the distracted mother to pierce the heavens with her cries of agony." how blightingly the hand of war lay upon that once flourishing city! the closed and desolate houses, the gardens with open gates, and the poor, starving mules, standing amid the flowers, picking off every green leaf, to allay their hunger, presented a sad picture. i will give the following quotation as a specimen of cave life in vicksburg: "i was sitting near the entrance of my cave about five o'clock in the afternoon, when the bombardment commenced more furiously than usual, the shells falling thickly around us, causing vast columns of earth to fly upward, mingled with smoke. as usual, i was uncertain whether to remain within, or to run out. as the rocking and trembling of the earth was distinctly felt, and the explosions alarmingly near, i stood within the mouth of the cave ready to make my escape, should one chance to fall above our domicile. "in my anxiety i was startled by the shouts of the servants, and a most fearful jar and rocking of the earth, followed by a deafening explosion, such as i had never heard before. the cave filled instantly with smoke and dust. i stood there, with a tingling, prickling sensation in my head, hands and feet, and with confused brain. yet alive! was the first glad thought that came to me--child, servants, all here, and saved! "i stepped out and found a group of persons before my cave, looking anxiously for me, and lying all around were freshly-torn rose bushes, arborvitæ trees, large clods of earth, splinters, and pieces of plank. "a mortar-shell had struck the corner of the cave; fortunately, so near the brow of the hill, that it had gone obliquely into the earth, exploding as it went, breaking large masses from the side of the hill--tearing away the fence, the shrubbery and flowers--sweeping all like an avalanche down near the entrance of my poor refuge. "on another occasion i sat reading in safety, i imagined, when the unmistakable whirring of parrott shells told us that the battery we so much dreaded had opened from the entrenchments. i ran to the entrance to call the servants in. immediately after they entered a shell struck the earth a few feet from the entrance, burying itself without exploding. "a man came in, much frightened, and asked permission to remain until the danger was over. he had been there but a short time when a parrott shell came whirling in at the entrance and fell in the center of the cave before us, and lay there, the fuse still smoking. "our eyes were fastened upon that terrible missile of death as by the fascination of a serpent, while we expected every moment that the terrific explosion would take place. i pressed my child closer to my heart and drew nearer the wall. our fate seemed certain--our doom was sealed. "just at this dreadful moment, george, a negro boy, rushed forward, seized the shell, and threw it into the street, then ran swiftly in the opposite direction. "fortunately the fuse became extinguished and the shell fell harmless to the ground, and is still looked upon as a monument of terror." chapter xxviii. western gibraltar--the "lead miners"--the palmetto exchanged for the stars and stripes--enthusiasm of troops--sufferings forgotten--i am attacked by fever--unfit for duty--"vicksburg is ours"--spirit yearnings--"rock me to sleep mother"--imposition of steamboat officers--grant's care for his men--bursting of a shell in camp--consequences--speechless agony--i am released from duty--my trip to cairo--miss mary safford--arrival at washington. it was a proud day for the union army when general u. s. grant marched his victorious troops into the rebel sebastopol--or "the western gibraltar," as the rebels were pleased to term it. the troops marched in triumphantly, the forty-fifth illinois, the "lead miners," leading the van, and as they halted in front of the fine white marble court house, and flung out the national banner to the breeze, and planted the battle-worn flags bearing the dear old stars and stripes--where the "palmetto" had so recently floated--then went up tremendous shouts of triumphant and enthusiastic cheers, which were caught up and re-echoed by the advancing troops until all was one wild scene of joy; and the devastated city and its miserable inhabitants were forgotten in the triumph of the hour. this excitement proved too much for me, as i had been suffering from fever for several days previous, and had risen from my cot and mounted my horse for the purpose of witnessing the crowning act of the campaign. now it was over, and i was exhausted and weak as a child. i was urged to go to a hospital, but refused; yet at length i was obliged to report myself unfit for duty, but still persisted in sitting up most of the time. oh what dreary days and nights i passed in that dilapidated city! a slow fever had fastened itself upon me, and in spite of all my fortitude and determination to shake it off, i was each day becoming more surely its victim. i could not bear the shouts of the men, or their songs of triumph which rung out upon every breeze--one of which i can never forget, as i heard it sung until my poor brain was distracted, and in my hours of delirium i kept repeating "vicksburg is ours," "vicksburg is ours," in a manner more amusing than musical. i will here quote a few verses which i think are the same: hark! borne upon the southern breeze, as whispers breathed above the trees, or as the swell from off the seas, in summer showers, fall softly on the ears of men strains sweetly indistinct, and then-- hist! listen! catch the sound again-- "vicksburg is ours!" o'er sea-waves beating on the shore, 'bove the thunder-storm and tempest o'er, o'er cataracts in headlong roar, high, high it towers. o'er all the breastworks and the moats, the starry flag in triumph floats, and heroes thunder from' their throats "vicksburg is ours!" spread all your banners in the sky, the sword of victory gleams on high, our conquering eagles upward fly, and kiss the stars; for liberty the gods awake, and hurl the shattered foes a wreck, the northern arms make strong to break the southern bars. all honor to the brave and true who fought the bloody battles through, and from the ramparts victory drew where vicksburg cowers; and o'er the trenches, o'er the slain, through iron hail and leaden rain, still plunging onward, might and main, made vicksburg ours. i think i realized, in those hours of feverish restlessness and pain, the heart-yearnings for the touch of a mother's cool hand upon my brow, which i had so often heard the poor sick and wounded soldiers speak of. oh how i longed for one gentle caress from her loving hand! and when i would sometimes fall into a quiet slumber, and forget my surroundings, i would often wake up and imagine my mother sat beside me, and would only realize my sad mistake when looking in the direction i supposed her to be, there would be seen some great bearded soldier, wrapped up in an overcoat, smoking his pipe. the following lines in some measure express my spirit-longings for the presence of my mother in those nights of torturing fever and days of languor and despondency: backward, turn backward, o time, in your flight; make me a child again, just for to-night! mother, o come from the far-distant shore, take me again to your heart as of yore; over my slumbers your loving watch keep-- rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. * * * * * backward, flow backward, o tide of the years! i am so weary of toils and of tears, toil without recompense--tears all in vain-- take them, and give me my childhood again. i have grown weary of warfare and strife, weary of bartering my health and my life, weary of sowing for others to reap-- rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. after the fall of vicksburg a large proportion of the soldiers in that vicinity, who had fought so bravely, endured so many hardships, and lain in the entrenchments so many weary weeks during the siege, were permitted to visit their homes on furlough. in view of this general grant issued a special order forbidding steamboat officers to charge more than five dollars to enlisted men, and seven dollars to officers, as fare between vicksburg and cairo. notwithstanding this order the captains of steamers were in the habit of charging from fifteen to thirty dollars apiece. on one occasion one of those steamers had on board an unusually large number of soldiers, said to be over one thousand enlisted men and nearly two hundred and fifty officers, _en route_ for home on leave of absence; and all had paid from twenty to twenty-five dollars each. but just as the boat was about to push off from the wharf an order came from general grant requiring the money to be refunded to men and officers over and above the stipulated sum mentioned in a previous order, or the captain to have his boat confiscated and submit himself to imprisonment for disobedience of orders. of course the captain handed over the money, and amid cheers for general grant, sarcastic smiles, and many amusing and insinuating speeches and doubtful compliments to the captain, the men pocketed the recovered "greenbacks," and went on their way rejoicing. when the general was told of the imposition practiced by the boatmen on his soldiers, he replied: "i will teach them, if they need the lesson, that the men who have periled their lives to open the mississippi for their benefit cannot be imposed upon with impunity." a noble trait in the character of this brave general is that he looks after the welfare of his men as one who has to give an account of his stewardship, or of those intrusted to his care. i remained in my tent for several days, not being able to walk about, or scarcely able to sit up. i was startled one day from my usual quietude by the bursting of a shell which had lain in front of my tent, and from which no danger was apprehended; yet it burst at a moment when a number of soldiers were gathered round it--and oh, what sad havoc it made of those cheerful, happy boys of a moment previous! two of them were killed instantly and four were wounded seriously, and the tent where i lay was cut in several places with fragments of shell, the tent poles knocked out of their places, and the tent filled with dust and smoke. [illustration: explosion of a shell--page .] one poor colored boy had one of his hands torn off at the wrist; and of all the wounded that i have ever seen i never heard such unearthly yells and unceasing lamentations as that boy poured forth night and day; ether and chloroform were alike unavailing in hushing the cries of the poor sufferer. at length the voice began to grow weaker, and soon afterwards ceased altogether; and upon making inquiry i found he had died groaning and crying until his voice was hushed in death. the mother and sister of one of the soldiers who was killed by the explosion of the shell arrived a short time after the accident occurred, and it was truly a most pitiful sight to see the speechless grief of those stricken ones as they sat beside the senseless clay of that beloved son and brother. all my soldierly qualities seemed to have fled, and i was again a poor, cowardly, nervous, whining woman; and as if to make up for lost time, and to give vent to my long pent up feelings, i could do nothing but weep hour after hour, until it would seem that my head was literally a fountain of tears and my heart one great burden of sorrow. all the horrid scenes that i had witnessed during the past two years seemed now before me with vivid distinctness, and i could think of nothing else. it was under these circumstances that i made up my mind to leave the army; and when once my mind is made up on any subject i am very apt to act at once upon that decision. so it was in this case. i sent for the surgeon and told him i was not able to remain longer--that i would certainly die if i did not leave immediately. the good old surgeon concurred in my opinion, and made out a certificate of disability, and i was forthwith released from further duty as "nurse and spy" in the federal army. the very next day i embarked for cairo, and on my arrival there i procured female attire, and laid aside forever (perhaps) my military uniform; but i had become so accustomed to it that i parted with it with much reluctance. while in cairo i had the pleasure of seeing the celebrated miss mary safford, of whom so much has been said and written. one writer gives the following account of her, which is correct with regard to personal appearance, and i have no doubt is correct throughout: "i cannot close this letter without a passing word in regard to one whose name is mentioned by thousands of our soldiers with gratitude and blessing. "miss mary safford is a resident of this town, whose life, since the beginning of this war, has been devoted to the amelioration of the soldier's lot and his comfort in the hospital. "she is a young lady, _petite_ in figure, unpretending, but highly cultivated, by no means officious, and so wholly unconscious of her excellencies and the great work that she is achieving, that i fear this public allusion to her may pain her modest nature. "her sweet young face, full of benevolence, her pleasant voice and winning manner, install her in every one's heart directly; and the more one sees of her the more they admire her great soul and noble nature. "not a day elapses but she is found in the hospitals, unless indeed she is absent on an errand of mercy up the tennessee, or to the hospitals in kentucky. "every sick and wounded soldier in cairo knows and loves her, and, as she enters the ward, every pale face brightens at her approach. as she passes along she inquires of each one how he had passed the night, if he is well supplied with books and tracts, and if there is anything she can do for him. all tell her their story frankly--the old man old enough to be her father, and the boy in his teens, all confide in her. "for one she must write a letter to his friend at home; she must sit down and read at the cot of another; must procure, if the surgeon will allow it, this or that article of food for a third; must soothe and encourage a fourth who desponds and is ready to give up his hold on life; must pray for a fifth who is afraid to die, and wrestle for him till light shines through the dark valley; and so on, varied as may be the personal or spiritual wants of the sufferers. "surgeons, nurses, medical directors, and army officers, are all her true friends, and so judicious and trustworthy is she, that the chicago sanitary commission have given her _carte blanche_ to draw on their stores at cairo for anything she may need in her errands of mercy in the hospitals. "she is performing a noble work, and that too in the most quiet and unassuming manner." from cairo i went to washington, where i spent several weeks, until i recovered from my fever and was able to endure the fatigue of traveling. then after visiting the hospitals once more, and bidding farewell to old scenes and associations, i returned to my friends to recruit my shattered health. chapter xxix. review of hospital and camp life--questions answered--behind the scenes--blessed employment--living past scenes over again--my most important labors--mother and son--strange power of sympathy--hero's repose--officers and men--the bravest are kindest--general sedgwick--battle scenes--mr. alvord's description--volunteer surgeons--heart sickening sights--an awful picture--female nurses--sentimental--patriotic--medical department--young surgeons--anecdotes. since i returned to new england there have been numerous questions asked me with regard to hospitals, camp life, etc., which have not been fully answered in the preceding narrative, and i have thought that perhaps it would not be out of place to devote a chapter to that particular object. one great question is: "do the soldiers get the clothing and delicacies which we send them--or is it true that the surgeons, officers and nurses appropriate them to their own use?" in reply to this question i dare not assert that all the things which are sent to the soldiers are faithfully distributed, and reach the individuals for whom they were intended. but i have no hesitation in saying that i have reason to believe that the cases are very rare where surgeons or nurses tamper with those articles sent for the comfort of the sick and wounded. if the ladies of the soldiers' aid societies and other benevolent organizations could have seen even the quantity which i have seen with my own eyes distributed, and the smile of gratitude with which those supplies are welcomed by the sufferers, they would think that they were amply rewarded for all their labor in preparing them. just let those benevolent hearted ladies imagine themselves in my place for a single day; removing blood-clotted and stiffened woollen garments from ghastly wounds, and after applying the sponge and water remedy, replacing those coarse, rough shirts by nice, cool, clean linen ones, then dress the wounds with those soft white bandages and lint; take from the express box sheet after sheet, and dainty little pillows with their snowy cases, until you have the entire hospital supplied and every cot looking clean and inviting to the weary, wounded men--then as they are carried and laid upon those comfortable beds, you will often see the tears of gratitude gush forth, and hear the earnest "god bless the benevolent ladies who send us these comforts." then, after the washing and clothing process is gone through with, the nice wine or boston crackers are brought forward, preserved fruits, wines, jellies, etc., and distributed as the different cases may require. i have spent whole days in this blessed employment without realizing weariness or fatigue, so completely absorbed would i become in my work, and so rejoiced in having those comforts provided for our brave, suffering soldiers. time and again, since i have been engaged in writing this little narrative, i have thrown down my pen, closed my eyes, and lived over again those hours which i spent in ministering to the wants of those noble men, and have longed to go back and engage in the same duties once more. i look back now upon my hospital labors as being the most important and interesting in my life's history. the many touching incidents which come to my mind as i recall those thrilling scenes make me feel as if i should never be satisfied until i had recorded them all, so that they might never be forgotten. one occurs to my mind now which i must not omit: "in one of the fierce engagements with the rebels near mechanicsville, a young lieutenant of a rhode island battery had his right foot so shattered by a fragment of shell that on reaching washington, after one of those horrible ambulance rides, and a journey of a week's duration, he was obliged to undergo amputation. "he telegraphed home, hundreds of miles away, that all was going on well, and with a soldier's fortitude composed his mind and determined to bear his sufferings alone. unknown to him, however, his mother--one of those dear reserves of the army--hastened up to join the main force. she reached the city at midnight, and hastened to the hospital, but her son being in such a critical condition, the nurses would have kept her from him until morning. one sat by his side fanning him as he slept, her hand on the feeble, fluctuating pulsations which foreboded sad results. but what woman's heart could resist the pleading of a mother at such a moment? in the darkness she was finally allowed to glide in and take the nurse's place at his side. she touched his pulse as the nurse had done. not a word had been spoken; but the sleeping boy opened his eyes and said: 'that feels like my mother's hand! who is this beside me? it is my mother; turn up the gas and let me see mother!' the two loving faces met in one long, joyful, sobbing embrace, and the fondness pent up in each heart wept forth its own language. "the gallant fellow underwent operation after operation, and at last, when death drew near, and he was told by tearful friends that it only remained to make him comfortable, he said he 'had looked death in the face too many times to be afraid now,' and died as gallantly as did the men of the cumberland." when a hero goes unto his last repose, when earth's trump of fame shall wake him no more; when in the heavenly land another soul doth stand, who perished for a nation ere he reached the shore; whose eyes should sorrow dim? say, who should mourn for him? mourn for the traitor--mourn when honor is forsworn; when the base wretch sells his land for gold, stands up unblushingly and boasts his perfidy, then, then, o patriots! let your grief be told but when god's soldier yieldeth up his breath, o mourn ye not for him! it is not death! another question is frequently asked me--"are not the private soldiers cruelly treated by the officers?" i never knew but a very few instances of it, and then it was invariably by mean, cowardly officers, who were not fit to be in command of so many mules. i have always noticed that the bravest and best fighting officers are the kindest and most forbearing toward their men. an interesting anecdote is told of the late brave general sedgwick, which illustrates this fact: "one day, while on a march, one of our best soldiers had fallen exhausted by fatigue and illness, and lay helpless in the road, when an officer came dashing along in evident haste to join his staff in advance. "it was pitiable to see the effort the poor boy made to drag his unwilling limbs out of the road. he struggled up only to sink back with a look that asked only the privilege of lying there undisturbed to die. "in an instant he found his head pillowed on an arm as gentle as his far-away mother's might have been, and a face bent over him expressive of the deepest pity. "it is characteristic of our brave boys that they say but little. the uncomplaining words of the soldier in this instance were few, but understood. "the officer raised him in his arms and placed him in his own saddle, supporting the limp and swaying figure by one firm arm, while with the other he curbed the step of his impatient horse to a gentler pace. "for two miles, without a gesture of impatience, he traveled in this tedious way, until he reached an ambulance train and placed the sick man in one of the ambulances. "this was our noble sedgwick--our brave general of the sixth corps--pressed with great anxieties and knowing the preciousness of every moment. his men used to say: 'we all know that great things are to be done, and well done, when we see that earnest figure in its rough blouse hurrying past, and never have we been disappointed in him. he works incessantly, is unostentatious, and when he appears among us all eyes follow him with outspoken blessings.'" i have often been asked: "have you ever been on a battle-field before the dead and wounded were removed?" "how did it appear?" "please describe one." i have been on many a battle-field, and have often tried to describe the horrible scenes which i there witnessed, but have never yet been able to find language to express half the horrors of such sights as i have seen on those terrible fields. the rev. mr. alvord has furnished us with a vivid description of a battle-field, which i will give for the benefit of those who wish a true and horrifying description of those bloody fields: "to-day i have witnessed more horrible scenes than ever before since i have been in the army. hundreds of wounded had lain since the battle, among rebels, intermingled with heaps of slain--hungering, thirsting, and with wounds inflaming and festering. many had died simply from want of care. their last battle was fought! almost every shattered limb required amputation, so putrid had the wounds become. "i was angry (i think without sin) at your volunteer surgeons. those of the army were too few, and almost exhausted. but squads of volunteers, as is usual, had come on without instruments, and without sense enough to set themselves at work in any way, and without any idea of dressing small wounds. they wanted to see amputation, and so, while hundreds were crying for help, i found five of these gentlemen sitting at their ease, with legs crossed, waiting for their expected reception by the medical director, who was, of course, up to his elbows in work with saw and amputating knife. i invited them to assist me in my labors among the suffering, but they had 'not come to nurse'--they were 'surgeons.' "the disgusting details of the field i need not describe. over miles of shattered forest and torn earth the dead lie, sometimes in _heaps_ and _winrows_--i mean literally! friend and foe, black and white, with distorted features, among mangled and dead horses, trampled in mud, and thrown in all conceivable sorts of places. you can distinctly hear, over the whole field, the hum and hissing of decomposition. of course you can imagine shattered muskets, bayonets, cartridge-boxes, caps, torn clothing, cannon-balls, fragments of shell, broken artillery, etc. i went over it all just before evening, and after a couple of hours turned away in sickening horror from the dreadful sight. i write in the midst of the dead, buried and unburied--in the midst of hospitals full of dying, suffering men, and weary, shattered regiments." this is a very mild illustration of some battle-fields, and yet it presents an awful picture. o god! this land grows rich in loyal blood poured out upon it to its utmost length! the incense of a people's sacrifice-- the wrested offering of a people's strength. it is the costliest land beneath the sun! 'tis purchaseless! and scarce a rood but hath its title written clear, and signed in some slain hero's consecrated blood. and not a flower that gems its mellowing soil but thriveth well beneath the holy dew of tears, that ease a nation's straining heart when the lord of battles smites it through and through. now a word about female nurses who go from the north to take care of the soldiers in hospitals. i have said but little upon this point, but could say much, as i have had ample opportunity for observation. many of the noble women who have gone from the new england and other loyal states have done, and are still doing, a work which will engrave their names upon the hearts of the soldiers, as the name of florence nightingale is engraved upon the hearts of her countrymen. it is a strange fact that the more highly cultivated and refined the ladies are, they make all the better nurses. they are sure to submit to inconvenience and privations with a much better grace than those of the lower classes. it is true we have some sentimental young ladies, who go down there and expect to find everything in drawing-room style, with nothing to do but sit and fan handsome young mustached heroes in shoulder-straps, and read poetry, etc.; and on finding the _real_ somewhat different from the _ideal_, which their ardent imaginations had created, they become homesick at once, and declare that they "cannot endure such work as washing private soldiers' dirty faces and combing tangled, matted hair; and, what is more, won't do it." so after making considerable fuss, and trailing round in very long silk skirts for several days, until everybody becomes disgusted, they are politely invited by the surgeon in charge to migrate to some more congenial atmosphere. but the patriotic, whole-souled, educated woman twists up her hair in a "cleared-for-action" sort of style, rolls up the sleeves of her plain cotton dress, and goes to work washing dirty faces, hands and feet, as if she knew just what to do and how to do it. and when she gets through with that part of the programme, she is just as willing to enter upon some new duty, whether it is writing letters for the boys or reading for them, administering medicine or helping to dress wounds. and everything is done so cheerfully that one would think it was really a pleasure instead of a disagreeable task. but the medical department is unquestionably the greatest institution in the whole army. i will not attempt to answer all the questions i have been asked concerning it, but will say that there are many true stories, and some false ones, circulated with regard to that indispensable fraternity. i think i may freely say that there is a shadow of truth in that old story of "whiskey" and "incompetency" which we have so often heard applied to individuals in the medical department, who are intrusted with the treatment, and often the lives of our soldiers. there is a vast difference in surgeons; some are harsh and cruel--whether it is from habit or insensibility i am not prepared to say--but i know the men would face a rebel battery with less forebodings than they do some of our worthy surgeons. there is a class who seem to act upon the principle of "no smart no cure," if we may be allowed to judge from the manner in which they twitch off bandages and the scientific twists and jerks given to shattered limbs. others again are very gentle and tender with the men, and seem to study how to perform the necessary operations with the least possible pain to the patients. but the young surgeons, fresh from the dissecting room, when operating in conjunction with our old western practitioners, forcibly reminded me of the anecdote of the young collegian teaching his grandmother to suck an egg: "we make an incision at the apex and an aperture at the base; then making a vacuum with the tongue and palate, we suffer the contained matter to be protruded into the mouth by atmospheric pressure." "la! how strange!" said his grandmother; "in my day we just made a hole in each end, and then sucked it without half that trouble." i once saw a young surgeon amputate a limb, and i could think of nothing else than of a kennebec yankee whom i once saw carve a thanksgiving turkey; it was his first attempt at carving, and the way in which he disjointed those limbs i shall never forget. chapter xxx. closing incidents--professor lowe's balloon--fitz john porter's adventure--his upward flight--reconnoitering from a dangerous position--cool courage--enthusiastic greeting--an earnest inquirer--a baptism in the army--preaching by moonlight--a magnificent scene--a wedding in camp--gay times--a contrast--hospital in winchester--spirit of revenge--sable heroine--a white darkey--colored soldiers--conclusion. in looking back over the events of the two years which i spent in the army, i see so much worthy of record i scarcely know where to stop. a most thrilling incident occurs to my mind at this moment in connection with professor lowe and his balloon, which i must relate before closing. it took place while mcclellan's army was in front of yorktown. general fitz john porter having been in the habit of making frequent ascensions in company with professor lowe, learned to go aloft alone. one morning he stepped into the car and ordered the cable to be let out with all speed. we saw with surprise that the flurried assistants were sending up the great straining canvas with a single rope attached. the enormous bag was only partially inflated, and the loose folds opened and shut with a sharp report like that of a pistol. noisily, fitfully, the great yellow mass rose toward the sky, the basket rocking like a feather in the breeze. presently a sound came from overhead like the explosion of a shell--the cable had snapped asunder, and the balloon was adrift. all eyes were turned toward the receding car, where general porter sat in his ærial castle, being borne heavenward as fast as if on eagle wings, without the power either to check or guide his upward flight. the whole army was agitated by this unwonted occurrence, and the rebel army evidently partook in the general excitement. lowe's voice could be heard above the confusion and tumult shouting to the soaring hero--"open--the--valve! climb--to--the--netting--and--reach--the valve--rope!" "the valve--the valve!" repeated a multitude of voices, but all in vain, for it was impossible to make him hear. soon the signal corps began to operate, and at last the general was made to understand by signals when it was impossible to reach him by the human voice. he appeared directly over the edge of the car, and then clambered up the netting and reached for the cord, but he was so far above us then he looked no bigger than a great black spider. it was a weird spectacle--that frail, fading object floating in the azure sky, with the miniature boat swinging silently beneath, looking no bigger than a humming-bird's nest; and a hundred thousand brave hearts beneath beating with the wildest excitement and warmest sympathy, yet powerless to render the least assistance to their exalted brother-in-arms. "had the general been floating down the rapids of niagara he could not have been farther from human assistance." we at length saw him descend from the netting and reappear over the edge of the basket, and he seemed to be motioning to the breathless crowd below the story of his failure. soon after the balloon began slowly to descend, and when we next saw him it was with spyglass in hand, reconnoitering the rebel works. shouts of joy and laughter went up from the long lines of spectators as this cool procedure was observed. for a moment it seemed doubtful in which direction the balloon would float; it faltered like an irresolute being, and at length moved reluctantly toward fortress monroe. bursting cheers, half uttered, quivered on every lip. all eyes glistened, and many were dim with tears. but the wayward canvas now turned due west, and was blown rapidly toward the confederate works. its course was fitfully direct, and the wind seemed to veer often, as if contrary currents, conscious of the opportunity, were struggling for the possession of the daring navigator. the south wind held the mastery for awhile, and the balloon passed the federal front amid groans of despair from the soldiers. it kept right on, over sharpshooters, rifle-pits, etc., until it stood directly over the rebel fortifications at yorktown. the cool courage, either of heroism or despair, seemed to seize the general, for turning his tremendous glass upon the ramparts and masked batteries below, he viewed the remote camps, the beleaguered town, the guns of gloucester point, and distant norfolk. had he been reconnoitering from a secure perch on the top of the moon he could not have been more vigilant; and the confederates probably thought this some yankee device to peer into their sanctum in spite of ball or shell. none of their large guns could be brought to bear upon the balloon, but there were some discharges of musketry, which seemed to have no effect whatever, and finally even these demonstrations ceased. both armies were gazing aloft in breathless suspense, while the deliberate general continued to spy out the land. suddenly another change of position, and the air craft plunged and tacked about, and steered rapidly for the federal lines again. making a desperate effort to catch the valve-rope, the general at length succeeded, and giving it a jerk, the balloon came suddenly to the ground; fortunately, however, it struck a tent as it descended, which perhaps saved the general from any serious injuries from the fall. by the time the crowd had reached the spot, porter had disentangled himself from the folds of oiled canvas, and was ready to greet his anxious friends; and amid hearty congratulations and vociferous cheers, he was escorted to his quarters. as this chapter is devoted to incidents in camp, i will try to illustrate the variety of interesting events with which our camps abound. after one of the most severe battles ever fought in virginia, and while our troops were still rejoicing over their victory, a young soldier sought the chaplain for the purpose of religious conversation. said the chaplain: "the tears were in his eyes, and his lips trembled with emotion. i knew that he was in earnest. we knelt down together and i prayed with him, and he prayed for himself. in this manner we spent several hours, pleading with god in his behalf, until light broke through the darkness, and he arose from his knees praising god." wishing to manifest by some outward sign his consecration to god and to his service, he requested the chaplain to baptize him by immersion. the next day being the sabbath his request was complied with, in the presence of thousands of his comrades. the scene was a most solemn one, and after the ordinance was administered there was scarcely a dry eye in the company to which he belonged. in the evening one of the delegates of the christian commission preached to an immense congregation of grim warriors seated on the ground--a little pine grove for a church, the great blue dome of heaven for galleries, and the clear, bright moon for a chandelier. the scene was a magnificent one. a little to the right lay a cloud of white canvas tents shining in the moonlight, and just below, in plain sight, were the transports dotting the water, with their gleaming lights and star-spangled banners floating in the evening breeze. all combined to make the scene beautiful and interesting. the discourse was excellent and well chosen, and the men listened with profound attention, and i have no doubt with much profit. then was sung lord, dismiss us with thy blessing, and the benediction being pronounced, the vast assembly marched to their quarters as solemnly as if going from a funeral. next came a wedding! yes; a real wedding in camp. you must know that when military necessity prevents our young heroes from going home to fulfill their engagements to their devoted fair ones, it is the privilege of the waiting damsels, in war times, to remove all unnecessary obstacles, and facilitate matters by declaring themselves in favor of the _union_, and claiming their lovers on the field. this wedding was a grand affair, and took place in a camp which was very prettily decorated, being picturesquely arranged among pine trees--just the most romantic place imaginable for such an event. a little before noon the guests began to arrive in large numbers. among them were generals hooker, sickles, carr, mott, hobart, ward, revere, bartlett, birney, and berry. the troops, looking their very best, formed a hollow square, in the center of which a canopy was erected, and an altar formed of drums. as the generals marched into the square--general hooker leading the van--and grouped themselves on each side of the altar, the bands struck up "hail to the chief," and on the appearance of the bridal party the "wedding march" was played. the day was cold and windy, with a few snow-flakes interspersed, which made the ladies in attendance look very much like "blue noses"; but the blushing bride bore the cold and the admiring glances of the soldiers like a martyr, and retained her dignity and self-possession throughout the ceremony worthy of a heroine, as she was. to add to the dramatic effect of the scene, a line of battle was formed by the remaining troops in that section, a short distance from camp, to repel an expected attack of the enemy. the ceremony having been performed, dinner was announced, and all partook of the good things provided for the occasion. after dinner, came numerous toasts, speeches, songs, and music from the bands, and, to close up the day in good style, a regular military ball was held, and fireworks exhibited in the evening--"and on the whole," a newspaper correspondent says, "it entirely eclipsed an opera at the academy of music." i have before alluded to the vindictive spirit manifested by the women of virginia toward our soldiers. i will illustrate this fact by an incident which took place in one of the hospitals just after a severe battle. many wounded soldiers, both union and confederate, were brought into the town of winchester, and placed in the churches and court-house side by side. the ladies (beg pardon, ladies, i mean females) of that place brought into the hospital many things to nourish and tempt the appetites of the sufferers, but they gave all these delicacies to the confederate soldiers: our men were passed by as unworthy of notice or sympathy. one day a lady, who had been a constant visitor, brought in a supply of fragrant tea. she went from one cot to another of her friends, but had no eye or heart of pity for others. one of our wounded men, who lay near his end, longed for a cup of this tea as he saw it handed to those around him, and requested the chaplain, who stood by his side, to ask the lady for a little of the tea. he did so in a very polite manner, at the same time telling her how ill the man was, and that it was the soldier himself who wished him to make the request. "no," said she, and her face flushed with anger; "not a drop of it; this tea is all for our suffering martyrs." the chaplain replied: "madam, i looked for no other answer. i beg pardon for having seemed for a moment to expect a different one." a few moments afterwards, as the poor disappointed man lay there seeing the delicious tea passed on all sides of him and could not procure a drop of it, an old lame negro woman came limping up the aisle with a large basket on each arm. coming up to where the chaplain stood, she laid down the baskets and addressed him thus: "massa, i'se a slave--my husban' and chil'en is slaves. will you 'cept dese tings for de poor men?" then taking up a roll of stockings, she said: "dem i knit wid my own hands for de soldiers, when all sleep, in my cabin. we know'd dis war was comin' long 'fore you yankees did. we see it 'proaching, an' we began to prepare for it." then taking packages of tea, cans of fruit, pears and peaches, lint, linen for bandages, and pocket-handkerchiefs, she said: "massa, permit me to give you dese for de poor men. i have not stole 'em. my own hands have earned 'em over de washtub. i wish to do something for de union soldiers, lord bless 'em!" "as she talked," says the chaplain, "she grew more earnest, and looking around on the mutilated men the tears rolled down her black face, and fell on her hands, as she lifted the treasures out of the baskets and handed them to me." our sick men looked with wonder and admiration on the old colored woman, and soon a hundred voices cried out "god bless you, aunty! you are the only white woman we have seen since we came to winchester." some people assert that colored people have no souls. which, think you, acted most as if lacking soul--the black or the white woman in the hospital at winchester? the devotion of the negro woman, as manifested in the hospital, is a perfect sample of the devotion of the contrabands, male and female, to the union cause. and now that the time has come when the colored men are permitted, by the laws of the land, to assume the privileges of rational beings, and to go forth as american soldiers to meet their cruel oppressors on the bloody field, there is evidently as great, if not greater, enthusiasm and true patriotism manifested by them, as by any troops in the united states army. and still further--it has been proved satisfactorily within the last twelve months that the colored troops endure fatigue as cheerfully and fight as well (and get less pay) as any of the white troops. thank god, this is one great point gained for the poor down-trodden descendants of africa. i imagine i see them, with their great shiny eyes and grinning faces, as they march to the field, singing-- oh! we're de bully soldiers of de "first of arkansas," we are fightin' for de union, we are fightin' for de law, we can hit a rebel furder dan a white man eber saw, as we go marchin' on: glory, glory, hallelujah, etc. see dar! above de center, where de flag is wavin' bright; we are goin' out of slavery; we are bound for freedom's light; we mean to show jeff. davis how de africans can fight! glory, glory, hallelujah, glory, glory, hallelujah, glory, glory, hallelujah, as we go marching on. and now, what shall i say in conclusion? the war still continues--our soldiers are daily falling in battle, and thousands are languishing in hospitals or in southern prisons; and i for months past have not given even a cup of cold water to the sufferers. i am ashamed to acknowledge it! but when i look around and see the streets crowded with strong, healthy young men who ought to be foremost in the ranks of their country's defenders, i am not only ashamed, but i am indignant! to prove to my friends that i am not ambitious of gaining the reputation of that venerable general (halleck) whose "pen is mightier than his sword," i am about to return to the army to offer my services in any capacity which will best promote the interests of the federal cause--no matter how perilous the position may be. and now i lay aside my pen, hoping that after "this cruel war is over," and peace shall have once more shed her sweet influence over our land, i may be permitted to resume it again to record the annihilation of rebellion, and the final triumph of truth, right, and _liberty_. o lord of peace, who art lord of righteousness, constrain the anguished worlds from sin and grief, pierce them with conscience, purge them with redress, and give us peace which is no counterfeit! florence nightingale the angel of the crimea [illustration: florence nightingale.] florence nightingale the angel of the crimea _a story for young people_ by laura e. richards author of "captain january," "the golden windows," etc. [illustration] illustrated d. appleton and company new york and london copyright, , by d. appleton and company _published september, _ printed in the united states of america to the sister eleanor of the sisterhood of saint mary herself through many long years a devoted worker for the poor, the sick, and the sorrowful, this brief record of an heroic life is affectionately dedicated for the material used in this little book i am chiefly indebted to sarah a. tooley's "life of florence nightingale," and to kinglake's "invasion of the crimea." contents chapter page i. how florence got her name--her three homes ii. little florence iii. the squire's daughter iv. looking out v. waiting for the call vi. the trumpet call vii. the response viii. scutari ix. the barrack hospital x. the lady-in-chief xi. the lady with the lamp xii. winter xiii. miss nightingale under fire xiv. the close of the war xv. the tasks of peace florence nightingale. chapter i. how florence got her name--her three homes. one evening, some time after the great crimean war of - , a company of military and naval officers met at dinner in london. they were talking over the war, as soldiers and sailors love to do, and somebody said: "who, of all the workers in the crimea, will be longest remembered?" each guest was asked to give his opinion on this point, and each one wrote a name on a slip of paper. there were many slips, but when they came to be examined there was only one name, for every single man had written "florence nightingale." every english boy and girl knows the beautiful story of miss nightingale's life. indeed, hers is perhaps the best-loved name in england since good queen victoria died. it will be a great pleasure to me to tell this story to our own boys and girls in this country; and it shall begin, as all proper stories do, at the beginning. her father was named william nightingale. he was an english gentleman, and in the year was living in italy with his wife. their first child was born in naples, and they named her parthenope, that being the ancient name of naples; two years later, when they were living in florence, another little girl came to them, and they decided to name her also after the city of her birth. when florence was still a very little child her parents came back to england to live, bringing the two children with them. first they went to a house called lea hall, in derbyshire. it was an old, old house of gray stone, standing on a hill, in meadows full of buttercups and clover. all about were blossoming hedgerows full of wild roses, and great elder-bushes heavy with white blossoms; and on the hillside below it lies the quaint old village of lea with its curious little stone houses. lea hall is a farmhouse now, but it still has its old flag-paved hall and its noble staircase of oak with twisted balustrade, and broad solid steps where little florence and her sister "parthe" used to play and creep and tumble. there was another place near by where they loved even better to play; that was the ancient house of dethick. i ought rather to say the ancient kitchen, for little else remained of the once stately mansion. the rest of the house was comparatively new, but the great kitchen was (and no doubt is) much as it was in the days of queen elizabeth. imagine a great room with heavy timbered roof, ponderous oaken doors, and huge open fireplace over which hung the ancient roasting jack. in the ceiling was a little trap-door, which looked as if it might open on the roof; but in truth it was the entrance to a chamber hidden away under the roof, a good-sized room, big enough for several persons to hide in. florence and her sister loved to imagine the scenes that had taken place in that old kitchen; strange and thrilling, perhaps terrible scenes; they knew the story of dethick, and now you shall hear it too. in that old time which tennyson calls "the spacious days of great elizabeth," dethick belonged to a noble family named babington. it was a fine house then. the oaken door of the old kitchen opened on long corridors and passages, which in turn led to stately halls and noble galleries. there were turrets and balconies overlooking beautiful gardens; and on the stone terraces gay lords and ladies used to walk and laugh and make merry, and little children run and play and dance, and life go on very much as it does now, with work and play, love and laughter and tears. one of the gay people who used to walk there was anthony babington. he was a gallant young gentleman, an ardent catholic, and devoted to the cause of the beautiful and unfortunate mary queen of scots. though ardent and devoted, babington was a weak and foolish young man. he fell under the influence of a certain ballard, an artful and designing person who had resolved to bring about the death of the great english queen, and was induced by him to form the plot which is known in history as babington's conspiracy; so he was brought to ruin and death. in the year queen mary was imprisoned at wingfield manor, a country house only a few miles distant from dethick. the conspirators gathered other catholic noblemen about them, and planned to release queen mary and set her once more on the throne. they used to meet at dethick where, it is said, there is a secret passage underground leading to wingfield manor. perhaps--who knows?--they may have sat in the kitchen, gathering about the great fireplace for warmth; the lights out, for fear of spies, only the firelight gleaming here and there, lighting up the dark corners and the eager, intent faces. and when the plot was discovered, and queen elizabeth's soldiers were searching the country round for the young conspirators, riding hither and thither along the pleasant country lanes and thrusting their sabres in among the blossoming hedgerows, it was here at dethick that they sought for anthony babington. they did not find him, for he was in hiding elsewhere, but one of his companions was actually discovered and arrested there. perhaps--again, who knows?--this man may have been hiding in the secret chamber above the trap-door. one can fancy the pursuers rushing in, flinging open cupboards and presses, in search for their prey; and finding no one, gathering baffled around the fireplace. then one, chancing to glance up, catches sight of the trap-door in the ceiling. "ha! lads, look up! the rascal may be hiding yonder! up with you, you tall fellow!" then a piling up of benches, one man mounting on another's shoulders--the door forced open, the young nobleman seized and overpowered, and brought down to be carried off to london for trial. anthony babington and his companions were executed for high treason, and queen mary, who was convicted of approving the plot, was put to death soon after. all this florence nightingale and her sister knew, and they never tired of "playing suppose" in old dethick kitchen, and living over again in fancy the romantic time long past. and on sundays the two children went with their parents to old dethick church, and sat where anthony babington used to sit, for in his days it was the private chapel of dethick. it is a tiny church; fifty people would fill it to overflowing, but florence and her sister might easily feel that the four bare walls held all the wild history of elizabeth's reign. anthony babington in doublet and hose, with velvet mantle, feathered cap, and sword by his side; little florence nightingale in round leghorn hat and short petticoats. it is a long step between these two, yet they are the two most famous people who ever said their prayers in old dethick church. the lad's brief and tragic story contrasts strangely with the long and beautiful story of florence nightingale, a story that has no end. when florence was between five and six years old, she left lea hall for a new home, lea hurst, about a mile distant. here her father had built a beautiful house in the elizabethan style, of stone, with pointed gables, mullioned windows and latticed panes. there was a tiny chapel on the site he chose, hundreds of years old, and this he built into the house, so that lea hurst, as well as lea hall and dethick, joined hands with the old historic times. in this little chapel, by and by, we shall see florence holding her bible class. but i like still to think of her as a little rosy girl, running about the beautiful gardens of lea hurst, or playing house in the quaint old summerhouse with its pointed roof of thatch. perhaps she brought her dolls here; but the dolls must wait for another chapter. soon after moving to lea hurst, the nightingales bought still another country seat, embley park, in hampshire, a fine old mansion built in queen elizabeth's time, and at some distance from lea hurst. after this the family used to spend the summer at lea hurst, and the winter at embley. there were no railroads then in that neighborhood; the journey was sometimes made by stagecoach, sometimes in the nightingales' own carriage. embley park is one of the stately homes of england, with its lofty gables, terraces and shadowing trees; and all around it are sunny lawns, and gardens filled with every sweet and lovely flower. now you know a little of the three homes of florence nightingale, lea hall, lea hurst, and embley park; next you shall hear what kind of child she herself was. chapter ii. little florence. all the boys, and very likely some of the girls, who have got as far as this second chapter, will glance down the page, and exclaim: "_dolls!_" then they will add whatever is their favorite expression of scorn, and perhaps make a motion to lay the book down. wait a moment, girls, and boys too! i advise you to read on, and see what came in this case of playing with dolls. there were a good many thousands of boys in england at that time, in the twenties and thirties, who might have been badly off when the terrible fifties came, if florence nightingale had not played with her dolls. read on, and see for yourselves! florence nightingale loved her dolls dearly, and took the greatest possible care of them; and yet they were always delicate and given to sudden and alarming illnesses. a doll never knew when she might be told that she was very ill, and undressed and put to bed, though she might but just have got on her new frock. then mamma florence would wait upon her tenderly, smoothing her pillow, bathing her forehead or rubbing her poor back, and bringing her all kinds of good things in the doll-house dishes. the doll might feel very much better the next day, and think it was time to get up and put on the new frock again; but she was very apt to have a relapse and go back to bed and gruel again, once at least, before she was allowed to recover entirely. the truth is, florence was born to be a nurse, and a sick doll was dearer to her than a strong and healthy one. so i fear her dolls would have been invalids most of the time if it had not been for parthenope's little family, who often required their aunt florence's care. these dolls were very unlucky, or else their mamma was very careless; you can call it whichever you like. they were always tumbling down and breaking their heads, or losing arms and legs, or burning themselves at the nursery fire, or suffering from doll's consumption, that dreadful complaint otherwise known as loss of sawdust. when these things happened, aunt florence was called in as a matter of course; and she set the fractures, and salved the burns, and stopped the flow of sawdust, and proved herself in every way a most skillful nursery surgeon and physician. so it was that unconsciously, and in play, florence began her training for her life work. she was having lessons, of course; arithmetic, and all the other proper things. she and parthe had a governess, and studied regularly, and had music and drawing lessons besides; and her father taught her to love english literature, and later opened to her the great doors marked _latin_ and _greek_. her mother, meantime, taught her all kinds of handiwork, and before she was twelve years old she could hemstitch, and seam and embroider. these things were all good, and very good; without them she could not have accomplished all she did; but in the years that were to come all the other learning was going to help that wonderful learning that began with nursing the sick dolls. soon she was to take another step in her profession. the little fingers grown so skillful by bandaging waxen and china arms and legs, were now to save a living, loving creature from death. to every english child this story is a nursery tale. no doubt it is to many american children also, yet it is one that no one can ever tire of hearing, so i shall tell it again. much as florence loved dolls, she loved animals better, and in her country homes she was surrounded by them. there was her dog, who hardly left her side when she was out of doors; there was her own pony on which she rode every day over dale and down; her sister's pony, too, and old peggy, who was too old to work, and lived in a pleasant green paddock with nothing to do but amuse herself and crop grass all day long. perhaps peggy found this tiresome, for whenever she saw florence at the gate she would toss her head and whinny and come trotting up to the gate. "good morning, peggy!" florence would say. "would you like an apple?" "hooonh!" peggy would say. (horses have no spelling books, and there is no exact rule as to how a whinny should be spelled. you may try any other way that looks to you more natural.) "then look for it!" florence would reply. at this peggy would sniff and snuff, and hunt round with her soft velvety nose till she found florence's pocket, then delicately take out the apple and crunch it up, and whinny again, the second whinny meaning at once "thank you!" and "more, please!" horse language is a simple one compared to english, and has no grammar. well, one day florence was riding her pony in company with her friend the vicar. this good man loved all living creatures, but there were few dearer to him than florence nightingale. they had the same tastes and feelings. both loved to help and comfort all who were "in trouble, sorrow, need, sickness, or any other adversity." he had studied medicine before he became a clergyman, and so was able to tell her many things about the care of the sick and injured. here was another teacher. i suppose everyone we know could teach us something good, if we were ready to learn. as i said, florence and the vicar were riding along on the green downs; and here i must stop again a moment to tell you what the downs are, for when i was a child i used to wonder. they are great rounded hills, covered with close, thick turf, like a velvet carpet. they spread in long smooth green billows, miles and miles of them, the slopes so gentle that it is delightful to drive or ride on them; only you must be careful not to go near the edge, where the green breaks off suddenly, and a white chalk cliff goes down, down, hundreds of feet, to the blue sea tossing and tumbling below. these are the white cliffs of england that you have so often read about. am i never going on with the story? yes; have patience! there is plenty of time. there were many sheep on the downs, and there was one special flock that florence knew very well. it belonged to old roger, a shepherd, who had often worked for her father. roger and his good dog cap were both friends of florence's, and she was used to seeing them on the downs, the sheep in a more or less orderly compact flock, cap guarding them and driving back any stragglers who went nibbling off toward the cliff edge. but to-day there seemed no order anywhere. the sheep were scattered in twos and threes, straying hither and thither; and old roger alone was trying to collect them, and apparently having a hard time of it. the vicar saw his trouble, and rode up to him. "what is the matter, roger?" he asked kindly. "where is your dog?" "the boys have been throwing stones at him, sir," replied the old man. "they have broken his leg, poor beast, and he will never be good for anything again. i shall have to take a bit of cord and put an end to his misery." "oh!" cried florence, who had ridden up with the vicar. "poor cap! are you sure his leg is broken, roger?" "yes, miss, it's broke sure enough. he hasn't set foot to the ground since, and no one can't go anigh him but me. best put him out of his pain, i says." "no! no!" cried florence. "not till we have tried to help him. where is he?" "he's in the cottage, missy, but you can do nothing for him, you'll find. poor cap's days is over. ah; he were a good dog. do everything but speak, he could, and went as near to that as a dumb beast could. i'll never get another like him." while the old man lamented, florence was looking eagerly in the face of the clergyman. he met her look with a smile and nod. "we will go and see!" he said; and off they rode, leaving roger shaking his head and calling to the sheep. they soon reached the cottage. the door was fastened, and when they tried to open it a furious barking was heard within. a little boy came from the next cottage, bringing the key, which roger had left there. they entered, and there lay cap on the brick floor, helpless and weak, but still barking as hard as he could at what he supposed to be intruders. when he saw florence and the little boy he stopped barking, and wagged his tail feebly; then he crawled from under the table where he lay, dragged himself to florence's feet and looked up pitifully in her face. she knelt down by him, and soothed and petted and talked to him, while the good clergyman examined the injured leg. it was dreadfully swollen, and every touch was painful; but cap knew well enough that the hands that hurt were trying to help him, and though he moaned and winced, he licked the hands and made no effort to draw the leg away. "is it broken?" asked florence anxiously. "no," said the vicar. "no bones are broken. there's no reason why cap should not recover; all he needs is care and nursing." florence quietly laid down her riding whip and tucked up her sleeves. "what shall i do first?" she said. "well," said the vicar, "i think a hot compress is the thing." florence looked puzzled; the dolls had never had hot compresses. "what is it?" she asked. "just a cloth wrung out in boiling water and laid on, changing it as it cools. very simple, you see, nurse florence! the first thing is to light the fire." that was soon done, with the aid of the boy, who hovered about, interested, but ignorant of surgery. on went the kettle, and soon it was boiling merrily; but where were the cloths for the compresses? florence looked all about the room, but could see nothing save roger's clean smock frock which hung against the door. "this will do!" she cried. "mamma will give him another." the vicar nodded approval. quickly she tore the frock into strips of suitable width and length; bade the boy fill a basin from the kettle, and then kneeling down beside the wounded dog, florence nightingale for the first time gave "first aid to the wounded." as the heat drew out the inflammation and pain, cap looked up at the little helper, all his simple dog heart shining in his eyes; the look sank into the child's heart and deepened the tenderness already there. another step, and a great one, was taken on the blessed road she was to travel. florence came again the next day to bandage the leg; cap got entirely well, and tended sheep for many a year after that; and old roger was very grateful, and mrs. nightingale gave him a new smock frock, and everyone was happy; and that is the end of the story. chapter iii. the squire's daughter. it soon became a recognized thing in florence's own home and in all the neighborhood, that she was one of the sisters of mercy. nothing was too small, no creature too humble to awaken her sympathy and tenderness. when the stable cat had kittens, florence was the first to visit them, to fondle the tiny creatures and soothe their mother's angry fear. when she walked along the pleasant wood roads of lea hurst, the squirrels expected nuts as a matter of course, and could hardly wait for her to give them. when anyone in the village or farm fell ill, it was florence who was looked for to cheer and comfort. mrs. nightingale was a most kind and charitable lady, and delighted in sending delicacies to the sick. it was florence's happy privilege to carry them, and whether she walked or rode there was apt to be a basket on her arm or fastened to her saddlebow. if you think hard, you can see--at least i can--just how it would be. old goody brown's rheumatism, let us say, was very bad one morning. you children who read this know little about rheumatism. very likely you think it rather a funny word, and that it is just a thing that old people have, and that they make a good deal of fuss about. if it were a toothache, now, you say, or colic--but the truth is, no pain is in any way pleasant. if a red-hot sword were run into your back you would not like it? well, sometimes rheumatism is like that. so old goody brown was suffering, and very cross, just as we might be; and nothing suited her, poor old soul; her tea was too hot, and her porridge too cold, and her pillow set askew, and--dear! dear! dear! she wished she was dead, so she did. martha, her good patient daughter, was at her wits' ends. "send to the 'all'!" said poor old goody. "send for miss florence! she'll do something for me, i know." so a barefoot boy would trudge up to the great house, and very soon a light, slight figure would come quickly along the village street and enter the cottage. a slender girl, quietly dressed, with perfect neatness and taste; brown hair smoothly parted, shining like satin; gray-blue eyes full of light and thoughtfulness; regular features, an oval face, cheeks faintly tinted with rose--this was florence nightingale. i cannot tell you just what she had in the little basket on her arm, whether jelly or broth or chicken or oranges; there was sure to be something good beside the liniment and medicines to help the aching back and limbs. but the basket held the least of what she brought. at the very sound of her voice the fretful lines melted away from the poor old face. i cannot tell you--i wish i could--the words she said, this little sister of mercy, yet i can almost hear her speak, in that sweet, cordial voice whose range held no harsh note; can see her setting the pillow straight and smooth, making the little tray dainty and pretty with the posy she had brought, coaxing the old woman to eat, making her laugh over some story of her pets and their droll ways. perhaps before leaving she would open the worn bible or prayer book, and read a psalm; can you not see her sitting by the bedside, her pretty head bent over the book, her face full of tenderness and reverence? i am sure that when she went away there was peace and comfort in that cottage room, and that heartfelt blessings followed the "angel child" as she went on her homeward way. "she had a way with her," they said; and that meant more than volumes of praise. the flowers that florence used to carry were from her own garden, i like to think. both at lea hurst and embley, she and her sister had each her own little garden and gardening tools. florence was a good gardener; indeed, i think she was a good everything that she tried to be, just because she tried. she dug, and sowed, and watered, pruned and tied up and did all the things a garden needs; and so her garden was full of flowers all summer long, giving delight to her and to every sick or lonely or sorrowful person for miles around. as florence and her sister grew older they became more and more helpful to their parents in the good works that they both loved to carry on. i have read a delightful account of the "feast day" of the village school-children, as it used to be given at lea hurst when florence was a girl. the children gathered together at the school-house, all in their best frocks and pinafores, and walked in procession up the street and through the fields to lea hurst. each child carried a posy and a stick wreathed with flowers, and at the head of the procession marched a band of music, provided by the good squire. in the field below the garden tables were set, and here mrs. nightingale and her daughters, aided by the servants, served tea and buns and cakes, waiting on their little guests, and seeing that every child got all he wanted--or at least all that was good for him. then when all had eaten and drunk their fill, the band struck up, and the boys and girls danced on the green to their hearts' content. what did they dance? polkas, perhaps, and the redowa, a pretty round dance with a good deal of stamping in it; and of course sir roger de coverley, which is very like our virginia reel. (if you do not know about sir roger de coverley himself, ask papa to tell you or read you about him, for he is one of the pleasantest persons you will ever know.) perhaps they sang, too; perhaps they sang the pretty old maypole song. do you know it? come lasses and lads, get leave of your dads, and away to the maypole hie, for ev'ry fair has a sweetheart there, and the fiddler's standing by. for willy shall dance with jane, and johnny has got his joan, to trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it up and down. "you're out!" says dick, "not i," says nick, "'twas the fiddler play'd it wrong." "'tis true," says hugh, and so says sue, and so says ev'ry one; the fiddler then began to play the tune again, and ev'ry girl did trip it, trip it, trip it to the men. then when feast and dance and song were all over, it was time to reform the procession and take up the homeward march. the two sisters, florence and parthe, had disappeared during the dancing; but now, as the procession passed along the terrace, there they were, standing behind a long table; a table at sight of which the children's eyes grew round and bright, for it was covered from end to end with presents. such delightful presents! books, and pretty boxes and baskets, thimble-cases and needle-books and pin-cushions; dolls, too, i am sure, for the little ones, and scrap-books, and--but you can fill up the list for yourself with everything you like best in the way of pretty, simple, useful gifts. i am quite sure that florence would not have wished to give the children foolish or elaborate gimcracks, and that mr. nightingale would never have allowed it if she had; and i think it probable that many of the gifts were made by the two sisters and their kind and clever mother. all about lea hurst, in many and many a pleasant cottage home, those little gifts are treasured to-day like the relics of some blessed saint; which indeed is just what they are. the saint is still living, and some of the children of the school feasts are living, too, and now in their age will show with pride and joy the gifts they received long ago from the hands of the beloved miss florence. as florence grew up to womanhood she found more and more work to do. there were mills and factories in the neighborhood of lea hurst; and in the hosiery mills, especially, hundreds of women and girls were employed, many of whom lived on the nightingale estate. she may have been seventeen or eighteen when she started her bible class for the young women of the district, holding it in the tiny ancient chapel at lea hurst which i described in the first chapter. gathering the girls around her, she would read a chapter from the bible, and then give them her thoughts about it, and explain the difficult passages; then they would all sing together, her sweet, clear voice leading the hymns. here is another memory very precious to the old women who were once those happy girls. they love to tell "how beautifully miss florence used to talk." long years after, when miss nightingale, spent with her noble labors, would come to lea hurst for a time of rest and refreshment, the daughters of these girls counted it a high privilege to gather on the lawn under her window and sing to her as she sat in the room above; and would go home proud and happy as queens if they had seen the saintly face smiling from the window. shall i try to show you florence nightingale at seventeen? her face was little changed from that of the girl we saw in the cottage, cheering old goody brown. she still wore her hair brushed smoothly "madonna-wise" on either side her face; often, now, she wore a rose at the side, tucked in among the shining braids or coils. you would think her frocks very queer if you saw them to-day, but then they were extremely pretty; full skirts (no crinoline! that was to come later) and full sleeves, with broad flat collar of lace or embroidery. when she went to church or to make visits she wore a spencer, a kind of full plaited jacket with a belt, something like a norfolk jacket--only different! and a leghorn bonnet. you have seen pictures of the leghorn bonnets of the thirties and forties; "coal-scuttles," some people called them, and they were something the shape of a scuttle. some of them were enormous in size, and they look queer enough now in the pictures, or--if your grandmamma had a way of keeping things--in the "dress-up" trunk or cupboard in the attic. but people who were young in those days tell me that they were extremely becoming, and that a pretty face never looked prettier that when it peeped out from the depths of a huge straw "coal-scuttle." when florence rode on horseback, her habit was so long that it nearly touched the ground (that is, if she followed the fashion of the day, but i should not wonder a bit if she and her mother were too sensible!) and she wore a round, broad-brimmed hat with long ostrich plumes. i remember a picture of the princess royal (afterwards empress frederick of germany), in a costume like this, which i thought one of the most beautiful things i ever saw, so i shall imagine florence, on an afternoon ride with the squire, let us say, dressed in this way; but when scampering about on her pony, i trust, she wore a less cumbrous costume. you will remember that the nightingales spent the winter at embley park, in hampshire. here, too, florence was busy in good and helpful work. at christmas time she found her best pleasure in giving presents to young and old among the poor people about her, in getting up entertainments for the children, training them to sing, arranging treats for the old people in the poorhouse. on christmas eve the village carol singers would come and sing on the lawn; old english carols, that had been sung by generation after generation. poor anthony babington over at lea hall may have listened on christmas eve to the same sweet old songs. as joseph was a-walking, he heard an angel sing, "this night shall be the birthnight of christ our heavenly king. "his birth-bed shall be neither in housen nor in hall, nor in the place of paradise, but in the oxen's stall. "he neither shall be rockèd in silver nor in gold, but in the wooden manger that lieth in the mold. "he neither shall be washen with white wine nor with red, but with the fair spring water that on you shall be shed. "he neither shall be clothèd in purple nor in pall, but in the fair white linen that usen babies all." as joseph was a-walking, thus did the angel sing, and mary's son at midnight was born to be our king. then be you glad, good people, at this time of the year; and light you up your candles, for his star it shineth clear. then who so glad as florence to call the singers in and bid them welcome and "merry christmas!" and aid in distributing the mince pies and silver coins which were always their due. when florence was fairly "grown up," other things came into her life, the gay and merry things that come to so many girls. mr. nightingale was a man of wealth and position, and liked his wife and daughters to have their share in the gayeties of the county. so there were many parties, at embley and elsewhere, and florence danced as gayly, i doubt not, as the other girls. she went to london, too, and she and her sister were presented to queen victoria, and had their share of the brilliant society of the time. but much as she may have enjoyed all this for a time, still her heart was not in it, and she soon tired, i fancy, of dancing and dressing and visiting. already her mind was turning to other things, already her clear eyes were looking forward to other ways of life, other methods of work. chapter iv. looking out. step by step, and all unconsciously, florence nightingale had been training her hand and eye to follow the dictates of her keen mind and loving heart. now, grown a young woman, she began to think seriously how she should apply this training. what should she do with her life? should she go on like her friends, in the quiet pleasant ways of country life? the squire's daughter was busy enough, surely. every hour of the day was full of useful, kindly work, of happy, healthy play; should she be content with this? her heart told her that she was not content. in her friendly visiting among the sick poor she had seen much misery and suffering, far more than she and all the other kindly ladies could attempt to relieve. she felt that something more was needed; she began to look around to see what was being done in the larger world. it was about this time that she met elizabeth fry, the noble and beautiful friend of the prisoner. mrs. fry was then an elderly woman, with all the glory of her saintly life shining about her; florence nightingale an earnest and thoughtful girl of perhaps eighteen or twenty. it is pleasant to think of that meeting. i do not know what words passed between them, but i can almost see them together, the beautiful stately woman in her quaker dress, the slender girl with her quiet face and earnest eyes; can almost hear the young voice, questioning, eager and ardent; the elder answering, grave and sedate, words full of weight and wisdom, of sweetness and tenderness. this interview was one of the great moments of florence nightingale's early life. a little later than this, in , she met another person whose words and counsel impressed her deeply; and of this meeting i can give you a clearer account, for that person was my own dear father, dr. samuel g. howe. some ten years before this my father had decided to devote his life to helping people who needed help. he had established a school for the blind in boston; he had brought laura bridgman, the blind, deaf mute, out of her loneliness and taught her to read, write, and talk with her fingers; the first time this had ever been done with a person so afflicted. he had labored to help the prisoners and captives in the north, and the slaves in the south; in short he was what is called a _philanthropist_, that is, one who loves his fellow-men and tries to help them. my father and mother were traveling in england soon after their marriage, and were invited by mr. and mrs. nightingale to spend a few days at embley park. one morning miss nightingale (for so i must call her now that she is a woman) met my father in the garden and said to him: "dr. howe, you have had much experience in the world of philanthropy; you are a medical man and a gentleman; now may i ask you to tell me, upon your word, whether it would be anything unsuitable or unbecoming to a young englishwoman, if she should devote herself to works of charity, in hospitals and elsewhere, as the catholic sisters do?" my father replied: "my dear miss florence, it would be unusual, and in england whatever is unusual is apt to be thought unsuitable; but i say to you, go forward, if you have a vocation for that way of life; act up to your aspiration, and you will find that there is never anything unbecoming or unladylike in doing your duty for the good of others. choose your path, go on with it, wherever it may lead you, and god be with you!" it was in this spirit that miss nightingale now began to train herself for her life work. it is hard for you children of to-day to imagine what nursing was in the early part of the nineteenth century. to you a nurse means a trim, alert, cheerful person in spotless raiment, who knows just what to do when you are ill, and does it in the pleasantest possible manner; you are glad when she comes into the room, sorry when she leaves. but this pleasant person did not exist in those days, except in the guise of a catholic sister of charity. the other nurses were for the most part coarse and ignorant women, often cruel, often intemperate. when you read "martin chuzzlewit" you will find out more about them than i can tell you. but "martin chuzzlewit" was not written when miss nightingale determined to find out the condition of nursing in england and on the continent. she first spent some months in the london hospitals, and then visited those in scotland and ireland. she was horrified at what she found there; dirt and misery and needless suffering among the patients, drunkenness and ignorance and brutality among the nurses. then she turned to the continent and found a very different state of things. the hospitals were clean and cheerful, and the sisters of mercy in their white caps and aprons were as good and kind and capable as our trained nurses to-day. up to this time these good sisters had been the only trained nurses in europe; but in germany miss nightingale found a protestant sisterhood which was working along the same lines, and in a more enlightened and modern way; these were the deaconesses of kaiserswerth, the pupils of pastor fliedner. this good man--one of the best men, surely, that ever lived--was the son of a lutheran minister. his father was poor, and theodore had to work his way through college, but this he did cheerfully, for he loved work. he studied very hard and also gave lessons, sawed wood, blacked boots, and did other odd jobs. when his clothes began to wear out he sewed up the holes with white thread, all he had, and then inked it over. he loved children, and on the long tramps he used to take in vacation time he was always collecting songs and games, and teaching them to the children. when he was twenty-two years old theodore fliedner became pastor of a small protestant parish at kaiserswerth on the rhine. the people were so poor that they could do little either for their church or themselves, so the young pastor set out on foot to seek aid from other christian people. he traveled in germany, holland and england, and everywhere people felt his goodness and gave him help. in london he met elizabeth fry, and the noble work she was doing among the prisoners at newgate made a deep impression on him. he determined to do something to help the prisoners in germany, especially the poor women, who, after being imprisoned for a certain time, were cast upon the world with no possession save an ill name. in his little garden stood an old summerhouse, partly ruinous, but with strong walls. with his own hands the good pastor mended the roof and made the place clean and habitable. he put in a bed, a table and a chair, and then prayed that god would send to this shelter some poor soul who needed it. one night a homeless outcast woman came to the door, and the pastor and his wife bade her welcome, and took her to the clean pleasant room that was all ready. in this humble way opened the now famous institution of kaiserswerth. other poor women soon found out the friendly shelter; in a short time a new and larger building was needed, and more helping hands beside those of the good pastor and his devoted wife. the good work grew and grew; some of the poor women had children, and so a school was started; the school must have good teachers, and so a training school for teachers was opened. but most of all pastor fliedner wished to help the condition of the sick poor; three years after the first opening of the summerhouse shelter in the garden he founded the deaconess hospital. we are told that it was opened "practically without patients and without deaconesses." he obtained the use of part of a deserted factory, and begged from his neighbors old furniture and broken crockery, which he mended carefully, and put in the big empty rooms. he had only six sheets, but there was plenty of water to wash them, and when the first patient, a poor suffering servant maid, came to the door, she was made comfortable in a spotless bed, in a clean though bare room. i wish i could tell you the whole beautiful story, but it would take too long. by the end of the year there were sixty patients in the hospital, and seven deaconess nurses to care for them. to-day there is a deaconess hospital or home in almost every town in germany, and thousands upon thousands of sick and poor people bless the deaconesses, though they may never have heard the name of pastor fliedner. chapter v. waiting for the call. miss nightingale spent two periods of training at kaiserswerth. when she left it finally, good pastor fliedner laid his hands on her head and gave her his blessing in simple and earnest words; and she carried with her the love and good wishes of all the pious and benevolent community. i wish we had a picture of her in her deaconess costume. the blue cotton gown, white apron and wide collar, and white muslin cap tied under the chin with a large bow, must have set off her pensive beauty very sweetly. she always kept a tender recollection of kaiserswerth, and says in a letter: "never have i met with a higher love and a purer devotion than there." on her way home, miss nightingale spent some time with the sisters of st. vincent de paul in paris. here she saw what was probably the best nursing in the world at that time; and she studied the methods in her usual careful way, not only in the hospitals, but in the homes of the poor and suffering, where the good sisters came and went like ministering angels. she had still another opportunity, and this an unsought one, of learning what they had to teach, for she fell ill herself, and was tenderly cared for and restored to health by these skillful and devoted women. returning to england, she spent some time in the quiet of home, and as her strength returned, took up her old work of visiting among the sick and poor of the neighborhood. but this could not keep her long. it was not that she did not love it, and did not love her home dearly, but there were other benevolent ladies who could do this work. she realized this, and realized too, though perhaps unconsciously, that she could do harder work than this, and that there was plenty of hard work waiting to be done. she soon found it. a call came asking her to be superintendent of a home for sick governesses in london, and she accepted it at once. did you ever think how hard governesses have to work? did you ever think how tired they must often be, and how their heads must ache--and perhaps their hearts, too--when they are trying to teach you the lessons that you--perhaps again--are not always willing to learn? well, try to remember, those of you who have your lessons in this way! remember that you can make the teaching a pain or a pleasure, just as you choose; and that, after all, the teacher is trying to help you, and to give you knowledge that some day you would be very sorry not to have. in the days of which we are speaking, governesses had a much harder time than nowadays, i think. for one thing, there were not so many different ways in which women could earn their bread. when a girl had to make her own living she went out as a governess almost as a matter of course, whether she had any love for teaching or not, simply because there was nothing else to do. so the teaching was often mere drudgery, and often, too, was not well done; and that meant discontent and unhappiness, and very likely broken health to follow. the harley street home, as it was then called, was founded to help poor gentlewomen who had lost their health in this kind of life. when miss nightingale came to it, things were in a bad condition, owing to lack of means and good management. the friends of the institution were discouraged; but discouragement, was a word not to be found in miss nightingale's dictionary. there was no money? well, there must _be_ money! she went quietly to work, interested her own friends to subscribe, then talked with the discouraged people, restoring their confidence and inducing them to renew their subscriptions; and soon, with no fuss or flourish of trumpets, the money was in hand. then she proceeded, just as quietly, to reorganize the whole institution; engaged competent nurses, arranged the daily life of the inmates, planned and wrote and worked, every day and all day, till she had brought order out of chaos, and made the home, instead of a place of disorder and discontent, one of comfort, peace, and cheerfulness. you must not think that this was light or pleasant work. sick and nervous and broken-down women are not easy to deal with; a hospital (for this is what the home really was) is not an easy thing to organize and superintend. it meant, as i have said, hard and vexatious work every day and all day; and i dare say that often and often, when night came, florence nightingale lay down to rest more weary than any of her patients. at length her health gave way under the strain; she broke down, and was forced to give up the work and go home to embley for a long rest. it was here, in her own home, amid her own beautiful fields and gardens, that the call came which summoned her to the great work of her life. chapter vi. the trumpet call. willie, fold your little hands;[ ] let it drop--that "soldier" toy; look where father's picture stands-- father, that here kissed his boy not a month since--father kind, who this night may--(never mind mother's sob, my willie dear) cry out loud that he may hear who is god of battles--cry, "god keep father safe this day by the alma river!" ask no more, child. never heed either russ, or frank, or turk; right of nations, trampled creed, chance-poised victory's bloody work; any flag i' the wind may roll on thy heights, sevastopol! willie, all to you and me is that spot, whate'er it be, where he stands--no other word-- _stands_--god sure the child's prayers heard-- near the alma river. willie, listen to the bells ringing in the town to-day; that's for victory. no knell swells for the many swept away-- hundreds, thousands. let us weep, we, who need not--just to keep reason clear in thought and brain till the morning comes again; till the third dread morning tell who they were that fought and--_fell_ by the alma river. come, we'll lay us down, my child; poor the bed is--poor and hard; but thy father, far exiled, sleeps upon the open sward, dreaming of us two at home; or, beneath the starry dome, digs out trenches in the dark, where he buries--willie, mark! where _he buries_ those who died fighting--fighting at his side-- by the alma river. willie, willie, go to sleep; god will help us, o my boy! he will make the dull hours creep faster, and send news of joy; when i need not shrink to meet those great placards in the street, that for weeks will ghastly stare in some eyes--child, say that prayer once again--a different one-- say "o god! thy will be done, by the alma river." open your atlas at the map of russia. look down toward the bottom, at that part of the great empire which borders on the euxine or black sea; there you will find a small peninsula--it is really almost an island, being surrounded on three sides by water--labeled "_crimea_." it is only a part of one of the smallest of russia's forty-odd provinces, the province of taurida; yet it is one of the famous places of history, for here, in the years and , was fought the crimean war, one of the greatest wars of modern times. russia and turkey have never been good neighbors. they have always been jealous of each other, always quarreling about this or that, the fact being that each is afraid of the other's getting too much land and too much power. in these disputes the other countries of europe have generally sympathized with turkey, feeling that russia had quite enough power, and that if she had more it might be dangerous for all of them. some day you will read in history about the eastern question and the balance of power, and will find out just what these meant in the fifties; but this is all that you need know now, in order to understand what i am going to tell you. in turkey, feeling that russia was pressing too hard upon her, called upon the other european powers to help her. the result was that england, france, sardinia (now a part of italy, but then a separate kingdom), and turkey made an agreement with one another, and all together declared war upon russia. england had been at peace with all the world for forty years, ever since the wars of napoleon, which were closed by the great victory of waterloo. the english are a brave race; they had forgotten the horrors of war, and remembered only its glories and its victories; and they sprang to arms as joyously as boys run to a football game. "sharpen your cutlasses, and the day is ours!" said sir charles napier to his men, just before the british fleet sailed; and this was the feeling all through the country. the fleets of the allied powers gathered in the black sea, forming one great armada; surrounded the peninsula of the crimea, and landed their armies. in september, , was fought the first great battle, by the alma river. the allies were victorious, and a great shout of joy went up all over england. "victory! victory!" cried old and young. there were bells and bonfires and illuminations; the whole country went mad with joy, and for a short time no one thought of anything except glory, waving banners and sounding trumpets. but banners and trumpets, though a real part of war, are only a very small part. after a little time, through the shouting and rejoicing a different sound was heard; the sound of weeping and lamentation, not only for the hundreds of brave men who were lying dead beside the fatal river, but for the other hundreds of sick and wounded soldiers, dying for want of care. there had been gross neglect and terrible mismanagement in the carrying on of the war. nobody knew just whose fault it was, but everything seemed to be lacking that was most needed on that desolate shore of the crimea. the english troops were in an enemy's country, and a poor country at that; whatever supplies there were had been taken by the russian armies for their own needs. food and clothing had been sent out from england in great quantities, but somehow, no one could find them. some supplies had been stowed in the hold of vessels, and other things piled on top so that they could not be got at; some were stored in warehouses which no one had authority to open; some were actually rotting at the wharves, for want of precise orders as to their disposal. the surgeons had no bandages, the doctors no medicines; it was a state of things that to-day we can hardly imagine. indeed, it seemed as if the need were so great and terrible that it paralyzed those who saw it. "it is now pouring rain," wrote william howard russell to the london _times_, "the skies are black as ink, the wind is howling over the staggering tents, the trenches are turned into dykes; in the tents the water is sometimes a foot deep; our men have not either warm or waterproof clothing; they are out for twelve hours at a time in the trenches; they are plunged into the inevitable miseries of a winter campaign--and not a soul seems to care for their comfort, or even for their lives. these are hard truths, but the people of england must hear them. they must know that the wretched beggar who wanders about the streets of london in the rain, leads the life of a prince compared with the british soldiers who are fighting out here for their country. * * * * * "the commonest accessories of a hospital are wanting; there is not the least attention paid to decency or clean linen; the stench is appalling; the fetid air can hardly struggle out to taint the atmosphere, save through the chinks in the walls and roofs; and for all i can observe, these men die without the least effort being made to save them. there they lie, just as they were let gently down on the ground by the poor fellows, their comrades, who brought them on their backs from the camp with the greatest tenderness, but who are not allowed to remain with them. the sick appear to be tended by the sick, and the dying by the dying." he added that the snow was three feet deep on a level, and the cold so intense that many soldiers were frozen in their tents. no one meant to be cruel or neglectful; but there were not half enough doctors, and--think of it, children! there were _no nurses_. how did this happen? well, when the war broke out the military authorities did not want female nurses. the matter was talked over, and it was decided that things would go better without them. this was put on the ground that the class of nurses, as i have told you, was at that time in england a very poor one. they were often drunken, generally unfeeling, and always ignorant. the war department decided that this kind of nurse would do more harm than good; they did not realize that "the old order changeth, yielding place to new," and that the time was come when the new nurse must replace the old. but now the need was come, immediate and terrible, and there was no one to meet it. when the people of england realized this; when they learned that the hospital at scutari was filled with sick and wounded and dying men, and no one to care for them save a few male orderlies, wholly untrained for the task; when they heard that in the hospitals of the french army the sisters of mercy were doing their blessed work, tending the wounded, healing the sick and comforting the dying, and realized that the english soldiers, their own sons, brothers and husbands, had no such help and no such comfort, the sound of bell and trumpet was lost in a great cry of anger and sorrow that went up from the whole country. and matters grew worse and worse, as one great battle after another sent its dreadful fruits to the already overflowing hospital at scutari. on october th came balaklava; on november th, inkerman. you have all read "the charge of the light brigade"; yet i ask you to read it again here, so that it may fit into its place in the story of this terrible war. remember, it is only one incident of that great battle of balaklava, in which both sides claimed the victory, while neither gained any signal advantage. half a league, half a league,[ ] half a league onward, all in the valley of death rode the six hundred. "forward, the light brigade! charge for the guns!" he said; into the valley of death rode the six hundred. "forward, the light brigade!" was there a man dismayed? not though the soldier knew someone had blundered; theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die: into the valley of death rode the six hundred. cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon in front of them volleyed and thundered. stormed at with shot and shell, boldly they rode and well; into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell, rode the six hundred. flashed all their sabres bare, flashed as they turned in air, sabring the gunners there, charging an army, while all the world wondered; plunged in the battery-smoke, right through the line they broke. cossack and russian reeled from the sabre-stroke, shattered and sundered. then they rode back, but not-- not the six hundred. cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon behind them volleyed and thundered: stormed at with shot and shell, while horse and hero fell, they that had fought so well came through the jaws of death back from the mouth of hell-- all that was left of them, left of six hundred. when can their glory fade? o the wild charge they made! all the world wondered. honor the charge they made! honor the light brigade, noble six hundred! i have already spoken of william howard russell. he was the war correspondent of the _times_, the great english newspaper, and a man of intelligence, heart and feeling. he was on the spot, and saw the horrors of the war at first-hand. his heart was filled with sorrow and pity for the suffering around him, and with indignation that so little was done to relieve it; and he wrote day after day home to england, telling what he saw and what was needed. soon after balaklava he wrote: "are there no devoted women amongst us, able and willing to go forth to minister to the sick and suffering soldiers of the east in the hospitals at scutari? are there none of the daughters of england, at this extreme hour of need, ready for such a work of mercy? france has sent forth her sisters of mercy unsparingly, and they are even now by the bedsides of the wounded and the dying, giving what woman's hand alone can give of comfort and relief. must we fall so far below the french in self-sacrifice and devotedness, in a work which christ so signally blesses as done unto himself? 'i was sick and ye visited me.'" this was the trumpet call that rang in the ears of the women of england, sounding a clearer note than all the clarions of victory. we shall see how it was answered. chapter vii. the response. mr. sidney herbert (afterwards lord herbert of lea) was at this time at the head of the war department in england. he was a man of noble nature and tender heart, whose whole life was spent in doing good, and in helping those who needed help. he heard with deep distress the dreadful tidings of suffering that came from the crimea, and his heart responded instantly to the call for help. yes, the women of england must rise up and go to that far, desolate land to tend and nurse the sick and wounded and dying; but who should lead them? what one woman had the strength, the power, the wisdom, the tenderness, to meet and overcome the terrible conditions? asking himself this question, mr. herbert answered without a moment's hesitation: "florence nightingale!" he knew miss nightingale well; she was a dear friend of himself and his beautiful wife, and had again and again given them help and counsel in planning and managing their many charities, hospitals, homes for sick children, and so forth. he knew that she possessed all the qualities needed for this work, and he wrote to her, asking if she would undertake it. would she, he asked, go out to scutari, taking with her a band of nurses who would be under her orders, and take charge of the hospital nursing? he did not make light of the task. "the selection of the rank and file of nurses would be difficult--no one knows that better than yourself. the difficulty of finding women equal to a task after all full of horror, and requiring, besides intelligence and goodwill, great knowledge and great courage will be great; the task of ruling them and introducing system among them great, and not the least will be the difficulty of making the whole work smoothly with the medical and military authorities out there. this it is which makes it so important that the experiment should be carried out by one with administrative capacity and experience." he went on to assure miss nightingale that she should have full power and authority, and told her frankly that in his opinion she was the one woman in england who was capable of performing this great task. "i must not conceal from you that upon your decision will depend the ultimate success or failure of the plan.... if this succeeds, an enormous amount of good will be done now, and to persons deserving everything at our hands; and which will multiply the good to all time." it was a noble letter, this of mr. herbert's, but he might have spared himself the trouble of writing it. florence nightingale, in her quiet country home, had heard the call to the women of england; and even while mr. herbert was composing his letter to her, she was writing to him, a brief note, simply offering her services in the hospitals at scutari. her letter crossed his on the way; and the next day it was proclaimed from the war office that miss nightingale, "a lady with greater practical experience of hospital administration and treatment than any other lady in the country," had been appointed by government to the office of superintendent of nurses at scutari, and had undertaken the work of organizing and taking out nurses thither. great was the amazement in england. nothing of this kind had ever been heard of before. "who is miss nightingale?" people cried all over the country. they were answered by the newspapers. first the _examiner_ and then the _times_ told them that miss nightingale was "a young lady of singular endowments both natural and acquired. in a knowledge of the ancient languages and of the higher branches of mathematics, in general art, science, and literature, her attainments are extraordinary. there is scarcely a modern language which she does not understand, and she speaks french, german and italian as fluently as her native english. she has visited and studied all the various nations of europe, and has ascended the nile to its remotest cataract. young (about the age of our queen), graceful, feminine, rich, popular, she holds a singularly gentle and persuasive influence over all with whom she comes in contact. her friends and acquaintances are of all classes and persuasions, but her happiest place is at home, in the centre of a very large band of accomplished relatives, and in simplest obedience to her admiring parents." one who knew our heroine well wrote in a more personal vein: "miss nightingale is one of those whom god forms for great ends. you cannot hear her say a few sentences--no, not even look at her, without feeling that she is an extraordinary being. simple, intellectual, sweet, full of love and benevolence, she is a fascinating and perfect woman. she is tall and pale. her face is exceedingly lovely; but better than all is the soul's glory that shines through every feature so exultingly. nothing can be sweeter than her smile. it is like a sunny day in summer." though well known among a large circle of earnest and high-minded persons, miss nightingale's name was entirely new to the english people as a whole, and--everything else apart--they were delighted with its beauty. had she been plain mary smith, she would have done just as good work, but it would have been far harder for her to start it. florence nightingale was a name to conjure with, as the saying is, and it echoed far and wide. everybody who could write verses (and many who could not), began instantly to write about nightingales. _punch_ printed a cartoon showing a hospital ward, with the "ladybirds" hovering about the cots of the sick men, each bird having a nurse's head. another picture represented one of the bird-nurses flying through the air, carrying in her claws a jug labeled "fomentation, embrocation, gruel." this was called "the jug of the nightingale," for many people think that some of the bird's beautiful, liquid notes sound like "jug, jug, jug!" not content with pictures, _punch_ printed "the nightingale's song to the sick soldier," which became very popular, and was constantly quoted in those days. listen, soldier, to the tale of the tender nightingale, 'tis a charm that soon will ease your wounds so cruel, singing medicine for your pain, in a sympathetic strain, with a jug, jug, jug of lemonade or gruel. singing bandages and lint; salve and cerate without stint, singing plenty both of liniment and lotion, and your mixtures pushed about, and the pills for you served out with alacrity and promptitude of motion. singing light and gentle hands, and a nurse who understands how to manage every sort of application, from a poultice to a leech; whom you haven't got to teach the way to make a poppy fomentation. singing pillow for you, smoothed; smart and ache and anguish soothed, by the readiness of feminine invention; singing fever's thirst allayed, and the bed you've tumbled made with a cheerful and considerate attention. singing succour to the brave, and a rescue from the grave, hear the nightingale that's come to the crimea; 'tis a nightingale as strong in her heart as in her song, to carry out so gallant an idea. of course there were some people who shook their heads; there always are when any new work is undertaken. some thought it was improper for women to nurse in a military hospital; others thought they would be useless, or worse; others again thought that the nurses would ruin their own health and be sent home in a month to the hospitals of england. there were still other objections, which were strongly felt in those days, however strange they may sound in our ears to-day. "oh, dreadful!" said some people; "miss nightingale is a unitarian!" "oh, shocking!" said others. "miss nightingale is a roman catholic!" and so it went on. but while they were talking and exclaiming, drawing pictures and singing songs, miss nightingale was getting ready. in six days from the time she undertook the work she was ready to start, with thirty nurses, chosen with infinite care and pains from the hundreds who had volunteered to go. there was no flourish of trumpets. while england was still wondering how they could go, and whether they ought to be allowed to go--behold, they were gone! slipping away by night, as if they were bound on some secret errand. indeed, miss nightingale has never been able to endure "fuss and feathers," and all her life she has looked for a bushel large enough to hide her light under, though happily she has never succeeded. only a few relatives and near friends stood on the railway platform on that evening of october , . miss nightingale, simply dressed in black, was very quiet, very serene, with a cheerful word for everyone; no one who saw her parting look and smile ever forgot them. so, in night and silence, the "angel band" whose glory was soon to shine over all the world, left the shores of england. but though england slept that night, france was wide awake the next morning. the fishwives of boulogne had heard what was doing across the channel, and were on the lookout. when miss nightingale and her nurses stepped ashore they were met by a band of women, in snowy caps and rainbow-striped petticoats, all with outstretched hands, all crying, "welcome, welcome, our english sisters!" they knew, marie and jeanne and suzette. their own husbands, sons, and brothers were fighting and dying in the crimea; their own nurses, the blessed sisters of mercy, had from the first been toiling in hospital and trench in that dreadful land; how should they not welcome the english sisters who were going to join in the holy work? loudly they proclaimed that none but themselves, the fishwives of boulogne, should help the _soeurs anglaises_. they shouldered bag and baggage; they swung the heavy trunks up on their broad backs, and with laughter and tears mingled in true french fashion, trudged away to the railway station. pay? not a sou; not a centime! the blessing of our english sisters is all we desire; and if they should chance to see pierre or jacques _là-bas_--ah! the heavens are over all. a handshake, then, and _adieu! adieu! vivent les soeurs!_ the good god go with you! and that prayer was surely answered. chapter viii. scutari. open the atlas once more at the map of russia, and look downward from the crimea, across the black sea toward the southwest. you see a narrow strait marked "bosporus" leading from the black sea to the sea of marmora; and on either side of the strait a black dot, one marked "constantinople," the other "scutari." it is to scutari that we are going, but we must not pass the other places without a word, for they are very famous. this is the land of story, and every foot of ground, every trickle of water, has its legend or fairy tale, or true story of sorrow or heroism. bosporus means "the cow's ford." it was named, the old story says, for io, a beautiful maiden beloved of zeus. to conceal her from the eyes of hera, his jealous wife, zeus turned io into a snow-white heifer; but hera, suspecting the truth, persuaded him to give the poor pretty creature to her. then followed a sad time. hera set argus, a giant with a hundred eyes, to watch the heifer, lest she escape and regain her human form. the poor heifer-maiden was so unhappy that zeus sent hermes to set her free; and the cunning god told stories to argus till he fell asleep, and then cut off his head, hundred eyes and all. hera took the eyes and put them in the tail of her sacred peacock, and there they are to this day. meantime io ran away as fast as she could, but she could not escape the vengeance of the jealous goddess. hera sent a gadfly after her, which stung her cruelly, and pursued her over land and sea. the poor creature fled wildly hither and thither; swam across the ionian sea, which has borne her name ever since; roamed over the whole breadth of what is now turkey, and finally came to the narrow strait or ford between the two seas. here she crossed again, and went on her weary way; and here again she left--not her own name, but that of the animal in whose form she suffered. poor io! one is glad to read that she was released at last, and given her woman's body again. true? no, the story is not true, but it is very famous. those of you who care about moths will find another reminder of io in the beautiful _saturnia io_, which is named for the greek maiden and her cruel foe, saturnia being another name for hera or juno. the scenery along the banks of the bosporus is so beautiful that whole books have been written about it. on either side are seven promontories and seven bays; indeed, it is almost a chain of seven lakes, connected by seven swift-rushing currents. the promontories are crowned with villages, towns, palaces, ruins, each with its own beauty, its own interest, its own story; but we cannot stay for these; we must go onward to where, at the lower end of the passage, with its long, narrow harbor, the golden horn, curling round it, lies constantinople, the wonder-city. here indeed we must stop for a moment, for this is one of the most famous cities of history. in ancient days, when rome was in her glory and long before, it was byzantium that lay shining in the curve of the golden horn; byzantium the rich, the powerful, the desired of all; fought over through successive generations by persian, greek, gaul and roman; conquered, liberated, conquered again. in the second century of our era it was besieged by the roman emperor severus, and after a heroic resistance lasting three years, was taken and laid waste by the conqueror. but the city sprang up again, more beautiful than ever, and a century and a half later the emperor constantine made it the capital of the roman empire, and gave it his own name. constantinopolis, the city of constantine; so it became in the year , and so it remains to this day, but not under the rule of romans or their descendants. "blessed shall he be who shall take constantinople!" so, three hundred years later, exclaimed mohammed, the prophet and leader of men. his disciples and followers never forgot the saying, and many wars were fought, many desperate attempts made by the mohammedans to win the wonder city. it was another mohammed, not a prophet but a great soldier, surnamed the conqueror, who finally conquered it, in , after another tremendous siege, of which you will read in history. there is a terrible story about the entry of this savage conqueror into the city. it is said that its inhabitants, mostly christians, though of various nationalities, took refuge in the great church of st. sophia, and were there barbarously slaughtered by the ferocious turks. in the south aisle of the church the dead lay piled in great heaps, and in over this dreadful rampart rode mohammed on his war horse; and as he rode, he lifted his bloody right hand and smote one of the pillars, and there--so the story says--the mark may be seen to this day. from that time to our own constantinople has been the capital city of the turkish empire. again, i wish i might tell you about at least a few of its many wonders, for i have seen some of them, but again i must hasten on. the city is so great that it overflows in every direction; in fact, there are three cities in one: stamboul, the central division, filling the tongue of land between the golden horn and the sea of marmora; galata, on the farther bank of the horn; and scutari, on the opposite shore of the bosporus. it is to the last-named that we are going. although actually a suburb of constantinople, scutari is a town in itself, and a large and ancient one. in the earliest times of the great persian monarchy, it was called _chrysopolis_, the golden city. its present name means in persian a courier who carries royal orders from station to station; that is because the place has always, from its earliest days, been a _rendezvous_ for caravans, messengers, travelers of every description. here xenophon and his greeks, returning from the war against cyrus, halted for seven days while the soldiers disposed of the booty they had won in the campaign. here, for hundreds of years, stood the three colossal statues, forty-eight feet high, erected by the byzantians in honor of the athenians, who had saved them from destruction at the hands of philip the lacedæmonian. here, to-day, are mosques and convents, palaces and tombs, especially the last; for the burying ground of scutari is one of the largest in the world, and its silent avenues hold, some say, twenty times as many dwellers as the gay and noisy streets of stamboul. it is a strange place, this great burying ground. beside each tomb rises a cypress tree, tall and majestic. the tombs themselves are mostly pillars of marble, with a globe or ball on the top; and perched atop of this globe is in many cases a turban or a fez, carved in stone and painted in gay colors. this shows that a man lies beneath; the women's tombs are marked by a grapevine or a stem of lotus, also carved in marble. at foot of the column is a flat stone, hollowed out in the middle to form a small basin. some of these basins are filled with flowers or perfumes; in others, the rain and dew make a pleasant bathing and drinking place for the birds who fly in great flocks about the quiet place. not far from this great cemetery is another place of burial, that of the english; and this is laid out like a lovely garden, and watched and tended with loving care; for here rest the brave men who fell in this terrible war of the crimea, or who wasted away in the great building that towers foursquare over all the neighborhood. we must look well at this building, the barrack hospital of scutari, for this is what florence nightingale came so far to see. through all the long, wearisome journey, i doubt whether she gave much heed to the beauties or the discomforts of the way. her eyes were set steadfastly forward, following her swift thoughts; and eyes and thoughts sought this one thing, this gaunt, bare building rising beside the new-made graves. let us follow her and see what she found there. chapter ix. the barrack hospital. the barrack hospital at scutari was just what its name implies. it was built for soldiers to live in, and was big enough to take in whole regiments. surrounding the four sides of a quadrangle, each one of its sides was nearly a quarter of a mile long, and it was believed that twelve thousand men could be exercised in the great central court. three sides of the building were arranged in galleries and corridors, rising story upon story; we are told that these long narrow rooms, if placed end to end, would cover four miles of ground. at each corner rose a tower; the building was well situated, and looked out over the bosporus toward the glittering mosques and minarets of stamboul. you would think that this vast building would hold all the sick and wounded men of one short war; but this was not so. seven others were erected, and all were filled to overflowing; but the barrack hospital was miss nightingale's headquarters, and the chief scene of her labors, though she had authority over all; i shall therefore describe the situation and the work as she found it there. if there had been mismanagement at home in england, there had been even worse at the seat of war. the battles, you remember, were all fought in the crimea. they were cruel, terrible battles, too terrible to dwell upon here. hundreds and thousands were killed; but other hundreds and thousands lay wounded and helpless on the field. in those days there was no red cross, no field practice, no first aid to the injured. the poor sufferers were taken, all bleeding and fainting as they were, to the water side, and there put in boats which carried them, tossing on the rough waters of the black sea, across to scutari. several days would pass before any were got from the battlefield to the ferry below the hospital, and most of them had not had their wounds dressed or their broken limbs set. often they had had no food; they were tortured by fever and thirst; and now they must walk, if they could drag themselves, or be dragged or carried by others up the hill to the hospital. we can fancy how they looked forward to rest; how they thought of comfort, aid, relief from pain. alas! they found little of all these things. the barrack hospital had been built by the turks, and lent to the english by the turkish government; it had been meant for the hardy turkish soldiery to sleep in, and there were no appliances to fit it for a hospital. we are told that in the early months of the war "there were no vessels for water or utensils of any kind; no soap, towels or cloths, no hospital clothes; the men lying in their uniforms, stiff with gore and covered with filth to a degree and of a kind no one could write about; their persons covered with vermin, which crawled about the floors and walls of the dreadful den of dirt, pestilence and death to which they were consigned." is this too dreadful to read about? but it was not too dreadful to happen. the poor fellows, laid down in the midst of all this horror, would wait with a soldier's patience, hoping for the doctor or surgeon who should bind up their wounds and relieve their terrible suffering. alas! often and often death was more prompt than the doctor, and stilled the pain forever, before any human aid had been given. one of miss nightingale's assistants writes: "how can i ever describe my first day in the hospital at scutari? vessels were arriving and orderlies carrying the poor fellows, who with their wounds and frost-bites had been tossing about on the black sea for two or three days and sometimes more. where were they to go? not an available bed. they were laid on the floor one after another, till the beds were emptied of those dying of cholera and every other disease. many died immediately after being brought in--their moans would pierce the heart--and the look of agony on those poor dying faces will never leave my heart. they may well be called 'the martyrs of the crimea.'" where were the doctors? they were there, doing their very best; working day and night, giving their strength and their lives freely; but there were not half, not a tenth part, enough of them; and there was no one to help them but the orderlies, who, as i have said, had had no training, and knew nothing of sickness or hospital work. the conditions grew so frightful that a kind of paralysis seemed to fall upon the minds of the workers. they felt that the task was hopeless, and they went about their duties like people in a nightmare. the strangest thing of all, to us now, seems to be that they _did not tell_. though mr. russell and others wrote to england of the horrors of the hospitals, the authorities themselves were silent, or if questioned, would only reply that everything was "all right." there was no inspection that was worthy of the name. the same officers who would front death on the battlefield with a song and a laugh, shrank from meeting it in the hospital wards, the air of which was heavy with the poison of cholera and fever. "an orderly officer took the rounds of the wards every night, to see that all was in order. he was of course expected by the orderlies, and the moment he raised the latch he received the word: 'all right, your honor!' and passed on. this was hospital inspection!"[ ] in fact, these orderlies too often, i fear, bore some resemblance to the old class of nurses that i described, and were in many cases rough, unfeeling, ignorant men. sometimes it was for this reason that they drank the brandy which should have been given to their patients; but often, again, it was because they were ill themselves, or else because they were so overcome by the horrors around them that they drank just to bring forgetfulness for a time. the strange paralysis of which i have spoken seemed to hang over everything connected with the unfortunate soldiers of the crimea. mr. sidney herbert assured miss nightingale that the hospitals were supplied with every necessary. he had reason to think so, for the things had been sent, had left england, had reached the shores of the bosporus. "medical stores had been sent out by the ton." but where were they? i have already told you; they were rotting on the wharves, locked up in the warehouses, buried in the holds of vessels; they were everywhere except in the hospitals. the doctors had nothing to work with, but they could not leave their work to find out why it was. the other authorities said it was "all right!" they knew the things had come, but they were not sure just who were the proper persons to open the cargoes, take out and distribute the stores; it must not be done except by the proper persons. this is what is called _red tape_; it stands for authority without intelligence, and many books have been written about it. i remember, when i was a child, a cartoon in _punch_ showing the british soldier entangled in the coils of a frightful serpent, struggling for life; the serpent was labeled "_red tape_." (the monster is still alive in our day, but he is not nearly so powerful, and people are always on the lookout for him, and can generally drive him away.) this was the state of things when miss nightingale and her band of nurses arrived at scutari. her first round of the hospitals was a terrible experience, which no later one ever effaced from her mind. the air of the wards was so polluted as to be perfectly stifling. "the sheets," she said, "were of canvas, and so coarse that the wounded men begged to be left in their blankets. it was indeed impossible to put men in such a state of emaciation into those sheets. there was no bedroom furniture of any kind, and only empty beer or wine bottles for candlesticks."[ ] the wards were full to overflowing, and the corridors crowded with sick and wounded, lying on the floor, with the rats running over them. she looked out of the windows; under them were lying dead animals in every state of decay, refuse and filth of every description. she sought the kitchens; there were no kitchens, and no cooks; at least nothing that would be recognized to-day as a hospital kitchen. in the barrack kitchen were thirteen huge coppers; in these the men cooked their own food, meat and vegetables together, the separate portions inclosed in nets, all plunged in together, and taken out when some one was ready to take them. part of the food would be raw when it came out, another part boiled to rags. this was all the food there was, for sick and well, the wounded, the fever-stricken, the cholera patient. no doubt hundreds died from improper feeding alone. she looked for the laundry; there was no laundry. there were washing contracts, but up to the time of her arrival "only seven shirts had been washed." the clothes and bed linen of wounded men and of those sick with infectious diseases were thrown in together. moreover, the contractors stole most of the clothes that came into their hands, so that the sick did not like to part with their few poor garments, for fear of never seeing them again, and were practically without clean linen, except when a soldier's wife would now and then take compassion on them, and wash out a few articles. these were the conditions that florence nightingale had to meet. a delicate and sensitive woman, reared amid beauty and luxury, these were the scenes among which she was to live for nearly two years. but one thing more must be noted. do you think everyone was glad to see her and her nurses? not by any means! the overwrought doctors were dismayed and angered at the prospect of a "parcel of women" coming--as they fancied--to interfere with their work, and make it harder than it was already. the red-tape officials were even less pleased. what? a woman in petticoats, a "lady-in-chief," coming to inquire into their deeds and their methods? had they not said repeatedly that everything was all right? what was the meaning of this? this was her coming; this is what she found; now we shall see what she did. chapter x. the lady-in-chief. miss nightingale arrived at scutari on november th. you have seen what she found; but there was worse to come. only twenty-four hours after her arrival, the wounded from the battle of inkerman began to come in; soon every inch of room in both the barrack and the general hospital was full, and men by hundreds were lying on the muddy ground outside, unable to find room even on the floor of the corridor. neither lady-in-chief nor nurses had had time to rest after their long voyage, to make plans for systematic work, even to draw breath after their first glimpse of the horrors around them, when this great avalanche of suffering and misery came down upon them. no woman in history has had to face such a task as now flung itself upon florence nightingale. she met it as the great meet trial, quietly and calmly. her cheek might pale at what she had to see, but there was no flinching in those clear, gray-blue eyes, no trembling of those firm lips. ship after ship discharged its ghastly freight at the ferry below; train after train of wounded was dragged up the hill, brought into the overflowing hospital, laid down on pallet, on mattress, on bare floor, on muddy ground, wherever space could be found. "the men lay in double rows down the long corridors, forming several miles of suffering humanity." as the poor fellows were brought in, they looked up, and saw a slender woman in a black dress, with a pale, beautiful face surmounted by a close-fitting white cap. quietly, but with an authority that no one ever thought of disputing, she gave her orders, directing where the sufferers were to be taken, what doctor was to be summoned, what nurses to attend them. during these days she was known sometimes to stand on her feet _twenty hours at a time_, seeing that each man was put in the right place, where he might receive the right kind of help. i ask you to think of this for a moment. twenty hours! nearly the whole of a day and night. where a particularly severe operation was to be performed, miss nightingale was present whenever it was possible, giving to both surgeon and patient the comfort and support of her wonderful calm strength and sympathy. in this dreadful inrush of the inkerman wounded, the surgeons had first of all to separate the more hopeful cases from those that seemed desperate. the working force was so insufficient, they must devote their energies to saving those who could be saved; this is how it seemed to them. once miss nightingale saw five men lying together in a corner, left just as they had come from the vessel. "can nothing be done for them?" she asked the surgeon in charge. he shook his head. "then will you give them to me?" "take them," replied the surgeon, "if you like; but we think their case is hopeless." do you remember the little girl sitting by the wounded dog? all night long florence nightingale sat beside those five men, one of the faithful nurses with her, feeding them with a spoon at short intervals till consciousness returned, and a little strength began to creep back into their poor torn bodies; then washing their wounds, making them tidy and decent, and all the time cheering them with kind and hopeful words. when morning came the surgeons, amazed, pronounced the men in good condition to be operated upon, and--we will hope, though the story does not tell the end--saved. is it any wonder that one poor lad burst into tears as he cried: "i can't help it, i can't indeed, when i see them. only think of englishwomen coming out here to nurse us! it seems so homelike and comfortable." in those days one of the nurses wrote home to england: "it does appear absolutely impossible to meet the wants of those who are dying of dysentery and exhaustion; out of four wards committed to my care, eleven men have died in the night, simply from exhaustion, which, humanly speaking, might have been stopped, could i have laid my hand at once on such nourishment as i knew they ought to have had. "it is necessary to be as near the scene of war as we are, to know the horrors which we have seen and heard of. i know not which sight is most heartrending--to witness fine strong men and youths worn down by exhaustion and sinking under it, or others coming in fearfully wounded. "the whole of yesterday was spent, first in sewing the men's mattresses together, and then in washing them, and assisting the surgeons, when we could, in dressing their ghastly wounds, and seeing the poor fellows made as easy as their circumstances would admit of, after their five days' confinement on board ship, during which space their wounds were not dressed.... we have not seen a drop of milk, and the bread is extremely sour. the butter is most filthy--it is irish butter in a state of decomposition; and the meat is more like moist leather than food. potatoes we are waiting for until they arrive from france." this was written six days after arrival. by the tenth day, a miracle had been accomplished. miss nightingale had established and fitted up a kitchen, from which eight hundred men were fed daily with delicacies and food suitable to their condition. beef-tea, chicken broth, jelly--a quiet wave of the wand, and these things sprang up, as it were, out of the earth. hear how one of the men describes it himself. on arriving at the hospital early in the morning, he was given a bowl of gruel. "'tommy, me boy,' he said to himself, 'that's all you'll get into your inside this blessed day, and think yourself lucky you've got that.' but two hours later, if another of them blessed angels didn't come entreating of me to have just a little chicken broth! well, i took that, thinking maybe it was early dinner, and before i had well done wondering what would happen next, round the nurse came again with a bit o' jelly, and all day long at intervals they kept on bringing me what they called 'a little nourishment.' in the evening, miss nightingale she came and had a look at me, and says she, 'i hope you're feeling better.' i could have said, 'ma'am, i feels as fit as a fightin' cock,' but i managed to git out somethin' a bit more polite." how was the miracle accomplished? up to this time, the method of giving out stores had been much like the method (only there was really no method about it!) of cooking and washing. there were no regular hours; if you asked for a thing in the morning, you might get it in the evening, when the barrack fires were out. and you could get nothing at all until it had been inspected by this official, approved by that, and finally given out by the other. these were called "service rules"; they were really folds and coils of the monster red tape, at his work of binding and strangling. how was the miracle accomplished? simply enough. miss nightingale, with the foresight of a born leader, had anticipated all this, and was ready for it. the materials for all the arrowroot, beef-tea, chicken broth, wine jelly, of those first weeks, came out of her own stores, brought out with her in the vessel, the _victis_, from england. she had no intention of waiting a day or an hour for anyone; she had not a day or an hour to waste. it must have been a wonderful cargo, that of the _victis_; i can think of nothing but the astonishing bag of the mother in the "swiss family robinson," or that still more marvelous one of the fairy blackstick. do you remember? "and giglio returned to his room, where the first thing he saw was the fairy bag lying on the table, which seemed to give a little hop as he came in. 'i hope it has some breakfast in it,' says giglio, 'for i have only a very little money left.' but on opening the bag, what do you think was there? a blacking-brush and a pot of warren's jet, and on the pot was written, "poor young men their boots must black; use me and cork me and put me back!" so giglio laughed and blacked his boots, and put the brush and the bottle into the bag. "when he had done dressing himself, the bag gave another hop, and he went to it and took out-- . a tablecloth and napkin. . a sugar basin full of the best loaf sugar. , , , . two forks, two teaspoons, two knives, and a pair of sugar-tongs, and a butterknife, all marked g. , , . a teacup, saucer, and slop-basin. . a jug full of delicious cream. . a canister with black tea and green. . a large tea-urn and boiling water. . a saucepan, containing three eggs nicely done. . a quarter of a pound of best epping butter. . a brown loaf. "and if he hadn't enough now for a good breakfast, i should like to know who ever had one?" when i was your age, i never tired of reading about this breakfast; and then there was that other wonderful day when the bag was "grown so long that the prince could not help remarking it. he went to it, opened it, and what do you think he found in it? "a splendid long gold-handled, red-velvet-scabbarded cut-and-thrust sword, and on the sheath was embroidered 'rosalba forever!'" but i am not writing the "rose and the ring"; i wish i were! so, as i said, all good and comforting things came in those first days out of the fairy florence's bag--i mean ship. she hired a house close by the hospital, and set up a laundry, with every proper and sanitary arrangement, and there, every week, five hundred shirts were washed, besides other garments. but now came a new difficulty. many of the soldiers had no clothes at all save the filthy and ragged ones on their backs; what was to become of them while their shirts were washed and mended? the ship bag gave another hop (at least i should think it would have, for pure joy of the good it was doing), and out came ten thousand shirts; and for the first time since they left the battlefield the sick and wounded men were clean and comfortable. but the lady-in-chief knew that her fairy stores were not of the kind that renew themselves; and having once got matters into something like decent order and comfort in the hospital, she turned quietly and resolutely to do battle with the monster red tape. the officials of scutari did not know what to make of the new state of things. as i have said, many of them had shaken their heads and pulled very long faces when they heard that a woman was coming out who was to have full power and authority over all things pertaining to the care of the sick and wounded. they honestly thought, no doubt, that the confusion would be doubled, the distraction turned to downright madness. what could a woman know about such matters? what experience had she had of "service rules"? what would become of them all? they were soon to find out. the lady-in-chief did not cry out, or wring her hands, or do any of the things they had expected. neither did she bluster or rage, scold or reproach. she simply said that this or that must be done, and then saw that it was done. her tact and judgment were as great as her power and wisdom; more i cannot say. suppose she wanted certain stores that were in a warehouse on the wharf. the warehouse was locked. she sent for the wharfinger. would he please open the warehouse and give her the stores? he was very sorry, but he could not do so without an order from the board. she went to the chief officer of the board. he was very sorry, but it would be necessary to have a meeting of the entire board. who made up the board? well, mr. so-and-so, and dr. this, and mr. that, and colonel 'tother. where were they? well, one of them was not very well, and another was probably out riding, and a third---- would he please call them together at once? well, he was extremely busy just now, but to-morrow or the day after, he would be delighted---- would he be ready himself for a meeting, if miss nightingale could get the other members of the board together? well--of course--he would be delighted, but he could assure miss nightingale that everything would be all right, without her having the trouble to---- the board met; pen, ink and paper were ready. would they kindly sign the order? many thanks! good morning! and the warehouse was opened, and the goods on their way to the hospital, before the astonished gentlemen had fairly drawn their breath. "but what kind of way is this to do business?" cried the slaves of red tape. "she doesn't give us time! the moment a thing is wanted, she goes and gets it!!! the rules of the service----" but this was not true; for, as methodical as she was wise and generous, miss nightingale was most careful to consult the proper authorities, and, whenever it was possible, to make them take the necessary steps themselves. once, and only once, did she absolutely take the law into her own hands. there came a moment when certain stores were desperately needed for some sick and wounded men. the stores were at hand, but they had not been inspected, and red tape had decreed that nothing should be given out until it had been inspected by the board. (this was another board, probably; their name was legion.) miss nightingale tried to get the board together, but this time without success. one was away, and another was ill, and a third was--i don't know where. the clear gray-blue eyes grew stern. "i must have these things!" she said quietly. "my men are dying for lack of them." the under-official stammered and turned pale; he did not wish to disobey her, but--it meant a court-martial for him if he disobeyed the rules of the service. "you shall have no blame," said the lady-in-chief. "i take the entire responsibility upon myself. open the door!" the door was opened, and in a few moments the sick men had the stimulants for lack of which they were sinking into exhaustion. when miss nightingale arrived at scutari, the death rate in the barrack hospital was sixty per cent; within a few months it was reduced to one per cent; and this, under heaven, was accomplished by her and her devoted band of nurses. do you wonder that she was called "the angel of the crimea?" chapter xi. the lady with the lamp. whene'er a noble deed is wrought,[ ] whene'er is spoken a noble thought, our hearts, in glad surprise, to higher levels rise. the tidal wave of deeper souls into our inmost being rolls, and lifts us unawares out of all meaner cares. honor to those whose words or deeds thus help us in our daily needs, and by their overflow raise us from what is low! thus thought i, as by night i read of the great army of the dead, the trenches cold and damp, the starved and frozen camp,-- the wounded from the battle-plain, in dreary hospitals of pain, the cheerless corridors, the cold and stony floors. lo! in that house of misery a lady with a lamp i see pass through the glimmering gloom, and flit from room to room. and slow, as in a dream of bliss, the speechless sufferer turns to kiss her shadow, as it falls upon the darkening walls. as if a door in heaven should be opened and then closed suddenly, the vision came and went, the light shone and was spent. on england's annals, through the long hereafter of her speech and song, that light its rays shall cast from portals of the past. a lady with a lamp shall stand in the great history of the land, a noble type of good, heroic womanhood. nor even shall be wanting here the palm, the lily, and the spear, the symbols that of yore saint filomena bore. miss nightingale's headquarters were in the "sisters' tower," as it came to be called, one of the four corner towers of the great building. here was a large, airy room, with doors opening off it on each side. in the middle was a large table, covered with stores of every kind, constantly in demand, constantly replaced; and on the floor, and flowing into all the corners, were--more stores! bales of shirts, piles of socks, slippers, dressing gowns, sheets, flannels--everything you can think of that is useful and comfortable in time of sickness. about these piles the white-capped nurses came and went, like bees about a hive; all was quietly busy, cheerful, methodical. in a small room opening off the large one the lady-in-chief held her councils with nurses, doctors, generals or orderlies; giving to all the same courteous attention, the same clear, calm, helpful advice or directions. here, too, for hours at a time, she sat at her desk, writing; letters to sidney herbert and his wife; letters to lord raglan, the commander-in-chief, who, though at first averse to her coming, became one of her firmest friends and admirers; letters to sorrowing wives and mothers and sisters in england. she received letters by the thousand; she could not answer them all with her own hand, but i am sure she answered as many as was possible. one letter was forwarded to her by the herberts which gave a great pleasure not to her only, but to everyone in all that place of suffering. it was dated windsor castle, december , . "would you tell mrs. herbert," wrote good queen victoria, "that i beg she would let me see frequently the accounts she receives from miss nightingale or mrs. bracebridge, as _i hear no details of the wounded_, though i see so many from officers, etc., about the battlefield, and naturally the former must interest me more than anyone. "let mrs. herbert also know that i wish miss nightingale and the ladies would tell these poor, noble wounded and sick men, that _no one_ takes a warmer interest or feels _more_ for their sufferings or admires their courage and heroism _more_ than their queen. day and night she thinks of her beloved troops. so does the prince. "beg mrs. herbert to communicate these my words to those ladies, as i know that _our_ sympathy is much valued by these noble fellows.--victoria." i think the tears may have come into those clear eyes of miss nightingale, when she read these words. she gave the letter to one of the chaplains, and he went from ward to ward, reading it aloud to the men, and ending each reading with "god save the queen!" the words were murmured or whispered after him by the lips of sick and dying, and through all the mournful place went a great wave of tender love and loyalty toward the good queen in england, and toward their own queen, their angel, who had shared her pleasure with them. you will hardly believe that in england, while the queen was writing thus, some people were still sadly troubled about miss nightingale's religious views, and were writing to the papers, warning other people against her; but so it was. one clergyman actually warned his flock not to subscribe money for the soldiers in the east "if it was to pass through popish hands." he thought the lady-in-chief was a catholic; others still maintained that she was a unitarian; others were sure she had gone out with the real purpose of converting the soldiers to high-church views. in reading about this kind of thing, it is comforting to find one good irish clergyman who, being asked to what sect miss nightingale belonged, replied: "she belongs to a sect which unfortunately is a very rare one--the sect of the good samaritans." but these grumblers were only a few, we must think. the great body of english people was filled with an enthusiasm of gratitude toward the "angel band" and its leader. from the queen in her palace down to the humblest working women in her cottage, all were at work making lint and bandages, shirts and socks and havelocks for the soldiers. nor were they content with making things. every housekeeper ransacked her linen closet and camphor chest, piled sheets and blankets and pillowcases together, tied them up in bundles, addressed them to miss nightingale, and sent them off. when sister mary aloysius first began to sort the bales of goods on the wharf at scutari, she thought that "the english nobility must have emptied their wardrobes and linen stores, to send out bandages for the wounded. there was the most beautiful underclothing, and the finest cambric sheets, with merely a scissors run here and there through them, to insure their being used for no other purpose, some from the queen's palace, with the royal monogram beautifully worked." yes, and the rats had a wonderful time with all these fine and delicate things, before the sisters could get their hands on them! these private gifts were not the only nor the largest ones. the _times_, which you will remember had been the first to reveal the terrible conditions in the crimea, now set to work and organized a fund for the relief of the wounded. a subscription list was opened, and from every part of the united kingdom money flowed in like water. the _times_ undertook to distribute the money, and appointed a good and wise man, mr. mcdonald, to go out to the east and see how it could best be applied. and now a strange thing came to pass; the sort of thing that, in one way or another, was constantly happening in connection with the crimean war. mr. mcdonald went to the highest authorities in the war office and told of his purpose. they bowed and smiled and said the _times_ and its subscribers were very kind, but the fact was that such ample provision had been made by the government that it was hardly likely the money would be needed. mr. mcdonald opened his eyes wide; but he was a wise man, as i have said; so he bowed and smiled in return, and going to sidney herbert, told his story to him. "go!" said mr. herbert; "go out to the crimea!" and he went. when he reached the seat of war, it was the same thing over again. the high officials were very polite, very glad to see him, very pleased that the people of england were so sympathetic and patriotic; but the fact was that nothing was wanted; they were amply supplied; in short, everything was "all right." many men, after this second rebuff, would have given the matter up and gone home; but mr. mcdonald was not of that kind. while he was considering what step to take next, one man came forward to help him; one man who was brave enough to defy red tape, for the sake of his soldiers. this was the surgeon of the th regiment. i wish i knew his name, so that you and i could remember it. he came to mr. mcdonald and told him that his regiment, which had been stationed at gibraltar, had been ordered to the crimea and had now reached the bosporus. they were going on to the crimea, to pass the winter in bitter cold, amid ice and snow; and they had no clothes save the light linen suits which had been given them to wear under the hot sun of gibraltar. here was a chance for the _times_ fund! without more ado mr. mcdonald went into the bazaars of constantinople and bought flannels and woolens, until every man in that regiment had a good warm winter suit in which to face the crimean winter. did anyone else follow the example of the surgeon of the th? not one! probably many persons thought he had done a shocking thing, by thus exposing the lack of provision in the army for its soldiers' comfort. this was casting reflection upon red tape! better for the soldier to freeze and die, than for a slur to be cast upon those in authority, upon the rules of the service! so, though mcdonald stood with hands held out, as it were, offering help, no one came forward to take it. he went to scutari, and here at first it was the same thing. he offered his aid to the chief medical authority over the hospitals; the reply was calm and precise: "nothing was wanted!" he went still higher, to "another and more august quarter"; the answer was still more emphatic: there was no possible occasion for help; soldiers and sailors had everything they required; if he wished to dispose of the _times_ fund, it might be a good thing to build an english church at pera! "yet, at that very time," says the historian of the crimea, "wants so dire as to include want of hospital furniture and of shirts for the patients, and of the commonest means for maintaining cleanliness, were afflicting our stricken soldiery in the hospitals."[ ] mr. mcdonald did not build an english church; instead, he went to the barrack hospital and asked for the lady-in-chief. i should like to have seen florence nightingale's face when she heard his story. no help needed? the soldiers supplied with everything they needed? everything "all right"? "come with me!" she said. she took him through the wards of the barrack hospital, and showed him what had been done, and what an immense deal was yet to do; how, though many were comfortably clad, yet fresh hundreds were arriving constantly, half naked, without a shred of clean or decent clothing on their backs; how far the demand was beyond the supply; how fast her own stores were dwindling, and how many of the private offerings were unsuitable for the needs they were sent to fill; how many men were still, after all her labors, lying on the floor because there were not beds enough to go round. all these things good mr. mcdonald saw, and laid to heart; but he saw other things besides. perhaps some of you have visited a hospital. you have seen the bright, fresh, pleasant rooms, the rows of snowy cots, the bright faces of the nurses, here and there flowers and pictures; seeing two or three hundred patients, it has seemed to you as if you had seen all the sick people in the world. was it not so? in the barrack hospital (and this, remember, was but one of eight, and these eight the english hospitals alone!) there were two or three thousand patients; it was a city of pain. its streets were long, narrow rooms or corridors, bare and gloomy; no furniture save the endless rows of cots and mattresses, "packed like sardines," as one eye-witness says; its citizens, men in every stage of sickness and suffering; some tossing in fever and delirium; some moaning in pain that even a soldier's strength could not bear silently; some ghastly with terrible wounds; some sinking into their final sleep. following the light, slight figure of his guide through these narrow streets of the city of pain, mcdonald saw and noted that "wherever there is disease in its most dangerous form, and the hand of the spoiler distressingly nigh, there is this incomparable woman sure to be seen. her benignant presence is an influence for good comfort even among the struggles of expiring nature. she is a 'ministering angel' without any exaggeration in these hospitals, and as the slender form glides quietly along each corridor, every poor fellow's face softens with gratitude at the sight of her. when all the medical officers have retired for the night, and silence and darkness have settled down upon those miles of prostrate sick, she may be observed alone, with lamp in her hand, making her solitary rounds. "the popular instinct was not mistaken which, when she set out from england, hailed her as a heroine; i trust she may not earn her title to a higher though sadder appellation. no one who has observed her fragile figure and delicate health can avoid misgivings lest these should fail.... i confidently assert that but for miss nightingale the people of england would scarcely, with all their solicitude, have been spared the additional pang of knowing, which they must have done sooner or later, that their soldiers, even in the hospitals, had found scanty refuge and relief from the unparalleled miseries with which this war has hitherto been attended." look with me for a moment into one of these wards, these "miles of sick" through which the agent of the _times_ passed with his guide. it is night. outside, the world is wide and wonderful with moon and stars. beyond the dark-blue waters of the bosporus, the lights of stamboul flash and twinkle; nearer at hand, the moonlight falls on the white city of the dead, and shows its dark cypresses standing like silent guardians beside the marble tombs; nearer yet, it falls full on the bare, gaunt square of building that crowns the hill. the windows are narrow, but still the moonbeams struggle in, and cast a dim light along the corridor. the vaulted roof is lost in blackness; black, too, are the corners, and we cannot see where the orderly nods in his chair, or where the night nurse sits beside a dying patient. all is silent, save for a low moan or murmur from one cot or another. see where the moonbeam glimmers white on that cot under the window! that is where the highland soldier is lying, he who came so near losing his arm the other day. the surgeons said it must be amputated, but the lady-in-chief begged for a little time. she thought that with care and nursing the arm might be saved; would they kindly delay the operation at least for a few days? the surgeons consented, for by this time no one could or would refuse her anything. the arm _was_ saved; now the bones are knitting nicely, and by and by he will be well and strong again, with both arms to work and play and fight with. but broken bones hurt even when they are knitting nicely, and the highland lad cannot sleep; he lies tossing about on his narrow cot, gritting his teeth now and then as the pain bites, but still a happy and a thankful man. he stares about him through the gloom, trying to see who is awake and who asleep. but now he starts, for silently the door opens, and a tiny ray of light, like a golden finger, falls across his bed. a figure enters and closes the door softly; the figure of a woman, tall and slender, dressed in black, with white cap and apron. in her hand she carries a small shaded lamp. at sight of her the sick lad's eyes grow bright; he raises his sound arm and straightens the blanket, then waits in eager patience. slowly the lady with the lamp draws near, stopping beside each cot, listening to the breathing and noting the color of the sleepers, whispering a word of cheer and encouragement to those who wake. now she stands beside his bed, and her radiant smile is brighter, he thinks, than lamplight or moonlight. a few words in the low, musical voice, a pat to the bedclothes, a friendly nod, and she passes on to the next cot. as she goes, her shadow, hardly more noiseless than her footstep, falls across the sick man's pillow; he turns and kisses it, and then falls happily asleep. so she comes and passes, like a light; and so her very shadow is blessed, and shall be blessed so long as memory endures. chapter xii. winter. o the long and dreary winter![ ] o the cold and cruel winter! ever thicker, thicker, thicker froze the ice on lake and river, ever deeper, deeper, deeper fell the snow o'er all the landscape, fell the covering snow, and drifted through the forest, round the village. * * * * * o the famine and the fever! o the wasting of the famine! o the blasting of the fever! o the wailing of the children! o the anguish of the women! all the earth was sick and famished; hungry was the air around them, hungry was the sky above them, and the hungry stars in heaven like the eyes of wolves glared at them! "the bad weather commenced about november the th, and has continued ever since. a winter campaign is under no circumstances child's play; but here, where the troops had no cantonments to take shelter in, where large bodies were collected in one spot, and where the want of sufficient fuel soon made itself felt, it told with the greatest severity upon the health, not of the british alone, but of the french and turkish troops.... to the severity of the winter the whole army can bear ample testimony. the troops have felt it in all its intensity; and when it is considered that they have been under canvas from ten to twelve months--that they had no other shelter from the sun in summer, and no other protection from wet and snow, cold and tempestuous winds, such as have scarcely been known even in this climate, in winter--and that they passed from a life of total inactivity, already assailed by deadly disease, to one of the greatest possible exertion--it cannot be a matter of surprise that a fearful sickness has prevailed throughout their ranks, and that the men still suffer from it."--lord raglan to lord panmure, february, . after the battle of inkerman, the allied armies turned all their energies to the siege of sebastopol, the principal city of the crimea. you will read some day about this memorable siege, one of the most famous in history, and about the prodigies of valor performed by both besiegers and besieged; but i can only touch briefly on those aspects of it which are connected with my subject. the winter of - was, as lord raglan says, one of unexampled severity, even in that land of bitter winters. on november th a terrible hurricane swept the country, bringing death and ruin to russians and allies alike. in sebastopol itself trees were torn up by the roots, buildings unroofed, and much damage done; in the camps of the besiegers things were even worse. tents were torn in shreds and swept away like dead leaves; not only the soldiers' tents, but the great hospital marquees were destroyed, and the sick and wounded left exposed to bitter blast and freezing sleet. the trenches were flooded; no fires could be lit, and therefore no food cooked; and when the snowstorm came which followed the tempest, many a brave fellow lay down famished and exhausted, and the white blanket covered his last sleep. in the harbor even more ruin was wrought, for the ships were dashed about like broken toys that a wilful child flings hither and thither. the _prince_, which had just arrived loaded with clothing, medicines, stores of every description, went down with all her precious freight; the _resolute_ was lost, too, the principal ammunition ship of the army; and other vessels loaded with hay for the horses, a supply which would have fed them for twenty days. this dreadful calamity was followed by day after day of what the soldiers called "inkerman weather," with heavy mists and low drizzling clouds; then came bitter, killing frost, then snow, thaw, sleet, frost again, and so round and round in a cruel circle; and through every variation of weather the soldier's bed was the earth, now deep in snow, now bare and hard as iron, now thick with nauseous mud. all day long the soldiers toiled in the trenches with pick and spade, often under fire, always on the alert; others on night duty, "five nights out of six, a large proportion of them constantly under fire." is it to be wondered at that plague and cholera broke out in the camp of the besiegers, and that a steady stream of poor wretches came creeping up the hill at scutari? the lady-in-chief was ready for them. thanks to the _times_ fund and other subscriptions, she now had ample provision for many days. moreover, by this winter time her influence so dominated the hospital that not only was there no opposition to her wishes, but everyone flew to carry them out. the rough orderlies, who had growled and sworn at the notion of a woman coming to order them about, were now her slaves. her unvarying courtesy, her sweet and heavenly kindness, woke in many a rugged breast feelings of which it had never dreamed; and every man who worked for her was for the time at least a knight and a gentleman. it was bitter, hard work; she spared them no more than she spared herself; but they labored as no rules of the service had ever made them work. through it all, not one of them, orderlies or common soldiers, ever failed her "in obedience, thoughtful attention, and considerate delicacy." "never," she herself says, "came from any of them one word or one look which a gentleman would not have used; and while paying this humble tribute to humble courtesy, the tears come into my eyes as i think how amidst scenes of loathsome disease and death there arose above it all the innate dignity, gentleness and chivalry of the men (for never surely was chivalry so strikingly exemplified), shining in the midst of what must be considered as the lowest sinks of human misery, and preventing instinctively the use of one expression which could distress a gentlewoman." if it was so with the orderlies, you can imagine how it was with the poor fellows for whom she was working. every smile from her was a gift; every word was a precious treasure to be stored away and kept through life. they would do anything she asked, for they knew she would do anything in her power for them. when any specially painful operation was to be performed (there was not always chloroform enough, alas! and in any case it was not given so freely in those days as it is now), the lady-in-chief would come quietly into the operating room and take her stand beside the patient; and looking up into that calm, steadfast face, and meeting the tender gaze of those pitying eyes that never flinched from any sight of pain or horror, he would take courage and nerve himself to bear the pain, since she was there to help him bear it. "we call her the angel of the crimea," one soldier wrote home. "could bad men be bad in the presence of an angel? impossible!" another wrote: "before she came there was such cussin' and swearin' as you never heard; but after she came it was as holy as a church." and still another--perhaps our highland lad of the night vigil, perhaps another--wrote to his people: "she would speak to one and another, and nod and smile to many more; but she could not do it to all, you know, for we lay there by hundreds; but we could kiss her shadow as it fell, and lay our heads on our pillows again content." miss nightingale never wearied of bearing testimony to the many virtues of the british soldier. she loved to tell stories like the following: "i remember a sergeant who, on picket--the rest of the picket killed, and himself battered about the head--stumbled back to camp (before sebastopol), and on his way, picked up a wounded man and brought him on his shoulders to the lines, where he fell down insensible. when, after many hours, he recovered his senses, i believe after trepanning, his first words were to ask after his comrade: 'is he alive?' "'comrade indeed! yes, he's alive--it's the general!' at that moment the general, though badly wounded, appeared at the bedside. 'oh! general, it was you, was it, i brought in? i'm so glad; i didn't know your honor. but if i'd known it was you, i'd have saved you all the same!'" i must not leave the story of this winter without telling of all that miss nightingale did for the soldiers' wives. there were many of these poor women, who had come out to this far country to be near their husbands. there was no proper provision for them, and miss nightingale found them in a wretched condition, living in three or four damp, dark rooms in the basement of the hospital. their clothes were worn out; they were barefooted and bareheaded. we are told that "the only privacy to be obtained was by hanging up rags of clothes on lines. there, by the light of a rushlight, the meals were taken, the sick attended, and there the babies were born and nourished. there were twenty-two babies born from november to december, and many more during the winter."[ ] the lady-in-chief soon put an end to this state of things. first she fed and clothed the women from her own stores, and saw that the little babies were made warm and comfortable. in january a fever broke out among the women, owing to a broken drain in the basement, and she found a house near by, had it cleaned and furnished, and persuaded the commandant to move the women into it. all through the winter she helped these poor souls in every way, employing some in the laundry, finding situations for others in constantinople, sending widows home to england, helping to start a school for the children. altogether about five hundred women were helped out of the miserable condition in which she found them, and were enabled to earn their own living honestly and respectably. writing of these times later, miss nightingale says: "when the improvements in our system which the war must suggest are discussed, let not the wife and child of the soldier be forgotten." another helper came out to scutari in those winter days; a gallant frenchman, m. soyer, who had been for years _chef_ of one of the great london clubs, and who knew all that there was to know about cookery. he read the _times_, and in february, , he wrote to the editor: "sir: after carefully perusing the letter of your correspondent, dated scutari ... i perceive that, though the kitchen under the superintendence of miss nightingale affords so much relief, the system of management at the large one in the barrack hospital is far from being perfect. i propose offering my services gratuitously, and proceeding direct to scutari at my own personal expense, to regulate that important department, if the government will honor me with their confidence, and grant me the full power of acting according to my knowledge and experience in such matters." it was april before m. soyer reached scutari. he went at once to the barrack hospital, asked for miss nightingale, and was received by her in her office, which he calls "a sanctuary of benevolence." they became friends at once, for each could help the other and greatly desired to do so. "i must especially express my gratitude to miss nightingale," says the good gentleman in his record of the time, "who from her extraordinary intelligence and the good organization of her kitchen procured me every material for making a commencement, and thus saved me at least one week's sheer loss of time, as my model kitchen did not arrive until saturday last." m. soyer, on his side, brought all kinds of things which miss nightingale rejoiced to see: new stoves, new kinds of fuel, new appliances of many kinds which, in the first months of her work, she could never have hoped to see. he was full of energy, of ingenuity, and a fine french gayety and enthusiasm which must have been delightful to all the brave and weary workers in the city of pain. he went everywhere, saw and examined everything; and told of what he saw, in his own flowery, fiery way. he told among other things how, coming back one night from a gay evening in the doctors' quarters, he was making his way through the hospital wards to his own room, when, as he turned the corner of a corridor, he came upon a scene which made him stop and hold his breath. at the foot of one cot stood a nurse, holding a lighted lamp. its light fell on the sick man, who lay propped on pillows, gasping for breath, and evidently near his end. he was speaking, in hoarse and broken murmurs; sitting beside him, bending near to catch the painful utterances, was the lady-in-chief, pencil and paper in hand, writing down the words as he spoke them. now the dying man fumbled beneath his pillow, brought out a watch and some other small objects, and laid them in her hand; then with a sigh of relief, sank back content. it was two o'clock. miss nightingale had been on her feet, very likely, the whole day, perhaps had not even closed her eyes in sleep; but word was brought to her that this man was given up by the doctors, and had only a few hours to live; and in a moment she was by his side, to speak some final words of comfort, and to take down his parting message to wife and children. the kind-hearted frenchman never forgot this sight, yet it was one that might be seen any night in the barrack hospital. no man should die alone and uncomforted if florence nightingale and her women could help it. this is how m. soyer describes our heroine: "she is rather high in stature, fair in complexion and slim in person; her hair is brown, and is worn quite plain; her physiognomy is most pleasing; her eyes, of a bluish tint, speak volumes, and are always sparkling with intelligence; her mouth is small and well formed, while her lips act in unison, and make known the impression of her heart--one seems the reflex of the other. her visage, as regards expression, is very remarkable, and one can almost anticipate by her countenance what she is about to say; alternately, with matters of the most grave import, a gentle smile passes radiantly over her countenance, thus proving her evenness of temper; at other times, when wit or a pleasantry prevails, the heroine is lost in the happy, good-natured smile which pervades her face, and you recognize only the charming woman. "her dress is generally of a grayish or black tint; she wears a simple white cap, and often a rough apron. in a word, her whole appearance is religiously simple and unsophisticated. in conversation no member of the fair sex can be more amiable and gentle than miss nightingale. removed from her arduous and cavalierlike duties, which require the nerve of a hercules--and she possesses it when required--she is rachel[ ] on the stage in both tragedy and comedy." the long and dreary winter was over. the snow was gone, and the birds sang once more among the cypresses of scutari, and sunned themselves, and bathed and splashed in the marble basins at the foot of the tombs; but there was no abatement of the stream that crept up the hill to the hospital. no frostbite now--i haven't told you about that, because it is too dreadful for me to tell or for you to hear--but no less sickness. cholera was raging in the camp before sebastopol, and typhus, and dysentery; the men were dying like flies. the dreaded typhus crept into the hospital and attacked the workers. eight of the doctors were stricken down, seven of whom died. "for a time there was only one medical attendant in a fit state of health to wait on the sick in the barrack hospital, and his services were needed in twenty-four wards." next three of the devoted nurses were taken, two dying of fever, the third of cholera. more and more severe grew the strain of work and anxiety for miss nightingale, and those who watched her with loving anxiety trembled. so fragile, so worn; such a tremendous weight of care and responsibility on those delicate shoulders! is she not paler than usual to-day? what would become of us if she---- their fears were groundless; the time was not yet. tending the dying physicians as she had tended their patients; walking, sad but steadfast, behind the bier that bore her dear and devoted helpers to the grave; adding each new burden to the rest, and carrying all with unbroken calm, unwearying patience; florence nightingale seemed to bear a charmed life. there is no record of any single instance, through that terrible winter and spring, of her being unable to perform the duties she had taken upon her. she might have said with sir galahad: "my strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure." chapter xiii. miss nightingale under fire. in may, , miss nightingale decided to go to the crimea, to inspect the hospitals there. in the six months spent at scutari, she had brought its hospitals into excellent condition; now she felt that she must see what was being done and what still needed to be done elsewhere. accordingly she set sail in the ship _robert lowe_, accompanied by her faithful friend mr. bracebridge, who, with his admirable wife, had come out with her from england, and had been her constant helper and adviser; m. soyer, who was going to see how kitchen matters were going _là-bas_, and her devoted boy thomas. thomas had been a drummer boy. he was twelve years old, and devoted to his drum until he came under the spell of the lady-in-chief. then he transferred his devotion to her, and became her aide-de-camp, following her wherever she went, and ready at any moment to give his life for her. it was fair spring weather now, and the fresh, soft air and beautiful scenery must have been specially delightful to the women who had spent six months within the four bare walls of the hospital surrounded by misery and death; but when she found that there were some sick soldiers on board, miss nightingale begged to be taken to them. she went from one to another in her cheerful way, and every man felt better at once. presently she came to a fever patient who was looking very discontented. "this man will not take his medicine!" said the attendant. "why will you not take it?" asked miss nightingale, with her winning smile. "because i took some once," said the man, "and it made me sick, and i haven't liked physic ever since." "but if i give it to you myself you will take it, won't you?" i wonder if anyone ever refused miss nightingale anything! "it will make me sick just the same, ma'am!" murmured the poor soul piteously; but he took the medicine, and forgot to be sick as she sat beside him and asked about the battle in which he had been wounded. when they entered the harbor of balaklava, they found all the vessels crowded with people. word had got abroad that the lady-in-chief was expected, and everybody was agog to see the wonderful woman who had done such a great work in the hospitals of scutari. the vessel was no sooner brought to anchor than all the doctors and officials of balaklava came on board, eager to pay their respects and welcome her to their shore. for an hour she received these various guests, but she could not wait longer, and by the time lord raglan, the commander-in-chief, reached the vessel on the same errand, she had already begun her inspection of the hospital on shore. she never had any time to waste, and so she never lost any. but the visit of a commander-in-chief must be returned; so the next day miss nightingale set out on horseback, with a party of friends, for the camp of the besiegers. m. soyer, who was of the party, tells us that she "was attired simply in a genteel amazone, or riding-habit, and had quite a martial air. she was mounted upon a very pretty mare, of a golden color, which, by its gambols and caracoling, seemed proud to carry its noble charge. the weather was very fine. our cavalcade produced an extraordinary effect upon the motley crowd of all nations assembled at balaklava, who were astonished at seeing a lady so well escorted." the road was very bad, and crowded with people of every nationality, riding horses, mules and asses, driving oxen and cows and sheep. now they passed a cannon, stuck in the mud, its escort prancing and yelling around it; now a wagon overturned, its contents scattered on the road, its owner sitting on the ground lamenting. everywhere horses were kicking and whinnying, men shouting and screaming. it is no wonder that miss nightingale's pretty mare "of a golden color" got excited too, and kicked and pranced with the rest; but her rider had not scampered over english downs and jumped english fences for nothing, and the pretty creature soon found that she, like everyone else, must obey the lady-in-chief. the first hospital they came to was in the village of kadikoi. after inspecting it, and seeing what was needed, miss nightingale and her party rode to the top of a hill near by; and here for the first time she looked down on the actual face of war; saw the white tents of the besiegers and in the distance the grim walls of the beleaguered city; saw, too, the puffs of white smoke from trench and bastion, heard the roar of cannon and the crackle of musketry. to the boy beside her no doubt it was a splendid and inspiring sight; but florence nightingale knew too well what it all meant, and turned away with a heavy heart. lord raglan, not having been warned of her coming, was away; so, after visiting several small regimental hospitals, miss nightingale went on to the general hospital before sebastopol. here she found some hundreds of sick and wounded. word passed along the rows of cots that the "good lady of scutari" was coming to visit them, and everywhere she was greeted with beaming smiles and murmurs of greeting and welcome. but when she came out again, and passed along toward the cooking encampment, she was recognized by some former patients of hers at the barrack hospital, and a great shout of rejoicing went up; a shout so loud that the golden mare capered again, and again had to learn who her mistress was. now they approached the walls of sebastopol; and miss nightingale, who did not know what fear was, insisted upon having a nearer view of the city. they came to a point from which it could be conveniently seen; but here a sentry met them, and with a face of alarm begged them to dismount. "sharp firing going on here," he said, and he pointed to the fragments of shell lying about; "you'll be sure to attract attention, and they'll fire at you." miss nightingale laughed at his fears, but consented to take shelter behind a stone redoubt, from which, with the aid of a telescope, she had a good view of the city. but this was not enough. she must go into the trenches themselves. the sentry was horrified. "madam," said he, "if anything happens i call upon these gentlemen to witness that i did not fail to warn you of the danger." "my good young man," replied miss nightingale, "more dead and wounded have passed through my hands than i hope you will ever see in the battlefield during the whole of your military career; believe me, i have no fear of death." they went on, and soon reached the three-mortar battery, situated among the trenches and very near the walls. and here m. soyer had a great idea, which he carried out to his immense satisfaction. you shall hear about it in his own words: "before leaving the battery, i begged miss nightingale as a favor to give me her hand, which she did. i then requested her to ascend the stone rampart next the wooden gun carriage, and lastly to sit upon the centre mortar, to which requests she very gracefully and kindly acceded. 'gentlemen,' i cried, 'behold this amiable lady sitting fearlessly upon that terrible instrument of war! behold the heroic daughter of england--the soldier's friend!' all present shouted 'bravo! hurrah! hurrah! long live the daughter of england!'" when lord raglan heard of this, he said that the "instrument of war" on which she sat ought to be called "the nightingale mortar." the th regiment was stationed close by; and seeing a lady--a strange enough sight in that place--seated on a mortar, gazing calmly about her, as if all her life had been spent in the trenches, the soldiers looked closer, and all at once recognized the beloved lady-in-chief, the angel of the crimea. they set up a shout that went ringing over the fields and trenches, and startled the russians behind the walls of sebastopol; and miss nightingale, startled too, but greatly touched and moved, came down from her mortar and mounted her horse to ride back to balaklava. it was a rough and fatiguing ride, and the next day she felt very tired; but she was used to being tired, and never thought much of it, so she set out to visit the general hospital again. after spending several hours there, she went on to the sanatorium, a collection of huts high up on a mountainside, nearly eight hundred feet above the sea. the sun was intensely hot, the ride a hard one; yet she not only reached it this day, but went up again the day after, to install three much-needed nurses there; this done, she went on with her work in the hospitals of balaklava. but, alas! this time she had gone beyond even her strength. she was stricken down suddenly, in the midst of her work, with the worst form of crimean fever. the doctors ordered that she should be taken to the sanatorium. amid general grief and consternation she was laid on a stretcher, and the soldiers for whom she had so often risked her life bore her sadly through the streets of balaklava and up the mountainside. a nurse went with her, a friend held a white umbrella between her and the pitiless sun, and poor little thomas, "miss nightingale's man" as he had proudly called himself, followed the stretcher, crying bitterly. indeed, it seemed as if everyone were crying. the rough soldiers--only she never found them rough--wept like children. it was a sad little procession that wound its way up the height, to the hut that had been set apart for the beloved sufferer. it was a neat, airy cabin, set on the banks of a clear stream. all about were spring buds and blossoms, and green, whispering trees; it was just such a place as she would have chosen for one of her own patients; and here, for several days, she lay between life and death. the news spread everywhere; florence nightingale was ill--was dying! all balaklava knew it; soon the tidings came to scutari, to her own hospital, and the sick men turned their faces to the wall and wept, and longed to give their own lives for hers, if only that might be. the news came to england, and men looked and spoke--ay, and felt--as if some great national calamity threatened. but soon the messages changed their tone. the disease was checked; she was better; she was actually recovering, and would soon be well. then all the crimea rejoiced, and at scutari they felt that spring had come indeed. while she still lay desperately ill, a visitor climbed the rugged height to the sanatorium, and knocked at the door of the little lonely hut. i think you must hear about this visit from mrs. roberts, the nurse who told m. soyer about it: "it was about five o'clock in the afternoon when he came. miss nightingale was dozing, after a very restless night. we had a storm that day, and it was very wet. i was in my room sewing when two men on horseback, wrapped in large guttapercha cloaks and dripping wet, knocked at the door. i went out, and one inquired in which hut miss nightingale resided. "he spoke so loud that i said: 'hist! hist! don't make such a horrible noise as that, my man,' at the same time making a sign with both hands for him to be quiet. he then repeated his question, but not in so loud a tone. i told him this was the hut. "'all right,' said he, jumping from his horse; and he was walking straight in when i pushed him back, asking what he meant and whom he wanted. "'miss nightingale,' said he. "'and pray who are you?' "'oh, only a soldier,' was the reply, 'but i must see her--i have come a long way--my name is raglan--she knows me very well.' "miss nightingale overhearing him, called me in, saying: 'oh! mrs. roberts, it is lord raglan. pray tell him i have a very bad fever, and it will be dangerous for him to come near me.' "'i have no fear of fever or anything else,' said lord raglan. "and before i had time to turn round, in came his lordship. he took up a stool, sat down at the foot of the bed, and kindly asked miss nightingale how she was, expressing his sorrow at her illness, and praising her for the good she had done for the troops. he wished her a speedy recovery, and hoped she might be able to continue her charitable and invaluable exertions, so highly appreciated by everyone, as well as by himself. he then bade miss nightingale goodbye, and went away...." after twelve days miss nightingale was pronounced convalescent. the doctors now earnestly begged her to return to england, telling her that her health absolutely required a long rest, with entire freedom from care. but she shook her head resolutely. her work was not yet over; she would not desert her post. weak as she was, she insisted on being taken back to scutari; she would come back by and by, she said, and finish the work in the crimea itself. sick or well, there was no resisting the lady-in-chief. the stretcher was brought again, and eight soldiers carried her down the mountainside and so down to the port of balaklava. the _jura_ lay at the wharf; a tackle was rigged, and the stretcher hoisted on board, the patient lying motionless but undaunted the while; but this vessel proved unsuitable, and she had to be moved twice before she was finally established on a private yacht, the _new london_. before she sailed, lord raglan came to see her again. it was the last time they ever met, for a few weeks after the brave commander died, worn out by the struggles and privations of the war, and--some thought--broken-hearted by the disastrous repulse of the british troops at the redan. rather more than a month after she had left for the crimea, miss nightingale saw once more the towers and minarets of constantinople flashing across the black-sea water, and, on the other side of the narrow bosporus, the gaunt white walls which had come to seem almost homelike to her. she was glad to get back to her scutari and her people. she knew she should get well here, and so she did. the welcome she received was most touching. all the great people, commanders and high authorities, met her at the pier, and offered her their houses, their carriages, everything they had, to help her back to strength; but far dearer to her than this were the glances of weary eyes that brightened at her coming, the waving of feeble hands, the cheers of feeble voices, from the invalid soldiers who, like herself, were creeping back from death to life, and who felt, very likely, that their chance of full recovery was a far better one now that their angel had come back to dwell among them. as strength returned, miss nightingale loved to walk in the great burying ground of which i have told you; to rest under the cypress trees, and watch the little birds, and pick wild flowers in that lovely, lonely place. there are strange stories about the birds of scutari, by the way; the turks believe that they are the souls of sinners, forced to flit and hover forever, without rest; but it is not likely that thoughts of this kind troubled miss nightingale, as she watched the pretty creatures taking their bath, or pecking at the crumbs she scattered. birds and flowers, green trees and soft, sweet air--all these things ministered to her, and helped her on the upward road to health and strength; and before long she was able to take up again the work which she loved, and which was waiting for her hand. chapter xiv. the close of the war. the sun soared over the gulf, where the water, covered with ships at anchor, and with sail- and row-boats in motion, played merrily in its warm and luminous rays. a light breeze, which scarcely shook the leaves of the stunted oak bushes that grew beside the signal station, filled the sails of the boats, and made the waves ripple softly. on the other side of the gulf sebastopol was visible, unchanged, with its unfinished church, its column, its quay, the boulevard which cut the hill with a green band, the elegant library building, its little lakes of azure blue, with their forests of masts, its picturesque aqueducts, and, above all that, clouds of a bluish tint, formed by powder smoke, lighted up from time to time by the red flame of the firing. it was the same proud and beautiful sebastopol, with its festal air, surrounded on one side by the yellow smoke-crowned hills, on the other by the sea, deep blue in color and sparkling brilliantly in the sun. at the horizon, where the smoke of a steamer traced a black line, white, narrow clouds were rising, precursors of a wind. along the whole line of the fortifications, along the heights, especially on the left side, spurted out suddenly, torn by a visible flash, although it was broad daylight, plumes of thick white smoke, which, assuming various forms, extended, rose, and colored the sky with sombre tints. these jets of smoke came out on all sides--from the hills, from the hostile batteries, from the city--and flew toward the sky. the noise of the explosions shook the air with a continuous roar. toward noon these smoke puffs became rarer and rarer, and the vibrations of the air strata became less frequent. "'do you know that the second bastion is no longer replying?' said the hussar officer on horseback, 'it is entirely demolished. it is terrible!' "'yes, and the malakoff replies twice out of three times,' answered the one who was looking through the field-glass. 'this silence is driving me mad! they are firing straight on the korniloff battery and that is not replying.' "'there is a movement in the trenches; they are marching in close columns.' "'yes, i see it well,' said one of the sailors; 'they are advancing by columns. we must set the signal.' "'but see, there--see! they are coming out of the trenches!' "they could see, in fact, with the naked eye black spots going down from the hill into the ravine, and proceeding from the french batteries toward our bastions. in the foreground, in front of the former, black spots could be seen very near our lines. suddenly, from different points of the bastion at the same time, spurted out the white plumes of the discharges, and, thanks to the wind, the noise of a lively fusillade could be heard, like the patter of a heavy rain against the windows. the black lines advanced, wrapped in a curtain of smoke, and came nearer. the fusillade increased in violence. the smoke burst out at shorter and shorter intervals, extended rapidly along the line in a single light, lilac-colored cloud, unrolling and enlarging itself by turns, furrowed here and there by flashes or rent by black points. all the noises mingled together in the tumult of one continued roar. "'it is an assault,' said the officer, pale with emotion, handing his glass to the sailor. "cossacks and officers on horseback went along the road, preceding the commander-in-chief in his carriage, accompanied by his suite. their faces expressed the painful emotion of expectation. "'it is impossible that it is taken!' said the officer on horseback. "'god in heaven--the flag! look now!' cried the other, choked by emotion, turning away from the glass. 'the french flag is in the malakoff mamelon!'" * * * * * it is thus that tolstoi, the great russian writer, describes the fall of sebastopol, as he saw it. at the same moment that the french were taking the malakoff redoubt, the british were storming the redan, from which they had been so disastrously repulsed three months before. the flags of the allied armies floated over both forts, and in the night that followed the russians marched silently out of the fallen city, leaving flames and desolation behind them. the war was over. the good news sped to england, and the great guns of the tower of london thundered out "victory!" "victory!" answered every arsenal the country over. "victory!" rang the bells in every village steeple. "victory!" cried man, woman, and child throughout the length and breadth of the land. but mingled with the shouts of rejoicing was a deeper note, one of thankfulness that the cruel war was done, and peace come at last. in these happy days miss nightingale's name was on all lips. what did not england owe to her, the heroic woman who had offered her life, and had all but lost it, for the soldiers of her country? what should england do to show her gratitude? people were on fire to do something, make some return to florence nightingale for her devoted services. from the queen to the cottager, all were asking: "what shall we do for her?" it was decided to consult her friends, the sidney herberts, as to the shape that a testimonial of the country's love and gratitude should take in order to be acceptable to miss nightingale. mrs. herbert, being asked, replied: "there is but one testimonial which would be accepted by miss nightingale. the one wish of her heart has long been to found a hospital in london and to work it on her own system of unpaid nursing, and i have suggested to all who have asked my advice in this matter to pay any sums that they may feel disposed to give, or that they may be able to collect, into messrs. coutts' bank, where a subscription list for the purpose is about to be opened, to be called the 'nightingale hospital fund,' the sum subscribed to be presented to her on her return home, which will enable her to carry out her object regarding the reform of the nursing system in england." here was something definite indeed. a committee was instantly formed--a wonderful committee, with "three dukes, nine other noblemen, the lord mayor, two judges, five right honorables, foremost naval and military officers, physicians, lawyers, london aldermen, dignitaries of the church, dignitaries of nonconformist churches, twenty members of parliament, and several eminent men of letters"[ ]; and the subscription was opened. how the money came pouring in! you would think no one had ever spent money before. the rich gave their thousands, the poor their pennies. there were fairs and concerts and entertainments of every description, to swell the nightingale fund; but the offering that must have touched miss nightingale's heart most deeply was that of the soldiers and sailors of england. "the officers and men of nearly every regiment and many of the vessels contributed a day's pay."[ ] that meant more to her, i warrant, than any rich man's thousands. before a year had passed, the fund amounted to over forty thousand pounds; and there is no knowing how much higher it might have gone had not miss nightingale herself come home and stopped it. that was enough, she said; if they wanted to give more money, they might give it to the sufferers from the floods in france. but she did not come home at once; no indeed! the war might be over, but her work was not, and she would never leave it while anything remained undone. the war was over, but the hospitals, especially those of the crimea itself, were still filled with sick and wounded soldiers, and until the formal peace was signed an "army of occupation" must still remain in the crimea. miss nightingale knew well that idleness is the worst possible thing for soldiers (as for everyone); and while she cared for the sick and wounded, she took as much pains to provide employment and amusement for the rest. as soon as she had fully regained her strength, she returned to the crimea as she had promised to do, set up two new camp hospitals, and established a staff of nurses, taking the charge of the whole nursing department upon herself. these new hospitals were on the heights above balaklava, not far from where she had passed the days of her own desperate illness. she established herself in a hut close by the hospitals and the sanatorium, and here she spent a second winter of hard work and exposure. it was bitter cold up there on the mountainside. the hut was not weather-proof, and they sometimes found their beds covered with snow in the morning; but they did not mind trifles like this. "the sisters are all quite well and cheerful," writes miss nightingale; "thank god for it! they have made their hut look quite tidy, and put up with the cold and inconveniences with the utmost self-abnegation. everything, even the ink, freezes in our hut every night." in all weathers she rode or drove over the rough and perilous roads, often at great risk of life and limb. her carriage being upset one day, and she and her attendant nurse injured, a friend had a carriage made on purpose for her, to be at once secure and comfortable. it was "composed of wood battens framed on the outside and basketwork. in the interior it is lined with a sort of waterproof canvas. it has a fixed head on the hind part and a canopy running the full length, with curtains at the side to inclose the interior. the front driving seat removes, and thus the whole forms a sort of small tilted wagon with a welted frame, suspended on the back part on which to recline, and well padded round the sides. it is fitted with patent breaks to the hind wheels so as to let it go gently down the steep hills of the turkish roads."[ ] this curious carriage is still preserved at lea hurst. miss nightingale left it behind her when she returned to england, and it was about to be sold, with other abandoned articles, when our good friend m. soyer heard of it; he instantly bought it, sent it to england, and afterwards had the pleasure of restoring it to its owner. she must have been amused, i think, but no doubt she was pleased, too, at the kindly thought. but this comfortable carriage only increased her labors, in one way, for with it she went about more than ever. no weather was too severe, no snowstorm too furious, to keep her indoors; the men needed her and she must go to them. "she was known to stand for hours at the top of a bleak rocky mountain near the hospitals, giving her instructions while the snow was falling heavily. then in the bleak dark night she would return down the perilous mountain road with no escort save the driver."[ ] it was not only for the invalids that miss nightingale toiled through this second winter; much of her time was given to the convalescents and those who were on active duty. she established libraries, and little "reading huts," where the men could come and find the english magazines and papers, and a stock of cheerful, entertaining books, carefully chosen by the dear lady who knew so well what they liked. she got up lectures, too, and classes for those who wished to study this or that branch of learning; and she helped to establish a café at inkerman, where the men could get hot coffee and chocolate and the like in the bitter winter weather. there really seems no end to the good and kind and lovely things she did. i must not forget one thing, which may seem small to some of you, but which was truly great in the amount of good that came from it. ever since she first came out to scutari, she had used all her influence to persuade the soldiers to write home regularly to their families. the sick lads in the hospital learned that if they would write a letter--just two or three lines, to tell mother or sister that they were alive and doing well--and would send it to the lady-in-chief, she would put a stamp on it and speed it on its way. so now, in all the little libraries and reading huts, there were pens, ink and paper, envelopes and stamps; and when miss nightingale looked in at one of these cheerful little gathering places, we may be sure that she asked jim or joe whether he had written to his mother this week, and bade him be sure not to forget it. does this seem to you a small thing? wait till you go away from home, and see what the letters that come from home mean to you; then multiply that by ten, and you will know partly, but not entirely, what your letters mean to those at home. it has always seemed to me that this was a very bright star in miss nightingale's crown of glory. the soldier's wife and child, mother and sister, were always in her thoughts. not only did she persuade the men to write home, but she used all her great influence to induce them to send home their pay to their families. at scutari she had a money-order office of her own, and four afternoons in each month she devoted to receiving money from the soldiers who brought it to her, and forwarding it to england. it is estimated that about a thousand pounds was sent each month, in small sums of twenty or thirty shillings. "this money," says miss nightingale, "was literally so much rescued from the canteen and drunkenness." after the fall of sebastopol the british government followed her example, and set up money-order offices in several places, with excellent results. sometimes it was miss nightingale herself who wrote home to the soldier's family; sad, sweet letters, telling how the husband or father had done his duty gallantly, and had died as a brave man should; giving his last messages, and inclosing the mementos he had left for them. to many a humble home these letters brought comfort and support in the hour of trial, and were treasured--are no doubt treasured to this day--like the relics of a blessed saint. the treaty of peace was signed at paris on march , , and now all hearts in the crimea turned toward home. one by one the hospitals were closed, as their inmates recovered strength; one by one the troopships were filled with soldiers--ragged, gaunt, hollow-eyed, yet gay and light-hearted as schoolboys--and started on the homeward voyage; yet still the lady-in-chief lingered. not while one sick man remained would florence nightingale leave her post. indeed, at the last moment she found a task that none but herself might have taken up. the troopships were gone; but here, on the camping ground before sebastopol, were fifty or sixty poor women, left behind when their husbands' regiments had sailed, helpless and--i was going to say friendless, but nothing could be more untrue; for they gathered in their distress round the hut of the lady-in-chief, imploring her aid; and she soon had them on board a british ship, speeding home after the rest. and now the end had come, and there was only one more thing to do, one more order to give; the result of that last order is seen to-day by all who visit that far-away land of the crimea. on the mountain heights above balaklava, on a peak not far from the sanatorium where she labored and suffered, towers a great cross of white marble, shining like snow against the deep blue sky. this is the "nightingale cross," her own tribute to the brave men and the devoted nurses who died in the war. at the foot of the cross are these words: "lord have mercy upon us." to every englishman--nay, to everyone of any race who loves noble thoughts and noble deeds--this monument will always be a sacred and a venerable one. in the spring of this year, lord ellesmere, speaking before parliament, said: "my lords, the agony of that time has become a matter of history. the vegetation of two successive springs has obscured the vestiges of balaklava and of inkerman. strong voices now answer to the roll call, and sturdy forms now cluster round the colors. the ranks are full, the hospitals are empty. the angel of mercy still lingers to the last on the scene of her labors; but her mission is all but accomplished. those long arcades of scutari, in which dying men sat up to catch the sound of her footstep or the flutter of her dress, and fell back on the pillow content to have seen her shadow as it passed, are now comparatively deserted. she may be thinking how to escape, as best she may, on her return, the demonstration of a nation's appreciation of the deeds and motives of florence nightingale." this was precisely what the lady-in-chief was thinking. she meant to return to england as quietly as she left it; and she succeeded. the british government begged her to accept a man-of-war as her own for the time being; she was much obliged, but would rather not. she went over to scutari, saw the final closing of the hospitals there, and took a silent farewell of that place of many memories; then stepped quietly on board a french vessel, and sailed for france. a few days later--so the story goes--a lady quietly dressed in black, and closely veiled, entered the back door of lea hurst. the old butler saw the intruder, and hastened forward to stop her way--and it was "miss florence!" chapter xv. the tasks of peace. now, the people of england had been on tiptoe for some days with eagerness, waiting to welcome the heroine of the crimea back to her native shores. they would give her such a reception as no one had ever yet had in that land of hospitality and welcomings. she should have bells and cannon and bonfires, processions and deputations and addresses--she should have everything that anybody could think of. when they found that their heroine had slipped quietly through their fingers, as it were, and was back in her own peaceful home once more, people were sadly disappointed. they must give up the cannon and the bonfires; but at least they might have a glimpse of her! so hundreds of people crowded the roads and lanes about lea hurst, waiting and watching. an old lady living at the park gate told mrs. tooley: "i remember the crowds as if it was yesterday. it took me all my time to answer them. folks came in carriages and on foot, and there was titled people among them, and a lot of soldiers, some of them without arms and legs, who had been nursed by miss florence in the hospital, and i remember one man who had been shot through both eyes coming and asking to see miss florence. but not ten out of the hundreds who came got a glimpse of her. if they wanted help about their pensions, they were told to put it down in writing, and miss florence's maid came with an answer. of course she was willing to help everybody, but it stood to reason she could not receive them all; why, the park wouldn't have held all the folks that came, and besides, the old squire wouldn't have his daughter made a staring stock of."[ ] after the first disappointment--which after all was perfectly natural--all sensible people realized how weary miss nightingale must be after her tremendous labors, and how much she must need rest. all who knew her, too, knew that she never could abide public "demonstrations"; so they left her in peace, and began sending her things, to show their gratitude in a different way. the first gift of this kind she had received before she left the crimea, from good queen victoria herself. this was "the nightingale jewel," as it is called; "a ruby-red enamel cross on a white field, encircled by a black band with the words: 'blessed are the merciful.' the letters v. r.; surmounted by a crown in diamonds, are impressed upon the centre of the cross. green enamel branches of palm, tipped with gold, form the framework of the shield, while around their stems is a riband of blue enamel, with the single word 'crimea.' on the top are three brilliant stars of diamonds. on the back is an inscription written by the queen." another gift received on the scene of her labors was a magnificent diamond bracelet sent her by the sultan of turkey. i do not know of any more jewels; but two gifts that miss nightingale prized highly were a fine case of cutlery sent her by the workmen of sheffield, each knife blade inscribed with the words "presented to florence nightingale, ," and the silver-bound oak case inlaid with a representation of the good samaritan; and a beautiful pearl-inlaid writing desk, presented by her friends and neighbors near lea hurst. all these things were very touching; still more touching were the letters that came from all over the country, thanking and blessing her for all she had done. truly it was a happy home coming. miss nightingale knew that she was very, very weary; she realized that she must have a long rest, but she little thought how long it must be. she, and all her friends, thought that after a few months she would be able to take up again the work she so loved, and become the active leader in introducing the new methods of nursing into england. but the months passed, and grew from few to many, and still her strength did not return. the next year, indeed, when the dreadful indian mutiny broke out, she wrote to her friend lady canning, wife of the governor-general of india, offering to come at twenty-four hours' notice "if there was anything to do in her line of business"; but lady canning knew that she was not equal to such a task. slowly, gradually, the truth came to florence nightingale: she was never going to be strong or well again. always delicate, the tremendous labors of the crimea had been too much for her. while the work went on, the frail body answered the call of the powerful will, the undaunted mind, the great heart; now that the task was finished, it sank down broken and exhausted. truly, she had given her life, as much as any soldier who fought and died in the trenches or on the battlefield. and what did she do when she finally came to realize this? did she give up, and say, "my work on earth is done?" not she! there may have been some dark hours, but the world has never heard of them. she never for an instant thought of giving up her work; she simply changed the methods of it. the poor tired body must stay in bed or on the sofa; very well! but the mind was not tired at all; the will was not weakened; the heart had not ceased to throb with love and compassion for the sick, the sorrowful, the suffering; the question was to find the way in which they could work with as little trouble as might be to their poor sick friend the body. the way was soon found. whether at lea hurst or in london (for she now spent a good deal of time in the great city, to be near the centre of things), her sick room became one of the busiest places in all england. schemes for army reform, for hospital reform, for reform in everything connected with the poor and the sick--all these must be brought to miss nightingale. all the soldiers in the country must write to her whenever they wanted anything, from a pension down to a wooden leg (to their honor be it said, however, that though she was overwhelmed with begging letters from all parts of the country, not a soldier ever asked her for money). the nightingale fund, now nearly fifty thousand pounds, was administered under her advice and direction, and the first training school for nurses organized and opened. the old incapable, ignorant nurse vanished, and the modern nurse, educated, methodical, clear-eyed and clear-headed, took her place quietly; one of the great changes of modern times was effected, and the hand that directed it was the same one that we have seen holding the lamp, or writing down the dying soldier's last words, in the barrack hospital at scutari. that slender hand wrote books with all the rest of its work. in the sick room as in the hospital, miss nightingale had no time to waste. her "hospital notes" may be read to-day with the keenest interest by all who care to know more of that great story of the crimean war; her "notes on nursing" became the handbook of the nursing reform, and ought to be in the hands of every nurse to-day as it was in , when it was written. nor in the hands of nurses only; i wish every girl and every boy who reads this story would try to find that slender, dingy volume in some library, and "read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest" its contents. they would know a good deal more than they do now. well might miss nightingale write, in : "i have passed the last four years between four walls, only varied to other four walls once a year; and i believe there is no prospect but of my health becoming ever worse and worse till the hour of my release. but i have never ceased, during one waking hour since my return to england five years ago, laboring for the welfare of the army at home, as i did abroad, and no hour have i given to friendship or amusement during that time, but all to work." drop a stone in the water and see how the circles spread, growing wider and wider. after a while you cannot see them, but you know that the motion you have started must go on and on till it whispers against the pebbles on the farther shore. so it is with a good deed or an evil one; we see its beginning; we cannot see what distant shore it may reach. so, no one will ever know the full amount of good that this noble woman has done. the sanitary commission of our own civil war, the red cross which to-day counts its workers by thousands in every part of the civilized world, both owed their first impulse to the pebble dropped by florence nightingale--even her own life, given freely to suffering humanity. i have never seen, but i like to think of the quiet room in london, where she lies to-day in the white beauty of her age. nearly ninety years have passed since the little girl-baby woke to life among the blossoms of the city of flowers; more than half a century has gone by since the lady with the lamp passed like light along the corridors of the barrack hospital; yet still florence nightingale lives and loves, still her thoughts go out in tenderness and compassion toward all who are "in trouble, sorrow, need, sickness, or any other adversity." let us think of that quiet room as one of the holy places of the earth; let us think of her, and take our leave of her, with loving and thankful hearts. the end. stories for young readers =journeys of the kit kat club.= _illustrated. vo. $ . net._ by william r. a. wilson. a beautifully illustrated volume filled with interesting and salient features of english history, folk-lore, politics, and scenery. =butt chanler, freshman.= _illustrated. mo. $ . ._ by james shelley hamilton, amherst ' . college sports are always a subject of interest to young readers, and here are incidents that are dear to all college associates. "the story is breezy, bright, and clean."--_the bookseller, new york_. =williams of west point.= _illustrated. mo. $ . ._ by lieut. hugh s. johnson. a story of west point under the old code. "every boy with red blood in his veins will pronounce it a corker."--_the globe, boston._ =the substitute.= _illustrated. mo. $ . ._ by walter camp. "presents the ideal to football enthusiasts. the author's name is guarantee of the accuracy of descriptions of the plays."--_the courant, hartford, conn._ =the forest runners.= _illustrated in color. mo. $ . ._ by joseph a. altsheler. this story deals with the further adventures of the two young woodsmen in the history of kentucky who were heroes in "the young trailers." the story is full of thrills to appeal to every boy who loves a good story. d. appleton and company, new york. two good novels. =cy whittaker's place.= a novel of cape cod life, by joseph c. lincoln, author of "mr. pratt," "cap'n eri," etc. illustrations by wallace morgan, colored inlay on cover. mo. cloth, $ . . cape cod life, as pictured by joseph c. lincoln, is delightful in its homeliness, its wholesomeness, its quaint simplicity. the plot of this novel revolves around a little girl whom an old bachelor, cy whittaker, adopts. her education is too stupendous a task for the old man to attempt alone, so he calls in two old cronies and they form a "board of strategy." a dramatic story of unusual merit then develops, and through it all runs that rich vein of humor which has won for the author a fixed place in the hearts of thousands of readers. cy whittaker is the david harum of cape cod. =the whispering man.= a detective story worth while, by henry kitchell webster. frontispiece. mo. decorated cloth, $ . . a detective story you ought to read. something altogether _different_ in that the clues to the mystery lie open to the reader throughout the whole story, and are yet so concealed that the unsuspecting reader is amazed at the outcome. to those who have tired of the ordinary type of detective story, we commend this _different_ novel as most refreshing. d. appleton and company, new york. novels by robert w. chambers. =special messenger.= _illustrated. mo. cloth, $ . ._ a romantic love story of a woman spy in the civil war. =the firing line.= _illustrated. mo. cloth, $ . ._ "the tale is rich in vivid descriptions, pleasing incidents, effective situations, human interest and luxurious scenic effects. it is a story to be remembered."--_grand rapids herald._ =the younger set.= _illustrated. cloth, $ . ._ "the younger set" is a novel of the swirl of wealthy new york society. the hero, forced out of the army by domestic troubles, returns to new york homeless and idle. he finds a beautiful girl who promises ideal happiness. but new complications intervene and are described with what the new york _sun_ calls mr. chambers' "amazing knack of narrative." =the fighting chance.= _illustrated. cloth, $ . ._ one of the most brilliant pictures of wealthy american society ever painted; one of the most interesting and appealing stories ever written; one of the most widely read of all american novels. =some ladies in haste.= _illustrated. cloth, $ . ._ mr. chambers has written most delightfully, and in his charming satire depicts the plight of five society girls and five clubmen. =iole.= _illustrated. cloth, $ . ._ "think of eight pretty girls in pink silk pajamas and sunbonnets, brought up in innocence in a scientific eden, with a 'house beautiful' in the back-ground, and a poetical father in the foreground. think again of those rose-petalled creations turned loose upon new york society and then enjoy the fun of it all in 'iole.'"--_boston herald._ =the tracer of lost persons.= _illustrated. cloth, $ . ._ the captivating account of the strangely absorbing adventures of a "matrimonial sleuth," "a deputy of cupid." "compared with him sherlock holmes is clumsy and without human emotions."--_chicago inter-ocean._ =the tree of heaven.= _illustrated. cloth, $ . ._ if you looked squarely into a mirror and saw your profile instead of your full face, _if you suddenly found yourself miles away from yourself_, you would be in one of the tantalizing situations that give fascination to this charming book. =the reckoning.= _illustrated. cloth, $ . ._ a story of northern new york during the last fierce fights between tories and revolutionaries and the iroquois indians, by which tribe the hero had been adopted. "it would be but an unresponsive american that would not thrill to such relations."--_new york times._ d. appleton and company, new york. by ralph henry barbour =the new boy at hilltop= illustrated in colors, ornamental cloth cover with inlay in colors, mo, $ . . the story of a boy's experiences at boarding school. the first chapter describes his arrival and reception by the others. the remaining chapters tell of his life on the football field, on the crew, his various scrapes and fights, school customs and school entertainments. his experiences are varied and cover nearly all the incidents of boarding school life. =winning his "y"= illustrated in colors, mo, decorated cloth cover, $ . . the scene of this story is yardley hall, the school made famous in "double play" and "forward pass!"; and we meet again the manly, self-reliant dan vinton, his young friend gerald pennimore, and many others of the "old boys" whose athletic achievements and other doings have been so entertainingly chronicled by mr. barbour. the new story is thus slightly connected with its predecessors, but will be fully as interesting to a boy who has not read them as if it were not. =double play= illustrated in colors, mo, cloth, $ . . further experiences of dan vinton--hero of "forward pass!"--at yardley hall. he becomes in a way the mentor of the millionaire's son, gerald pennimore, who enters the school. there is the description of an exciting baseball game, and the stratagem by which the wily coach, payson, puts some ginger into an overtrained squad and develops from it a winning team will appeal to every boy. =forward pass!= illustrated in colors, mo, cloth, $ . . in his new story, mr. barbour returns to the field of his earlier and more successful stories, such as "the half-back," "captain of the crew," etc. the main interest in "forward pass!" centers about the "new" football; the story is, nevertheless, one of preparatory-school life and adventures in general. the book contains several illustrations and a number of diagrams of the "new" football plays. mr. barbour considers this his best story. d. appleton and company, new york by walter camp =jack hall at yale= illustrated in colors, mo, cloth, $ . . this is a story following, but not distinctly a sequel to, mr. camp's successful juvenile, "the substitute." it is a story dealing principally with football in college, but including rowing and other sports. mr. camp's idea in this book is to give a little more of a picture of college life and the relations, friendships, enmities, etc., of the students rather than to tell nothing but a football story. in other words, the book is more of an attempt at the "tom brown at rugby" idea than a purely athletic story, although the basis of the story, as in "the substitute," is still athletics. =the substitute= illustrated in colors, mo, cloth, $ . . it describes vividly the efforts of the coaches in "whipping" the football team of a great university into shape for the season's struggles. the whole story is completely realistic--the talks of the coaches to the team; the discussion of points and tactics in the game; the details of individual positions; the daily work on the field. who can tell of yale traditions, yale ideals, and the militant yale spirit--which the famous author has marshaled on a hundred football fields--as well as walter camp? "those interested in the great college game of football will find a most fascinating tale in 'the substitute,' of which walter camp, the well-known coach and authority on the game, is the author."--_brooklyn eagle._ d. appleton and company, new york footnotes: [footnote : "by the alma river," by dinah maria mulock craik.] [footnote : "charge of the light brigade," by alfred, lord tennyson.] [footnote : tooley, "life of florence nightingale," p. .] [footnote : tooley, "life of florence nightingale," p. .] [footnote : "santa filomena," by henry wadsworth longfellow.] [footnote : kinglake, "invasion of the crimea."] [footnote : "hiawatha," by henry wadsworth longfellow.] [footnote : tooley, "life of florence nightingale," p. .] [footnote : rachel was a famous french actress, but i cannot imagine any real resemblance between her and miss nightingale.] [footnote : tooley, "life of florence nightingale," p. .] [footnote : tooley, "life of florence nightingale," p. .] [footnote : tooley, "life of florence nightingale," p. .] [footnote : tooley, "life of florence nightingale," pp. - .] [footnote : tooley, "life of florence nightingale," p. .] transcriber's notes: _underscores_ show where _italic_ fonts were used in the original printed book. =equals signs= show where =bold= fonts were used in the original printed book. marcella by mrs. humphry ward author of _robert elsmere_, _the history of david grieve_, etc. in two volumes [illustration: portrait of mary a. ward] to my father i inscribe this book in love and gratitude book i. "if nature put not forth her power about the opening of the flower, who is it that could live an hour?" chapter i. "the mists--and the sun--and the first streaks of yellow in the beeches--beautiful!--_beautiful_!" and with a long breath of delight marcella boyce threw herself on her knees by the window she had just opened, and, propping her face upon her hands, devoured the scene, before her with that passionate intensity of pleasure which had been her gift and heritage through life. she looked out upon a broad and level lawn, smoothed by the care of centuries, flanked on either side by groups of old trees--some scotch firs, some beeches, a cedar or two--groups where the slow selective hand of time had been at work for generations, developing here the delightful roundness of quiet mass and shade, and there the bold caprice of bare fir trunks and ragged branches, standing black against the sky. beyond the lawn stretched a green descent indefinitely long, carrying the eye indeed almost to the limit of the view, and becoming from the lawn onwards a wide irregular avenue, bordered by beeches of a splendid maturity, ending at last in a far distant gap where a gate--and a gate of some importance--clearly should have been, yet was not. the size of the trees, the wide uplands of the falling valley to the left of the avenue, now rich in the tints of harvest, the autumn sun pouring steadily through the vanishing mists, the green breadth of the vast lawn, the unbroken peace of wood and cultivated ground, all carried with them a confused general impression of well-being and of dignity. marcella drew it in--this impression--with avidity. yet at the same moment she noticed involuntarily the gateless gap at the end of the avenue, the choked condition of the garden paths on either side of the lawn, and the unsightly tufts of grass spotting the broad gravel terrace beneath her window. "it _is_ a heavenly place, all said and done," she protested to herself with a little frown. "but no doubt it would have been better still if uncle robert had looked after it and we could afford to keep the garden decent. still--" she dropped on a stool beside the open window, and as her eyes steeped themselves afresh in what they saw, the frown disappeared again in the former look of glowing content--that content of youth which is never merely passive, nay, rather, contains an invariable element of covetous eagerness. it was but three months or so since marcella's father, mr. richard boyce, had succeeded to the ownership of mellor park the old home of the boyces, and it was little more than six weeks since marcella had received her summons home from the students' boarding-house in kensington, where she had been lately living. she had ardently wished to assist in the june "settling-in," having not been able to apply her mind to the music or painting she was supposed to be studying, nor indeed to any other subject whatever, since the news of their inheritance had reached her. but her mother in a dry little note had let it be known that she preferred to manage the move for herself. marcella had better go on with her studies as long as possible. yet marcella was here at last. and as she looked round her large bare room, with its old dilapidated furniture, and then out again to woods and lawns, it seemed to her that all was now well, and that her childhood with its squalors and miseries was blotted out--atoned for by this last kind sudden stroke of fate, which might have been delayed so deplorably!--since no one could have reasonably expected that an apparently sound man of sixty would have succumbed in three days to the sort of common chill a hunter and sportsman must have resisted successfully a score of times before. her great desire now was to put the past--the greater part of it at any rate--behind her altogether. its shabby worries were surely done with, poor as she and her parents still were, relatively to their present position. at least she was no longer the self-conscious schoolgirl, paid for at a lower rate than her companions, stinted in dress, pocket-money, and education, and fiercely resentful at every turn of some real or fancied slur; she was no longer even the half-bohemian student of these past two years, enjoying herself in london so far as the iron necessity of keeping her boarding-house expenses down to the lowest possible figure would allow. she was something altogether different. she was marcella boyce, a "finished" and grown-up young woman of twenty-one, the only daughter and child of mr. boyce of mellor park, inheritress of one of the most ancient names in midland england, and just entering on a life which to her own fancy and will, at any rate, promised the highest possible degree of interest and novelty. yet, in the very act of putting her past away from her, she only succeeded, so it seemed, in inviting it to repossess her. for against her will, she fell straightway--in this quiet of the autumn morning--into a riot of memory, setting her past self against her present more consciously than she had done yet, recalling scene after scene and stage after stage with feelings of sarcasm, or amusement, or disgust, which showed themselves freely as they came and went, in the fine plastic face turned to the september woods. she had been at school since she was nine years old--there was the dominant fact in these motley uncomfortable years behind her, which, in her young ignorance of the irrevocableness of living, she wished so impatiently to forget. as to the time before her school life, she had a dim memory of seemly and pleasant things, of a house in london, of a large and bright nursery, of a smiling mother who took constant notice of her, of games, little friends, and birthday parties. what had led to the complete disappearance of this earliest "set," to use a theatrical phrase, from the scenery of her childhood, marcella did not yet adequately know, though she had some theories and many suspicions in the background of her mind. but at any rate this first image of memory was succeeded by another precise as the first was vague--the image of a tall white house, set against a white chalk cliff rising in terraces behind it and alongside it, where she had spent the years from nine to fourteen, and where, if she were set down blindfold, now, at twenty-one, she could have found her way to every room and door and cupboard and stair with a perfect and fascinated familiarity. when she entered that house she was a lanky, black-eyed creature, tall for her age, and endowed or, as she herself would have put it, cursed with an abundance of curly unmanageable hair, whereof the brushing and tending soon became to a nervous clumsy child, not long parted from her nurse, one of the worst plagues of her existence. during her home life she had been an average child of the quick and clever type, with average faults. but something in the bare, ugly rooms, the discipline, the teaching, the companionship of miss frederick's cliff house school for young ladies, transformed little marcella boyce, for the time being, into a demon. she hated her lessons, though, when she chose, she could do them in a hundredth part of the time taken by her companions; she hated getting up in the wintry dark, and her cold ablutions with some dozen others in the comfortless lavatory; she hated the meals in the long schoolroom, where, because twice meat was forbidden and twice pudding allowed, she invariably hungered fiercely for more mutton and scorned her second course, making a sort of dramatic story to herself out of miss frederick's tyranny and her own thwarted appetite as she sat black-browed and brooding in her place. she was not a favourite with her companions, and she was a perpetual difficulty and trouble to her perfectly well-intentioned schoolmistress. the whole of her first year was one continual series of sulks, quarrels, and revolts. perhaps her blackest days were the days she spent occasionally in bed, when miss frederick, at her wit's end, would take advantage of one of the child's perpetual colds to try the effects of a day's seclusion and solitary confinement, administered in such a form that it could do her charge no harm, and might, she hoped, do her good. "for i do believe a great part of it's liver or nerves! no child in her right senses could behave so," she would declare to the mild and stout french lady who had been her partner for years, and who was more inclined to befriend and excuse marcella than any one else in the house--no one exactly knew why. now the rule of the house when any girl was ordered to bed with a cold was, in the first place, that she should not put her arms outside the bedclothes--for if you were allowed to read and amuse yourself in bed you might as well be up; that the housemaid should visit the patient in the early morning with a cup of senna-tea, and at long and regular intervals throughout the day with beef-tea and gruel; and that no one should come to see and talk with her, unless, indeed, it were the doctor, quiet being in all cases of sickness the first condition of recovery, and the natural schoolgirl in miss frederick's persuasion being more or less inclined to complain without cause if illness were made agreeable. for some fourteen hours, therefore, on these days of durance marcella was left almost wholly alone, nothing but a wild mass of black hair and a pair of roving, defiant eyes in a pale face showing above the bedclothes whenever the housemaid chose to visit her--a pitiable morsel, in truth, of rather forlorn humanity. for though she had her movements of fierce revolt, when she was within an ace of throwing the senna-tea in martha's face, and rushing downstairs in her nightgown to denounce miss frederick in the midst of an astonished schoolroom, something generally interposed; not conscience, it is to be feared, or any wish "to be good," but only an aching, inmost sense of childish loneliness and helplessness; a perception that she had indeed tried everybody's patience to the limit, and that these days in bed represented crises which must be borne with even by such a rebel as marcie boyce. so she submitted, and presently learnt, under dire stress of boredom, to amuse herself a good deal by developing a natural capacity for dreaming awake. hour by hour she followed out an endless story of which she was always the heroine. before the annoyance of her afternoon gruel, which she loathed, was well forgotten, she was in full fairy-land again, figuring generally as the trusted friend and companion of the princess of wales--of that beautiful alexandra, the top and model of english society whose portrait in the window of the little stationer's shop at marswell--the small country town near cliff house--had attracted the child's attention once, on a dreary walk, and had ever since governed her dreams. marcella had no fairy-tales, but she spun a whole cycle for herself around the lovely princess who came to seem to her before long her own particular property. she had only to shut her eyes and she had caught her idol's attention--either by some look or act of passionate yet unobtrusive homage as she passed the royal carriage in the street--or by throwing herself in front of the divinity's runaway horses--or by a series of social steps easily devised by an imaginative child, well aware, in spite of appearances, that she was of an old family and had aristocratic relations. then, when the princess had held out a gracious hand and smiled, all was delight! marcella grew up on the instant: she was beautiful, of course; she had, so people said, the "boyce eyes and hair;" she had sweeping gowns, generally of white muslin with cherry-coloured ribbons; she went here and there with the princess, laughing and talking quite calmly with the greatest people in the land, her romantic friendship with the adored of england making her all the time the observed of all observers, bringing her a thousand delicate flatteries and attentions. then, when she was at the very top of ecstasy, floating in the softest summer sea of fancy, some little noise would startle her into opening her eyes, and there beside her in the deepening dusk would be the bare white beds of her two dormitory companions, the ugly wall-paper opposite, and the uncovered boards with their frugal strips of carpet stretching away on either hand. the tea-bell would ring perhaps in the depths far below, and the sound would complete the transformation of the princess's maid-of-honour into marcie boyce, the plain naughty child, whom nobody cared about, whose mother never wrote to her, who in contrast to every other girl in the school had not a single "party frock," and who would have to choose next morning between another dumb day of senna-tea and gruel, supposing she chose to plead that her cold was still obstinate, or getting up at half-past six to repeat half a page of ince's "outlines of english history" in the chilly schoolroom, at seven. looking back now as from another world on that unkempt fractious marcie of cliff house, the marcella of the present saw with a mixture of amusement and self-pity that one great aggravation of that child's daily miseries had been a certain injured, irritable sense of social difference between herself and her companions. some proportion of the girls at cliff house were drawn from the tradesman class of two or three neighbouring towns. their tradesmen papas were sometimes ready to deal on favourable terms with miss frederick for the supply of her establishment; in which case the young ladies concerned evidently felt themselves very much at home, and occasionally gave themselves airs which alternately mystified and enraged a little spitfire outsider like marcella boyce. even at ten years old she perfectly understood that she was one of the boyces of brookshire, and that her great-uncle had been a famous speaker of the house of commons. the portrait of this great-uncle had hung in the dining room of that pretty london house which now seemed so far away; her father had again and again pointed it out to the child, and taught her to be proud of it; and more than once her childish eye had been caught by the likeness between it and an old grey-haired gentleman who occasionally came to see them, and whom she called "grandpapa." through one influence and another she had drawn the glory of it, and the dignity of her race generally, into her childish blood. there they were now--the glory and the dignity--a feverish leaven, driving her perpetually into the most crude and ridiculous outbreaks, which could lead to nothing but humiliation. "i wish my great-uncle were here! _he'd_ make you remember--you great--you great--big bully you!"--she shrieked on one occasion when she had been defying a big girl in authority, and the big girl--the stout and comely daughter of a local ironmonger--had been successfully asserting herself. the big girl opened her eyes wide and laughed. "_your_ great-uncle! upon my word! and who may he be, miss? if it comes to that, i'd like to show _my_ great-uncle david how you've scratched my wrist. he'd give it you. he's almost as strong as father, though he is so old. you get along with you, and behave yourself, and don't talk stuff to me." whereupon marcella, choking with rage and tears, found herself pushed out of the schoolroom and the door shut upon her. she rushed up to the top terrace, which was the school playground, and sat there in a hidden niche of the wall, shaking and crying,--now planning vengeance on her conqueror, and now hot all over with the recollection of her own ill-bred and impotent folly. no--during those first two years the only pleasures, so memory declared, were three: the visits of the cake-woman on saturday--marcella sitting in her window could still taste the three-cornered puffs and small sweet pears on which, as much from a fierce sense of freedom and self-assertion as anything else, she had lavished her tiny weekly allowance; the mad games of "tig," which she led and organised in the top playground; and the kindnesses of fat mademoiselle rénier, miss frederick's partner, who saw a likeness in marcella to a long-dead small sister of her own, and surreptitiously indulged "the little wild-cat," as the school generally dubbed the speaker's great-niece, whenever she could. but with the third year fresh elements and interests had entered in. romance awoke, and with it certain sentimental affections. in the first place, a taste for reading had rooted itself--reading of the adventurous and poetical kind. there were two or three books which marcella had absorbed in a way it now made her envious to remember. for at twenty-one people who take interest in many things, and are in a hurry to have opinions, must skim and "turn over" books rather than read them, must use indeed as best they may a scattered and distracted mind, and suffer occasional pangs of conscience as pretenders. but at thirteen--what concentration! what devotion! what joy! one of these precious volumes was bulwer's "rienzi"; another was miss porter's "scottish chiefs"; a third was a little red volume of "marmion" which an aunt had given her. she probably never read any of them through--she had not a particle of industry or method in her composition--but she lived in them. the parts which it bored her to read she easily invented for herself, but the scenes and passages which thrilled her she knew by heart; she had no gift for verse-making, but she laboriously wrote a long poem on the death of rienzi, and she tried again and again with a not inapt hand to illustrate for herself in pen and ink the execution of wallace. but all these loves for things and ideas were soon as nothing in comparison with a friendship, and an adoration. to take the adoration first. when marcella came to cliff house she was recommended by the same relation who gave her "marmion" to the kind offices of the clergyman of the parish, who happened to be known to some of the boyce family. he and his wife--they had no children--did their duty amply by the odd undisciplined child. they asked her to tea once or twice; they invited her to the school-treat, where she was only self-conscious and miserably shy; and mr. ellerton had at least one friendly and pastoral talk with miss frederick as to the difficulties of her pupil's character. for a long time little came of it. marcella was hard to tame, and when she went to tea at the rectory mrs. ellerton, who was refined and sensible, did not know what to make of her, though in some unaccountable way she was drawn to and interested by the child. but with the expansion of her thirteenth year there suddenly developed in marcie's stormy breast an overmastering absorbing passion for these two persons. she did not show it to them much, but for herself it raised her to another plane of existence, gave her new objects and new standards. she who had hated going to church now counted time entirely by sundays. to see the pulpit occupied by any other form and face than those of the rector was a calamity hardly to be borne; if the exit of the school party were delayed by any accident so that mr. and mrs. ellerton overtook them in the churchyard, marcella would walk home on air, quivering with a passionate delight, and in the dreary afternoon of the school sunday she would spend her time happily in trying to write down the heads of mr. ellerton's sermon. in the natural course of things she would, at this time, have taken no interest in such things at all, but whatever had been spoken by him had grace, thrill, meaning. nor was the week quite barren of similar delights. she was generally sent to practise on an old square piano in one of the top rooms. the window in front of her overlooked the long white drive and the distant high road into which it ran. three times a week on an average mrs. ellerton's pony carriage might be expected to pass along that road. every day marcella watched for it, alive with expectation, her fingers strumming as they pleased. then with the first gleam of the white pony in the distance, over would go the music stool, and the child leapt to the window, remaining fixed there, breathing quick and eagerly till the trees on the left had hidden from her the graceful erect figure of mrs. ellerton. then her moment of paradise was over; but the afterglow of it lasted for the day. so much for romance, for feelings as much like love as childhood can know them, full of kindling charm and mystery. her friendship had been of course different, but it also left deep mark. a tall, consumptive girl among the cliff house pupils, the motherless daughter of a clergyman-friend of miss frederick's, had for some time taken notice of marcella, and at length won her by nothing else, in the first instance, than a remarkable gift for story-telling. she was a parlour-boarder, had a room to herself, and a fire in it when the weather was cold. she was not held strictly to lesson hours; many delicacies in the way of food were provided for her, and miss frederick watched over her with a quite maternal solicitude. when winter came she developed a troublesome cough, and the doctor recommended that a little suite of rooms looking south and leading out on the middle terrace of the garden should be given up to her. there was a bedroom, an intermediate dressing-room, and then a little sitting-room built out upon the terrace, with a window-door opening upon it. here mary lant spent week after week. whenever lesson hours were done she clamoured for marcie boyce, and marcella was always eager to go to her. she would fly up stairs and passages, knock at the bedroom door, run down the steps to the queer little dressing-room where the roof nearly came on your head, and down more steps again to the sitting-room. then when the door was shut, and she was crooning over the fire with her friend, she was entirely happy. the tiny room was built on the edge of the terrace, the ground fell rapidly below it, and the west window commanded a broad expanse of tame arable country, of square fields and hedges, and scattered wood. marcella, looking back upon that room, seemed always to see it flooded with the rays of wintry sunset, a kettle boiling on the fire, her pale friend in a shawl crouching over the warmth, and the branches of a snowberry tree, driven by the wind, beating against the terrace door. but what a story-teller was mary lant! she was the inventor of a story called "john and julia," which went on for weeks and months without ever producing the smallest satiety in marcella. unlike her books of adventure, this was a domestic drama of the purest sort; it was extremely moral and evangelical, designed indeed by its sensitively religious author for marcie's correction and improvement. there was in it a sublime hero, who set everybody's faults to rights and lectured the heroine. in real life marcella would probably before long have been found trying to kick his shins--a mode of warfare of which in her demon moods she was past mistress. but as mary lant described him, she not only bore with and trembled before him--she adored him. the taste for him and his like, as well as for the story-teller herself--a girl of a tremulous, melancholy fibre, sweet-natured, possessed by a calvinist faith, and already prescient of death--grew upon her. soon her absorbing desire was to be altogether shut up with mary, except on sundays and at practising times. for this purpose she gave herself the worst cold she could achieve, and cherished diligently what she proudly considered to be a racking cough. but miss frederick was deaf to the latter, and only threatened the usual upstairs seclusion and senna-tea for the former, whereupon marcella in alarm declared that her cold was much better and gave up the cough in despair. it was her first sorrow and cost her some days of pale brooding and silence, and some nights of stifled tears, when during an easter holiday a letter from miss frederick to her mother announced the sudden death of mary lant. chapter ii. friendship and love are humanising things, and by her fourteenth year marcella was no longer a clever little imp, but a fast-maturing and in some ways remarkable girl, with much of the woman in her already. she had begun even to feel an interest in her dress, to speculate occasionally on her appearance. at the fourth breaking-up party after her arrival at cliff house, marcella, who had usually figured on these occasions in a linsey-woolsey high to the throat, amid the frilled and sashed splendours of her companions, found lying on her bed, when she went up with the others to dress, a plain white muslin dress with blue ribbons. it was the gift of old mademoiselle rénier, who affectionately wished her queer, neglected favourite to look well. marcella examined it and fingered it with an excited mixture of feelings. first of all there was the sore and swelling bitterness that she should owe such things to the kindness of the french governess, whereas finery for the occasion had been freely sent to all the other girls from "home." she very nearly turned her back upon the bed and its pretty burden. but then the mere snowy whiteness of the muslin and freshness of the ribbons, and the burning curiosity to see herself decked therein, overcame a nature which, in the midst of its penury, had been always really possessed by a more than common hunger for sensuous beauty and seemliness. marcella wore it, was stormily happy in it, and kissed mademoiselle rénier for it at night with an effusion, nay, some tears, which no one at cliff house had ever witnessed in her before except with the accompaniments of rage and fury. a little later her father came to see her, the first and only visit he paid to her at school. marcella, to whom he was by now almost a stranger, received him demurely, making no confidences, and took him over the house and gardens. when he was about to leave her a sudden upswell of paternal sentiment made him ask her if she was happy and if she wanted anything. "yes!" said marcella, her large eyes gleaming; "tell mamma i want a 'fringe.' every other girl in the school has got one." and she pointed disdainfully to her plainly parted hair. her father, astonished by her unexpected vehemence, put up his eyeglass and studied the child's appearance. three days later, by her mother's permission, marcella was taken to the hairdresser at marswell by mademoiselle rénier, returned in all the glories of a "fringe," and, in acknowledgment thereof, wrote her mother a letter which for the first time had something else than formal news in it. meanwhile new destinies were preparing for her. for a variety of small reasons mr. boyce, who had never yet troubled himself about the matter from a distance, was not, upon personal inspection, very favourably struck with his daughter's surroundings. his wife remarked shortly, when he complained to her, that marcella seemed to her as well off as the daughter of persons of their means could expect to be. but mr. boyce stuck to his point. he had just learnt that harold, the only son of his widowed brother robert, of mellor park, had recently developed a deadly disease, which might be long, but must in the end be sure. if the young man died and he outlived robert, mellor park would be his; they would and must return, in spite of certain obstacles, to their natural rank in society, and marcella must of course be produced as his daughter and heiress. when his wife repulsed him, he went to his eldest sister, an old maid with a small income of her own, who happened to be staying with them, and was the only member of his family with whom he was now on terms. she was struck with his remarks, which bore on family pride, a commodity not always to be reckoned on in the boyces, but which she herself possessed in abundance; and when he paused she slowly said that if an ideal school of another type could be found for marcella, she would be responsible for what it might cost over and above the present arrangement. marcella's manners were certainly rough; it was difficult to say what she was learning, or with whom she was associating; accomplishments she appeared to have none. something should certainly be done for her--considering the family contingencies. but being a strong evangelical, the aunt stipulated for "religious influences," and said she would write to a friend. the result was that a month or two later marcella, now close on her fourteenth birthday, was transferred from cliff house to the charge of a lady who managed a small but much-sought-after school for young ladies at solesby, a watering place on the east coast. * * * * * but when in the course of reminiscence marcella found herself once more at solesby, memory began to halt and wander, to choose another tone and method. at solesby the rough surroundings and primitive teaching of cliff house, together with her own burning sense of inferiority and disadvantage, had troubled her no more. she was well taught there, and developed quickly from the troublesome child into the young lady duly broken in to all social proprieties. but it was not her lessons or her dancing masters that she remembered. she had made for herself agitations at cliff house, but what were they as compared to the agitations of solesby! life there had been one long wertherish romance in which there were few incidents, only feelings, which were themselves events. it contained humiliations and pleasures, but they had been all matters of spiritual relation, connected with one figure only--the figure of her schoolmistress, miss pemberton; and with one emotion only--a passion, an adoration, akin to that she had lavished on the ellertons, but now much more expressive and mature. a tall slender woman with brown, grey-besprinkled hair falling in light curls after the fashion of our grandmothers on either cheek, and braided into a classic knot behind--the face of a saint, an enthusiast--eyes overflowing with feeling above a thin firm mouth--the mouth of the obstinate saint, yet sweet also: this delicate significant picture was stamped on marcella's heart. what tremors of fear and joy could she not remember in connection with it? what night-vigils when a tired girl kept herself through long hours awake that she might see at last the door open and a figure with a night-lamp standing an instant in the doorway?--for miss pemberton, who slept little and read late, never went to rest without softly going the rounds of her pupils' rooms. what storms of contest, mainly provoked by marcella for the sake of the emotions, first of combat, then of reconciliation to which they led! what a strange development on the pupil's side of a certain histrionic gift, a turn for imaginative intrigue, for endless small contrivances such as might rouse or heighten the recurrent excitements of feeling! what agitated moments of religious talk! what golden days in the holidays, when long-looked-for letters arrived full of religious admonition, letters which were carried about and wept over till they fell to pieces under the stress of such a worship--what terrors and agonies of a stimulated conscience--what remorse for sins committed at school--what zeal to confess them in letters of a passionate eloquence--and what indifference meanwhile to anything of the same sort that might have happened at home! strange faculty that women have for thus lavishing their heart's blood from their very cradles! marcella could hardly look back now, in the quiet of thought, to her five years with miss pemberton without a shiver of agitation. yet now she never saw her. it was two years since they parted; the school was broken up; her idol had gone to india to join a widowed brother. it was all over--for ever. those precious letters had worn themselves away; so, too, had marcella's religious feelings; she was once more another being. * * * * * but these two years since she had said good-bye to solesby and her school days? once set thinking of bygones by the stimulus of mellor and its novelty, marcella must needs think, too, of her london life, of all that it had opened to her, and meant for her. fresh agitations!--fresh passions!--but this time impersonal, passions of the mind and sympathies. at the time she left solesby her father and mother were abroad, and it was apparently not convenient that she should join them. marcella, looking back, could not remember that she had ever been much desired at home. no doubt she had been often moody and tiresome in the holidays; but she suspected--nay, was certain--that there had been other and more permanent reasons why her parents felt her presence with them a burden. at any rate, when the moment came for her to leave miss pemberton, her mother wrote from abroad that, as marcella had of late shown decided aptitude both for music and painting, it would be well that she should cultivate both gifts for a while more seriously than would be possible at home. mrs. boyce had made inquiries, and was quite willing that her daughter should go, for a time, to a lady whose address she enclosed, and to whom she herself had written--a lady who received girl-students working at the south kensington art classes. so began an experience, as novel as it was strenuous. marcella soon developed all the airs of independence and all the jargon of two professions. working with consuming energy and ambition, she pushed her gifts so far as to become at least a very intelligent, eager, and confident critic of the art of other people--which is much. but though art stirred and trained her, gave her new horizons and new standards, it was not in art that she found ultimately the chief excitement and motive-power of her new life--not in art, but in the birth of social and philanthropic ardour, the sense of a hitherto unsuspected social power. one of her girl-friends and fellow-students had two brothers in london, both at work at south kensington, and living not far from their sister. the three were orphans. they sprang from a nervous, artistic stock, and marcella had never before come near any one capable of crowding so much living into the twenty-four hours. the two brothers, both of them skilful and artistic designers in different lines, and hard at work all day, were members of a rising socialist society, and spent their evenings almost entirely on various forms of social effort and socialist propaganda. they seemed to marcella's young eyes absolutely sincere and quite unworldly. they lived as workmen; and both the luxuries and the charities of the rich were equally odious to them. that there could be any "right" in private property or private wealth had become incredible to them; their minds were full of lurid images or resentments drawn from the existing state of london; and though one was humorous and handsome, the other, short, sickly, and pedantic, neither could discuss the socialist ideal without passion, nor hear it attacked without anger. and in milder measure their sister, who possessed more artistic gift than either of them, was like unto them. marcella saw much of these three persons, and something of their friends. she went with them to socialist lectures, or to the public evenings of the venturist society, to which the brothers belonged. edie, the sister, assaulted the imagination of her friend, made her read the books of a certain eminent poet and artist, once the poet of love and dreamland, "the idle singer of an empty day," now seer and prophet, the herald of an age to come, in which none shall possess, though all shall enjoy. the brothers, more ambitious, attacked her through the reason, brought her popular translations and selections from marx and lassalle, together with each venturist pamphlet and essay as it appeared; they flattered her with technical talk; they were full of the importance of women to the new doctrine and the new era. the handsome brother was certainly in love with her; the other, probably. marcella was not in love with either of them, but she was deeply interested in all three, and for the sickly brother she felt at that time a profound admiration--nay, reverence--which influenced her vitally at a critical moment of life. "blessed are the poor"--"woe unto you, rich men"--these were the only articles of his scanty creed, but they were held with a fervour, and acted upon with a conviction, which our modern religion seldom commands. his influence made marcella a rent-collector under a lady friend of his in the east end; because of it, she worked herself beyond her strength in a joint attempt made by some members of the venturist society to organise a tailoresses' union; and, to please him, she read articles and blue-books on sweating and overcrowding. it was all very moving and very dramatic; so, too, was the persuasion marcella divined in her friends, that she was destined in time, with work and experience, to great things and high place in the movement. the wholly unexpected news of mr. boyce's accession to mellor had very various effects upon this little band of comrades. it revived in marcella ambitions, instincts and tastes wholly different from those of her companions, but natural to her by temperament and inheritance. the elder brother, anthony craven, always melancholy and suspicious, divined her immediately. "how glad you are to be done with bohemia!" he said to her ironically one day, when he had just discovered her with the photographs of mellor about her. "and how rapidly it works!" "what works?" she asked him angrily. "the poison of possession. and what a mean end it puts to things! a week ago you were all given to causes not your own; now, how long will it take you to think of us as 'poor fanatics!'--and to be ashamed you ever knew us?" "you mean to say that i am a mean hypocrite!" she cried. "do you think that because i delight in--in pretty things and old associations, i must give up all my convictions? shall i find no poor at mellor--no work to do? it is unkind--unfair. it is the way all reform breaks down--through mutual distrust!" he looked at her with a cold smile in his dark, sunken eyes, and she turned from him indignantly. when they bade her good-bye at the station, she begged them to write to her. "no, no!" said louis, the handsome younger brother. "if ever you want us, we are there. if you write, we will answer. but you won't need to think about us yet awhile. good-bye!" and he pressed her hand with a smile. the good fellow had put all his own dreams and hopes out of sight with a firm hand since the arrival of her great news. indeed, marcella realised in them all that she was renounced. louis and edith spoke with affection and regret. as to anthony, from the moment that he set eyes upon the maid sent to escort her to mellor, and the first-class ticket that had been purchased for her, marcella perfectly understood that she had become to him as an enemy. "they shall see--i will show them!" she said to herself with angry energy, as the train whirled her away. and her sense of their unwarrantable injustice kept her tense and silent till she was roused to a childish and passionate pleasure by a first sight of the wide lawns and time-stained front of mellor. * * * * * of such elements, such memories of persons, things, and events, was marcella's reverie by the window made up. one thing, however, which, clearly, this report of it has not explained, is that spirit of energetic discontent with her past in which she had entered on her musings. why such soreness of spirit? her childhood had been pinched and loveless; but, after all, it could well bear comparison with that of many another child of impoverished parents. there had been compensations all through--and were not the great passion of her solesby days, together with the interest and novelty of her london experience, enough to give zest and glow to the whole retrospect? ah! but it will be observed that in this sketch of marcella's schooldays nothing has been said of marcella's holidays. in this omission the narrative has but followed the hasty, half-conscious gaps and slurs of the girl's own thought. for marcella never thought of those holidays and all that was connected with them _in detail_, if she could possibly avoid it. but it was with them, in truth, and with what they implied, that she was so irritably anxious to be done when she first began to be reflective by the window; and it was to them she returned with vague, but still intense consciousness when the rush of active reminiscence died away. * * * * * that surely was the breakfast bell ringing, and with the dignified ancestral sound which was still so novel and attractive to marcella's ear. recalled to mellor park and its circumstances, she went thoughtfully downstairs, pondering a little on the shallow steps of the beautiful jacobean staircase. _could_ she ever turn her back upon those holidays? was she not rather, so to speak, just embarked upon their sequel, or second volume? but let us go downstairs also. chapter iii. breakfast was laid in the "chinese room," a room which formed part of the stately "garden front," added to the original structure of the house in the eighteenth century by a boyce whose wife had money. the decorations, especially of the domed and vaulted roof, were supposed by their eighteenth century designer to be "oriental"; they were, at any rate, intricate and overladen; and the figures of mandarins on the worn and discoloured wall-paper had, at least, top-knots, pigtails, and petticoats to distinguish them from the ordinary englishmen of , besides a charming mellowness of colour and general effect bestowed on them by time and dilapidation. the marble mantelpiece was elaborately carved in chinamen and pagodas. there were chinese curiosities of a miscellaneous kind on the tables, and the beautiful remains of an indian carpet underfoot. unluckily, some later boyce had thrust a crudely gothic sideboard, with an arched and pillared front, adapted to the purposes of a warming apparatus, into the midst of the mandarins, which disturbed the general effect. but with all its original absurdities, and its modern defacements, the room was a beautiful and stately one. marcella stepped into it with a slight unconscious straightening of her tall form. it seemed to her that she had never breathed easily till now, in the ample space of these rooms and gardens. her father and mother were already at table, together with mrs. boyce's brown spaniel lynn. mr. boyce was employed in ordering about the tall boy in a worn and greasy livery coat, who represented the men-service of the establishment; his wife was talking to her dog, but from the lift of her eyebrows, and the twitching of her thin lips, it was plain to marcella that her mother was as usual of opinion that her father was behaving foolishly. "there, for goodness' sake, cut some bread on the sideboard," said the angry master, "and hand it round instead of staring about you like a stuck pig. what they taught you at sir william jute's i can't conceive. _i_ didn't undertake to make a man-servant of you, sir." the pale, harassed lad flew at the bread, cut it with a vast scattering of crumbs, handed it clumsily round, and then took glad advantage of a short supply of coffee to bolt from the room to order more. "idiot!" said mr. boyce, with an angry frown, as he disappeared. "if you would allow ann to do her proper parlour work again," said his wife blandly, "you would, i think, be less annoyed. and as i believe william was boot boy at the jutes', it is not surprising that he did not learn waiting." "i tell you, evelyn, that our position _demands_ a man-servant!" was the hot reply. "none of my family have ever attempted to run this house with women only. it would be unseemly--unfitting--incon--" "oh, i am no judge of course of what a boyce may do!" said his wife carelessly. "i leave that to you and the neighbourhood." mr. boyce looked uncomfortable, cooled down, and presently when the coffee came back asked his wife for a fresh supply in tones from which all bellicosity had for the time departed. he was a small and singularly thin man, with blue wandering eyes under the blackest possible eyebrows and hair. the cheeks were hollow, the complexion as yellow as that of the typical anglo-indian. the special character of the mouth was hidden by a fine black moustache, but his prevailing expression varied between irritability and a kind of plaintiveness. the conspicuous blue eyes were as a rule melancholy; but they could be childishly bright and self-assertive. there was a general air of breeding about richard boyce, of that air at any rate which our common generalisations connect with the pride of old family; his dress was careful and correct to the last detail; and his hands with their long fingers were of an excessive delicacy, though marred as to beauty by a thinness which nearly amounted to emaciation. "the servants say they must leave unless the ghost does, marcella," said mrs. boyce, suddenly, laying a morsel of toast as she spoke on lynn's nose. "someone from the village of course has been talking--the cook says she heard _something_ last night, though she will not condescend to particulars--and in general it seems to me that you and i may be left before long to do the house work." "what do they say in the village?" asked marcella eagerly. "oh! they say there was a boyce two hundred years ago who fled down here from london after doing something he shouldn't--i really forget what. the sheriff's officers were advancing on the house. their approach displeased him, and he put an end to himself at the head of the little staircase leading from the tapestry-room down to my sitting-room. why did he choose the _staircase_?" said mrs. boyce with light reflectiveness. "it won't do," said marcella, shaking her head. "i know the boyce they mean. he was a ruffian, but he shot himself in london; and, any way, he was dead long before that staircase was built." "dear me, how well up you are!" said her mother. "suppose you give a little lecture on the family in the servants' hall. though i never knew a ghost yet that was undone by dates." there was a satiric detachment in her tone which contrasted sharply with marcella's amused but sympathetic interest. _detachment_ was perhaps the characteristic note of mrs. boyce's manner,--a curious separateness, as it were, from all the things and human beings immediately about her. marcella pondered. "i shall ask mr. harden about the stories," she said presently. "he will have heard them in the village. i am going to the church this morning." her mother looked at her--a look of quiet examination--and smiled. the lady bountiful airs that marcella had already assumed during the six weeks she had been in the house entertained mrs. boyce exceedingly. "harden!" said mr. boyce, catching the name. "i wish that man would leave me alone. what have i got to do with a water-supply for the village? it will be as much as ever i can manage to keep a water-tight roof over our heads during the winter after the way in which robert has behaved." marcella's cheek flushed. "the village water-supply is a _disgrace_," she said with low emphasis. "i never saw such a crew of unhealthy, wretched-looking children in my life as swarm about those cottages. we take the rent, and we ought to look after them. i believe you could be _forced_ to do something, papa--if the local authority were of any use." she looked at him defiantly. "nonsense," said mr. boyce testily. "they got along in your uncle robert's days, and they can get along now. charity, indeed! why, the state of this house and the pinch for money altogether is enough, i should think, to take a man's mind. don't you go talking to mr. harden in the way you do, marcella. i don't like it, and i won't have it. you have the interests of your family and your home to think of first." "poor starved things!" said marcella sarcastically--"living in such a _den_!" and she swept her white hand round, as though calling to witness the room in which they sat. "i tell you," said mr. boyce, rising and standing before the fire, whence he angrily surveyed the handsome daughter who was in truth so little known to him, and whose nature and aims during the close contact of the last few weeks had become something of a perplexity and disturbance to him,--"i tell you our great effort, the effort of us all, must be to keep up the family position!--_our_ position. look at that library, and its condition; look at the state of these wall-papers; look at the garden; look at the estate books if it comes to that. why, it will be years before, even with all my knowledge of affairs, i can pull the thing through--years!" mrs. boyce gave a slight cough--she had pushed back her chair, and was alternately studying her husband and daughter. they might have been actors performing for her amusement. and yet, amusement is not precisely the word. for that hazel eye, with its frequent smile, had not a spark of geniality. after a time those about her found something scathing in its dry light. now, as soon as her husband became aware that she was watching him, his look wavered, and his mood collapsed. he threw her a curious furtive glance, and fell silent. "i suppose mr. harden and his sister remind you of your london socialist friends, marcella?" asked mrs. boyce lightly, in the pause that followed. "you have, i see, taken a great liking for them." "oh! well--i don't know," said marcella, with a shrug, and something of a proud reticence. "mr. harden is very kind--but--he doesn't seem to have thought much about things." she never talked about her london friends to her mother, if she could help it. the sentiments of life generally avoided mrs. boyce when they could. marcella being all sentiment and impulse, was constantly her mother's victim, do what she would. but in her quiet moments she stood on the defensive. "so the socialists are the only people who think?" said mrs. boyce, who was now standing by the window, pressing her dog's head against her dress as he pushed up against her. "well, i am sorry for the hardens. they tell me they give all their substance away--already--and every one says it is going to be a particularly bad winter. the living, i hear, is worth nothing. all the same, i should wish them to look more cheerful. it is the first duty of martyrs." marcella looked at her mother indignantly. it seemed to her often that she said the most heartless things imaginable. "cheerful!" she said--"in a village like this--with all the young men drifting off to london, and all the well-to-do people dissenters--no one to stand by him--no money and no helpers--the people always ill--wages eleven and twelve shillings a week--and only the old wrecks of men left to do the work! he might, i think, expect the people in _this_ house to back him up a little. all he asks is that papa should go and satisfy himself with his own eyes as to the difference between our property and lord maxwell's--" "lord maxwell's!" cried mr. boyce, rousing himself from a state of half-melancholy, half-sleepy reverie by the fire, and throwing away his cigarette--"lord maxwell! difference! i should think so. thirty thousand a year, if he has a penny. by the way, i wish he would just have the civility to answer my note about those coverts over by willow scrubs!" he had hardly said the words when the door opened to admit william the footman, in his usual tremor of nervousness, carrying a salver and a note. "the man says, please sir, is there any answer, sir?" "well, that's odd!" said mr. boyce, his look brightening. "here _is_ lord maxwell's answer, just as i was talking of it." his wife turned sharply and watched him take it; her lips parted, a strange expectancy in her whole attitude. he tore it open, read it, and then threw it angrily under the grate. "no answer. shut the door." the lad retreated. mr. boyce sat down and began carefully to put the fire together. his thin left hand shook upon his knee. there was a moment's pause of complete silence. mrs. boyce's face might have been seen by a close observer to quiver and then stiffen as she stood in the light of the window, a tall and queenly figure in her sweeping black. but she said not a word, and presently left the room. marcella watched her father. "papa--_was_ that a note from lord maxwell?" mr. boyce looked round with a start, as though surprised that any one was still there. it struck marcella that he looked yellow and shrunken--years older than her mother. an impulse of tenderness, joined with anger and a sudden sick depression--she was conscious of them all as she got up and went across to him, determined to speak out. her parents were not her friends, and did not possess her confidence; but her constant separation from them since her childhood had now sometimes the result of giving her the boldness with them that a stranger might have had. she had no habitual deference to break through, and the hindering restraints of memory, though strong, were still less strong than they would have been if she had lived with them day by day and year by year, and had known their lives in close detail instead of guessing at them, as was now so often the case with her. "papa, is lord maxwell's note an uncivil one?" mr. boyce stooped forward and began to rub his chilly hand over the blaze. "why, that man's only son and i used to loaf and shoot and play cricket together from morning till night when we were boys. henry raeburn was a bit older than i, and he lent me the gun with which i shot my first rabbit. it was in one of the fields over by soleyhurst, just where the two estates join. after that we were always companions--we used to go out at night with the keepers after poachers; we spent hours in the snow watching for wood-pigeons; we shot that pair of kestrels over the inner hall door, in the windmill hill fields--at least i did--i was a better shot than he by that time. he didn't like robert--he always wanted me." "well, papa, but what does he say?" asked marcella, impatiently. she laid her hand, however, as she spoke, on her father's shoulder. mr. boyce winced and looked up at her. he and her mother had originally sent their daughter away from home that they might avoid the daily worry of her awakening curiosities, and one of his resolutions in coming to mellor park had been to keep up his dignity with her. but the sight of her dark face bent upon him, softened by a quick and womanly compassion, seemed to set free a new impulse in him. "he writes in the third person, if you want to know, my dear, and refers me to his agent, very much as though i were some london grocer who had just bought the place. oh, it is quite evident what he means. they were here without moving all through june and july, and it is now three weeks at least since he and miss raeburn came back from scotland, and not a card nor a word from either of them! nor from the winterbournes, nor the levens. pleasant! well, my dear, you must make up your mind to it. i did think--i was fool enough to think--that when i came back to the old place, my father's old friends would let bygones be bygones. i never did _them_ any harm. let them 'gang their gait,' confound them!"--the little dark man straightened himself fiercely--"i can get my pleasure out of the land; and as for your mother, she'd not lift a finger to propitiate one of them!" in the last words, however, there was not a fraction of that sympathetic pride which the ear expected, but rather fresh bitterness and grievance. marcella stood thinking, her mind travelling hither and thither with lightning speed, now over the social events of the last six weeks--now over incidents of those long-past holidays. was this, indeed, the second volume beginning--the natural sequel to those old mysterious histories of shrinking, disillusion, and repulse? "what was it you wanted about those coverts, papa?" she asked presently, with a quick decision. "what the deuce does it matter? if you want to know, i proposed to him to exchange my coverts over by the scrubs, which work in with his shooting, for the wood down by the home farm. it was an exchange made year after year in my father's time. when i spoke to the keeper, i found it had been allowed to lapse. your uncle let the shooting go to rack and ruin after harold's death. it gave me something to write about, and i was determined to know where i stood--well! the old pharisee can go his way: i'll go mine." and with a spasmodic attempt to play the squire of mellor on his native heath, richard boyce rose, drew his emaciated frame to its full height, and stood looking out drearily to his ancestral lawns--a picturesque and elegant figure, for all its weakness and pitiableness. "i shall ask mr. aldous raeburn about it, if i see him in the village to-day," said marcella, quietly. her father started, and looked at her with some attention. "what have you seen of aldous raeburn?" he inquired. "i remember hearing that you had come across him." "certainly i have come across him. i have met him once or twice at the vicarage--and--oh! on one or two other occasions," said marcella, carelessly. "he has always made himself agreeable. mr. harden says his grandfather is devoted to him, and will hardly ever let him go away from home. he does a great deal for lord maxwell now: writes for him, and helps to manage the estate; and next year, when the tories come back and lord maxwell is in office again--" "why, of course, there'll be plums for the grandson," said mr. boyce with a sneer. "that goes without saying--though we are such a virtuous lot." "oh yes, he'll get on--everybody says so. and he'll deserve it too!" she added, her eye kindling combatively as she surveyed her father. "he takes a lot of trouble down here, about the cottages and the board of guardians and the farms. the hardens like him very much, but he is not exactly popular, according to them. his manners are sometimes shy and awkward, and the poor people think he's proud." "ah! a prig i dare say--like some of his uncles before him," said mr. boyce, irritably. "but he was civil to you, you say?" and again he turned a quick considering eye on his daughter. "oh dear! yes," said marcella, with a little proud smile. there was a pause; then she spoke again. "i must go off to the church; the hardens have hard work just now with the harvest festival, and i promised to take them some flowers." "well"--said her father, grudgingly, "so long as you don't promise anything on my account! i tell you, i haven't got sixpence to spend on subscriptions to anything or anybody. by the way, if you see reynolds anywhere about the drive, you can send him to me. he and i are going round the home farm to pick up a few birds if we can, and see what the coverts look like. the stock has all run down, and the place has been poached to death. but he thinks if we take on an extra man in the spring, and spend a little on rearing, we shall do pretty decently next year." the colour leapt to marcella's cheek as she tied on her hat. "you will set up another keeper, and you won't do anything for the village?" she cried, her black eyes lightening, and without another word she opened the french window and walked rapidly away along the terrace, leaving her father both angered and amazed. a man like richard boyce cannot get comfortably through life without a good deal of masquerading in which those in his immediate neighbourhood are expected to join. his wife had long since consented to play the game, on condition of making it plain the whole time that she was no dupe. as to what marcella's part in the affair might be going to be, her father was as yet uneasily in the dark. what constantly astonished him, as she moved and talked under his eye, was the girl's beauty. surely she had been a plain child, though a striking one. but now she had not only beauty, but the air of beauty. the self-confidence given by the possession of good looks was very evident in her behaviour. she was very accomplished, too, and more clever than was always quite agreeable to a father whose self-conceit was one of the few compensations left him by misfortune. such a girl was sure to be admired. she would have lovers--friends of her own. it seemed that already, while lord maxwell was preparing to insult the father, his grandson had discovered that the daughter was handsome. richard boyce fell into a miserable reverie, wherein the raeburns' behaviour and marcella's unexpected gifts played about equal parts. * * * * * meanwhile marcella was gathering flowers in the "cedar garden," the most adorable corner of mellor park, where the original tudor house, grey, mullioned and ivy-covered, ran at right angles into the later "garden front," which projected beyond it to the south, making thereby a sunny and sheltered corner where roses, clematis, hollyhocks, and sunflowers grew with a more lavish height and blossom than elsewhere, as though conscious they must do their part in a whole of beauty. the grass indeed wanted mowing, and the first autumn leaves lay thickly drifted upon it; the flowers were untied and untrimmed. but under the condition of two gardeners to ten acres of garden, nature does very much as she pleases, and mr. boyce when he came that way grumbled in vain. as for marcella, she was alternately moved to revolt and tenderness by the ragged charm of the old place. on the one hand, it angered her that anything so plainly meant for beauty and dignity should go so neglected and unkempt. on the other, if house and gardens had been spick and span like the other houses of the neighbourhood, if there had been sound roofs, a modern water-supply, shutters, greenhouses, and weedless paths,--in short, the general self-complacent air of a well-kept country house,--where would have been that thrilling intimate appeal, as for something forlornly lovely, which the old place so constantly made upon her? it seemed to depend even upon _her_, the latest born of all its children--to ask for tendance and cherishing even from _her_. she was always planning how--with a minimum of money to spend--it could be comforted and healed, and in the planning had grown in these few weeks to love it as though she had been bred there. but this morning marcella picked her roses and sunflowers in tumult and depression of spirit. what _was_ this past which in these new surroundings was like some vainly fled tyrant clutching at them again? she energetically decided that the time had come for her to demand the truth. yet, of whom? marcella knew very well that to force her mother to any line of action mrs. boyce was unwilling to follow, was beyond her power. and it was not easy to go to her father directly and say, "tell me exactly how and why it is that society has turned its back upon you." all the same, it _was_ due to them all, due to herself especially, now that she was grown up and at home, that she should not be kept in the dark any longer like a baby, that she should be put in possession of the facts which, after all, threatened to stand here at mellor park, as untowardly in their, in _her_ way, as they had done in the shabby school and lodging-house existence of all those bygone years. perhaps the secret of her impatience was that she did not, and could not, believe that the facts, if faced, would turn out to be insurmountable. her instinct told her as she looked back that their relation toward society in the past, though full of discomforts and humiliations, had not been the relation of outcasts. their poverty and the shifts to which poverty drives people had brought them the disrespect of one class; and as to the acquaintances and friends of their own rank, what had been mainly shown them had been a sort of cool distaste for their company, an insulting readiness to forget the existence of people who had so to speak lost their social bloom, and laid themselves open to the contemptuous disapproval or pity of the world. everybody, it seemed, knew their affairs, and knowing them saw no personal advantage and distinction in the boyces' acquaintance, but rather the contrary. as she put the facts together a little, she realised, however, that the breach had always been deepest between her father and his relations, or his oldest friends. a little shiver passed through her as she reflected that here, in his own country, where his history was best known, the feeling towards him, whatever it rested upon, might very probably be strongest. well, it _was_ hard upon them!--hard upon her mother--hard upon her. in her first ecstasy over the old ancestral house and the dignities of her new position, how little she had thought of these things! and there they were all the time--dogging and thwarting. she walked slowly along, with her burden of flowers, through a laurel path which led straight to the drive, and so, across it, to the little church. the church stood all alone there under the great limes of the park, far away from parsonage and village--the property, it seemed, of the big house. when marcella entered, the doors on the north and south sides were both standing open, for the vicar and his sister had been already at work there, and had but gone back to the parsonage for a bit of necessary business, meaning to return in half an hour. it was the unpretending church of a hamlet, girt outside by the humble graves of toiling and forgotten generations, and adorned, or, at any rate, diversified within by a group of mural monuments, of various styles and dates, but all of them bearing, in some way or another, the name of boyce--conspicuous amongst them a florid cherub-crowned tomb in the chancel, marking the remains of that parliamentarian boyce who fought side by side with hampden, his boyish friend, at chalgrove field, lived to be driven out of westminster by colonel pryde, and to spend his later years at mellor, in disgrace, first with the protector, and then with the restoration. from these monuments alone a tolerably faithful idea of the boyce family could have been gathered. clearly not a family of any very great pretensions--a race for the most part of frugal, upright country gentlemen--to be found, with scarcely an exception, on the side of political liberty, and of a whiggish religion; men who had given their sons to die at quebec, and plassy, and trafalgar, for the making of england's empire; who would have voted with fox, but that the terrors of burke, and a dogged sense that the country must be carried on, drove them into supporting pitt; who, at home, dispensed alternate justice and doles, and when their wives died put up inscriptions to them intended to bear witness at once to the latinity of a boyce's education, and the pious strength of his legitimate affections--a tedious race perhaps and pig-headed, tyrannical too here and there, but on the whole honourable english stuff--the stuff which has made, and still in new forms sustains, the fabric of a great state. only once was there a break in the uniform character of the monuments--a break corresponding to the highest moment of the boyce fortunes, a moment when the respectability of the family rose suddenly into brilliance, and the prose of generations broke into a few years of poetry. somewhere in the last century an earlier richard boyce went abroad to make the grand tour. he was a man of parts, the friend of horace walpole and of gray, and his introductions opened to him whatever doors he might wish to enter, at a time when the upper classes of the leading european nations were far more intimately and familiarly acquainted with each other than they are now. he married at rome an italian lady of high birth and large fortune. then he brought her home to mellor, where straightway the garden front was built with all its fantastic and beautiful decoration, the great avenue was planted, pictures began to invade the house, and a musical library was collected whereof the innumerable faded volumes, bearing each of them the entwined names of richard and marcella boyce, had been during the last few weeks mines of delight and curiosity to the marcella of to-day. the italian wife bore her lord two sons, and then in early middle life she died--much loved and passionately mourned. her tomb bore no long-winded panegyric. her name only, her parentage and birthplace--for she was italian to the last, and her husband loved her the better for it--the dates of her birth and death, and then two lines from dante's _vita nuova_. the portrait of this earlier marcella hung still in the room where her music-books survived,--a dark blurred picture by an inferior hand; but the marcella of to-day had long since eagerly decided that her own physique and her father's were to be traced to its original, as well, no doubt, as the artistic aptitudes of both--aptitudes not hitherto conspicuous in her respectable race. in reality, however, she loved every one of them--these jacobean and georgian squires with their interminable epitaphs. now, as she stood in the church, looking about her, her flowers lying beside her in a tumbled heap on the chancel step, cheerfulness, delight, nay, the indomitable pride and exultation of her youth, came back upon her in one great lifting wave. the depression of her father's repentances and trepidations fell away; she felt herself in her place, under the shelter of her forefathers, incorporated and redeemed, as it were, into their guild of honour. there were difficulties in her path, no doubt--but she had her vantage-ground, and would use it for her own profit and that of others. _she_ had no cause for shame; and in these days of the developed individual the old solidarity of the family has become injustice and wrong. her mind filled tumultuously with the evidence these last two years had brought her of her natural power over men and things. she knew perfectly well that she could do and dare what other girls of her age could never venture--that she had fascination, resource, brain. already, in these few weeks--smiles played about her lips as she thought of that quiet grave gentleman of thirty she had been meeting at the hardens'. his grandfather might write what he pleased. it did not alter the fact that during the last few weeks mr. aldous raeburn, clearly one of the _partis_ most coveted, and one of the men most observed, in the neighbourhood, had taken and shown a very marked interest in mr. boyce's daughter--all the more marked because of the reserved manner with which it had to contend. no! whatever happened, she would carve her path, make her own way, and her parents' too. at twenty-one, nothing looks irrevocable. a woman's charm, a woman's energy should do it all. ay, and something else too. she looked quickly round the church, her mind swelling with the sense of the cravens' injustice and distrust. never could she be more conscious than here--on this very spot--of mission, of an urging call to the service of man. in front of her was the boyces' family pew, carved and becushioned, but behind it stretched bench after bench of plain and humble oak, on which the village sat when it came to church. here, for the first time, had marcella been brought face to face with the agricultural world as it is--no stage ruralism, but the bare fact in one of its most pitiful aspects. men of sixty and upwards, grey and furrowed like the chalk soil into which they had worked their lives; not old as age goes, but already the refuse of their generation, and paid for at the rate of refuse; with no prospect but the workhouse, if the grave should be delayed, yet quiet, impassive, resigned, now showing a furtive childish amusement if a schoolboy misbehaved, or a dog strayed into church, now joining with a stolid unconsciousness in the tremendous sayings of the psalms; women coarse, or worn, or hopeless; girls and boys and young children already blanched and emaciated beyond even the normal londoner from the effects of insanitary cottages, bad water, and starvation food--these figures and types had been a ghastly and quickening revelation to marcella. in london the agricultural labourer, of whom she had heard much, had been to her as a pawn in the game of discussion. here he was in the flesh; and she was called upon to live with him, and not only to talk about him. under circumstances of peculiar responsibility too. for it was very clear that upon the owner of mellor depended, and had always depended, the labourer of mellor. well, she had tried to live with them ever since she came--had gone in and out of their cottages in flat horror and amazement at them and their lives and their surroundings; alternately pleased and repelled by their cringing; now enjoying her position among them with the natural aristocratic instinct of women, now grinding her teeth over her father's and uncle's behaviour and the little good she saw any prospect of doing for her new subjects. what, _their_ friend and champion, and ultimately their redeemer too? well, and why not? weak women have done greater things in the world. as she stood on the chancel step, vowing herself to these great things, she was conscious of a dramatic moment--would not have been sorry, perhaps, if some admiring eye could have seen and understood her. but there was a saving sincerity at the root of her, and her strained mood sank naturally into a girlish excitement. "we shall see!--we shall see!" she said aloud, and was startled to hear her words quite plainly in the silent church. as she spoke she stooped to separate her flowers and see what quantities she had of each. but while she did so a sound of distant voices made her raise herself again. she walked down the church and stood at the open south door, looking and waiting. before her stretched a green field path leading across the park to the village. the vicar and his sister were coming along it towards the church, both flower-laden, and beside walked a tall man in a brown shooting suit, with his gun in his hand and his dog beside him. the excitement in marcella's eyes leapt up afresh for a moment as she saw the group, and then subsided into a luminous and steady glow. she waited quietly for them, hardly responding to the affectionate signals of the vicar's sister; but inwardly she was not quiet at all. for the tall man in the brown shooting coat was mr. aldous raeburn. chapter iv. "how kind of you!" said the rector's sister, enthusiastically; "but i thought you would come and help us." and as marcella took some of her burdens from her, miss harden kissed marcella's cheek with a sort of timid eagerness. she had fallen in love with miss boyce from the beginning, was now just advanced to this privilege of kissing, and being entirely convinced that her new friend possessed all virtues and all knowledge, found it not difficult to hold that she had been divinely sent to sustain her brother and herself in the disheartening task of civilising mellor. mary harden was naturally a short, roundly made girl, neither pretty nor plain, with grey-blue eyes, a shy manner, and a heart all goodness. her brother was like unto her--also short, round, and full-faced, with the same attractive eyes. both were singularly young in aspect--a boy and girl pair. both had the worn, pinched look which mrs. boyce complained of, and which, indeed, went oddly with their whole physique. it was as though creatures built for a normal life of easy give and take with their fellows had fallen upon some unfitting and jarring experience. one striking difference, indeed, there was between them, for amid the brother's timidity and sweetness there lay, clearly to be felt and seen, the consciousness of the priest--nascent and immature, but already urging and characteristic. only one face of the three showed any other emotion than quick pleasure at the sight of marcella boyce. aldous raeburn was clearly embarrassed thereby. indeed, as he laid down his gun outside the low churchyard wall, while marcella and the hardens were greeting, that generally self-possessed though modest person was conscious of a quite disabling perturbation of mind. why in the name of all good manners and decency had he allowed himself to be discovered in shooting trim, on that particular morning, by mr. boyce's daughter on her father's land, and within a stone's throw of her father's house? was he not perfectly well aware of the curt note which his grandfather had that morning despatched to the new owner of mellor? had he not ineffectually tried to delay execution the night before, thereby puzzling and half-offending his grandfather? had not the incident weighed on him ever since, wounding an admiration and sympathy which seemed to have stolen upon him in the dark, during these few weeks since he had made miss boyce's acquaintance, so strong and startling did he all in a moment feel them to be? and then to intrude upon her thus, out of nothing apparently but sheer moth-like incapacity to keep away! the church footpath indeed was public property, and miss harden's burdens had cried aloud to any passing male to help her. but why in this neighbourhood at all?--why not rather on the other side of the county? he could have scourged himself on the spot for an unpardonable breach of manners and feeling. however, miss boyce certainly made no sign. she received him without any _empressement_, but also without the smallest symptom of offence. they all moved into the church together, mr. raeburn carrying a vast bundle of ivy and fern, the rector and his sister laden with closely-packed baskets of cut flowers. everything was laid down on the chancel steps beside marcella's contribution, and then the hardens began to plan out operations. miss harden ran over on her fingers the contributions which had been sent in to the rectory, or were presently coming over to the church in a hand-cart. "lord maxwell has sent the most _beautiful_ pots for the chancel," she said, with a grateful look at young raeburn. "it will be quite a show." to which the young rector assented warmly. it was very good, indeed, of lord maxwell to remember them always so liberally at times like these, when they had so little direct claim upon him. they were not his church or his parish, but he never forgot them all the same, and mellor was grateful. the rector had all his sister's gentle effusiveness, but a professional dignity besides, even in his thanks, which made itself felt. marcella flushed as he was speaking. "i went to see what i could get in the way of greenhouse things," she said in a sudden proud voice. "but we have nothing. there are the houses, but there is nothing in them. but you shall have all our out-of-door flowers, and i think a good deal might be done with autumn leaves and wild things if you will let me try." a speech, which brought a flush to mr. raeburn's cheek as he stood in the background, and led mary harden into an eager asking of marcella's counsels, and an eager praising of her flowers. aldous raeburn said nothing, but his discomfort increased with every moment. why had his grandfather been so officious in this matter of the flowers? all very well when mellor was empty, or in the days of a miser and eccentric, without womankind, like robert boyce. but now--the act began to seem to him offensive, a fresh affront offered to an unprotected girl, whose quivering sensitive look as she stood talking to the hardens touched him profoundly. mellor church might almost be regarded as the boyces' private chapel, so bound up was it with the family and the house. he realised painfully that he ought to be gone--yet could not tear himself away. her passionate willingness to spend herself for the place and people she had made her own at first sight, checked every now and then by a proud and sore reserve--it was too pretty, too sad. it stung and spurred him as he watched her; one moment his foot moved for departure, the next he was resolving that somehow or other he must make speech with her--excuse--explain. ridiculous! how was it possible that he should do either! he had met her--perhaps had tried to meet her--tolerably often since their first chance encounter weeks ago in the vicarage drawing-room. all through there had been on his side the uncomfortable knowledge of his grandfather's antipathy to richard boyce, and of the social steps to which that antipathy would inevitably lead. but miss boyce had never shown the smallest consciousness, so far, of anything untoward or unusual in her position. she had been clearly taken up with the interest and pleasure of this new spectacle upon which she had entered. the old house, its associations, its history, the beautiful country in which it lay, the speech and characteristics of rural labour as compared with that of the town,--he had heard her talk of all these things with a freshness, a human sympathy, a freedom from conventional phrase, and, no doubt, a touch of egotism and extravagance, which rivetted attention. the egotism and extravagance, however, after a first moment of critical discomfort on his part, had not in the end repelled him at all. the girl's vivid beauty glorified them; made them seem to him a mere special fulness of life. so that in his new preoccupation with herself, and by contact with her frank self-confidence, he had almost forgotten her position, and his own indirect relation to it. then had come that unlucky note from mellor; his grandfather's prompt reply to it; his own ineffective protest; and now this tongue-tiedness--this clumsy intrusion--which she must feel to be an indelicacy--an outrage. suddenly he heard miss harden saying, with penitent emphasis, "i _am_ stupid! i have left the scissors and the wire on the table at home; we can't get on without them; it is really too bad of me." "i will go for them," said marcella promptly. "here is the hand-cart just arrived and some people come to help; you can't be spared. i will be back directly." and, gathering up her black skirt in a slim white hand, she sped down the church, and was out of the south door before the hardens had time to protest, or aldous raeburn understood what she was doing. a vexed word from miss harden enlightened him, and he went after the fugitive, overtaking her just where his gun and dog lay, outside the churchyard. "let me go, miss boyce," he said, as he caught her up. "my dog and i will run there and back." but marcella hardly looked at him, or paused. "oh no!" she said quickly, "i should like the walk." he hesitated; then, with a flush which altered his usually quiet, self-contained expression, he moved on beside her. "allow me to go with you then. you are sure to find fresh loads to bring back. if it's like our harvest festival, the things keep dropping in all day." marcella's eyes were still on the ground. "i thought you were on your way to shoot, mr. raeburn?" "so i was, but there is no hurry; if i can be useful. both the birds and the keeper can wait." "where are you going?" "to some outlying fields of ours on the windmill hill. there is a tenant there who wants to see me. he is a prosy person with a host of grievances. i took my gun as a possible means of escape from him." "windmill hill? i know the name. oh! i remember: it was there--my father has just been telling me--that your father and he shot the pair of kestrels, when they were boys together." her tone was quite light, but somehow it had an accent, an emphasis, which made aldous raeburn supremely uncomfortable. in his disquiet, he thought of various things to say; but he was not ready, nor naturally effusive; the turn of them did not please him; and he remained silent. meantime marcella's heart was beating fast. she was meditating a _coup_. "mr. raeburn!" "yes!" "will you think me a very extraordinary person if i ask you a question? your father and mine were great friends, weren't they, as boys?--your family and mine were friends, altogether?" "i believe so--i have always heard so," said her companion, flushing still redder. "you knew uncle robert--lord maxwell did?" "yes--as much as anybody knew him--but--" "oh, i know: he shut himself up and hated his neighbours. still you knew him, and papa and your father were boys together. well then, if you won't mind telling me--i know it's bold to ask, but i have reasons--why does lord maxwell write to papa in the third person, and why has your aunt, miss raeburn, never found time in all these weeks to call on mamma?" she turned and faced him, her splendid eyes one challenge. the glow and fire of the whole gesture--the daring of it, and yet the suggestion of womanish weakness in the hand which trembled against her dress and in the twitching lip--if it had been fine acting, it could not have been more complete. and, in a sense, acting there was in it. marcella's emotions were real, but her mind seldom deserted her. one half of her was impulsive and passionate; the other half looked on and put in finishing touches. acting or no, the surprise of her outburst swept the man beside her off his feet. he found himself floundering in a sea of excuses--not for his relations, but for himself. he ought never to have intruded; it was odious, unpardonable; he had no business whatever to put himself in her way! would she please understand that it was an accident? it should not happen again. he quite understood that she could not regard him with friendliness. and so on. he had never so lost his self-possession. meanwhile marcella's brows contracted. she took his excuses as a fresh offence. "you mean, i suppose, that i have no right to ask such questions!" she cried; "that i am not behaving like a lady--as one of your relations would? well, i dare say! i was not brought up like that. i was not brought up at all; i have had to make myself. so you must avoid me if you like. of course you will. but i resolved there--in the church--that i would make just one effort, before everything crystallises, to break through. if we must live on here hating our neighbours and being cut by them, i thought i would just ask you why, first. there is no one else to ask. hardly anybody has called, except the hardens, and a few new people that don't matter. and _i_ have nothing to be ashamed of," said the girl passionately, "nor has mamma. papa, i suppose, did some bad things long ago. i have never known--i don't know now--what they were. but i should like to understand. is everybody going to cut us because of that?" with a great effort aldous raeburn pulled himself together, certain fine instincts both of race and conduct coming to his help. he met her excited look by one which had both dignity and friendliness. "i will tell you what i can, miss boyce. if you ask me, it is right i should. you must forgive me if i say anything that hurts you. i will try not--i will try not!" he repeated earnestly. "in the first place, i know hardly anything in detail. i do not remember that i have ever wished to know. but i gather that some years ago--when i was still a lad--something in mr. boyce's life--some financial matters, i believe--during the time that he was member of parliament, made a scandal, and especially among his family and old friends. it was the effect upon his old father, i think, who, as you know, died soon afterwards--" marcella started. "i didn't know," she said quickly. aldous raeburn's distress grew. "i really oughtn't to speak of these things," he said, "for i don't know them accurately. but i want to answer what you said--i do indeed. it was that, i think, chiefly. everybody here respected and loved your grandfather--my grandfather did--and there was great feeling for him--" "i see! i see!" said marcella, her chest heaving; "and against papa." she walked on quickly, hardly seeing where she was going, her eyes dim with tears. there was a wretched pause. then aldous raeburn broke out-- "but after all it is very long ago. and there may have been some harsh judgment. my grandfather may have been misinformed as to some of the facts. and i--" he hesitated, struck with the awkwardness of what he was going to say. but marcella understood him. "and you will try and make him alter his mind?" she said, not ungratefully, but still with a touch of sarcasm in her tone. "no, mr. raeburn, i don't think that will succeed." they walked on in silence for a little while. at last he said, turning upon her a face in which she could not but see the true feeling of a just and kindly man-- "i meant that if my grandfather could be led to express himself in a way which mr. boyce could accept, even if there were no great friendship as there used to be, there might be something better than this--this, which--which--is so painful. and any way, miss boyce, whatever happens, will you let me say this once, that there is no word, no feeling in this neighbourhood--how could there be?--towards you and your mother, but one of respect and admiration? do believe that, even if you feel that you can never be friendly towards me and mine again--or forget the things i have said!" "respect and admiration!" said marcella, wondering, and still scornful. "pity, perhaps. there might be that. but any way mamma goes with papa. she always has done. she always will. so shall i, of course. but i am sorry--_horribly_ sore and sorry! i was so delighted to come here. i have been very little at home, and understood hardly anything about this worry--not how serious it was, nor what it meant. oh! i _am_ sorry--there was so much i wanted to do here--if anybody could only understand what it means to me to come to this place!" they had reached the brow of a little rising ground. just below them, beyond a stubble field in which there were a few bent forms of gleaners, lay the small scattered tillage, hardly seen amid its trees, the curls of its blue smoke ascending steadily on this calm september morning against a great belt of distant beechwood which begirt the hamlet and the common along which it lay. the stubble field was a feast of shade and tint, of apricots and golds shot with the subtlest purples and browns; the flame of the wild-cherry leaf and the deeper crimson of the haws made every hedge a wonder; the apples gleamed in the cottage garden; and a cloudless sun poured down on field and hedge, and on the half-hidden medley of tiled roofs, sharp gables, and jutting dormers which made the village. instinctively both stopped. marcella locked her hands behind her in a gesture familiar to her in moments of excitement; the light wind blew back her dress in soft, eddying folds; for the moment, in her tall grace, she had the air of some young victory poised upon a height, till you looked at her face, which was, indeed, not exultant at all, but tragic, extravagantly tragic, as aldous raeburn, in his english reserve, would perhaps have thought in the case of any woman with tamer eyes and a less winning mouth. "i don't want to talk about myself," she began. "but you know, mr. raeburn--you must know--what a state of things there is here--you know what a _disgrace_ that village is. oh! one reads books, but i never thought people could actually _live_ like that--here in the wide country, with room for all. it makes me lie awake at night. we are not rich--we are very poor--the house is all out of repair, and the estate, as of course you know, is in a wretched condition. but when i see these cottages, and the water, and the children, i ask what right we have to anything we get. i had some friends in london who were socialists, and i followed and agreed with them, but here one _sees_! yes, indeed!--it _is_ too great a risk to let the individual alone when all these lives depend upon him. uncle robert was an eccentric and a miser; and look at the death-rate of the village--look at the children; you can see how it has crushed the hardens already. no, we have no right to it!--it ought to be taken from us; some day it will be taken from us!" aldous raeburn smiled, and was himself again. a woman's speculations were easier to deal with than a woman's distress. "it is not so hopeless as that, i think," he said kindly. "the mellor cottages are in a bad state certainly. but you have no idea how soon a little energy and money and thought sets things to rights." "but we have no money!" cried marcella. "and if he is miserable here, my father will have no energy to do anything. he will not care what happens. he will defy everybody, and just spend what he has on himself. and it will make me wretched--_wretched_. look at that cottage to the right, mr. raeburn. it is jim hurd's--a man who works mainly on the church farm, when he is in work. but he is deformed, and not so strong as others. the farmers too seem to be cutting down labour everywhere--of course i don't understand--i am so new to it. hurd and his family had an _awful_ winter, last winter--hardly kept body and soul together. and now he is out of work already--the man at the church farm turned him off directly after harvest. he sees no prospect of getting work by the winter. he spends his days tramping to look for it; but nothing turns up. last winter they parted with all they could sell. this winter it must be the workhouse! it's _heart-breaking_. and he has a mind; he can _feel_! i lend him the labour paper i take in, and get him to talk. he has more education than most, and oh! the _bitterness_ at the bottom of him. but not against persons--individuals. it is like a sort of blind patience when you come to that--they make excuses even for uncle robert, to whom they have paid rent all these years for a cottage which is a crime--yes, a _crime_! the woman must have been such a pretty creature--and refined too. she is consumptive, of course--what else could you expect with that cottage and that food? so is the eldest boy--a little white atomy! and the other children. talk of london--i never saw such sickly objects as there are in this village. twelve shillings a week, and work about half the year! oh! they _ought_ to hate us!--i try to make them," cried marcella, her eyes gleaming. "they ought to hate all of us landowners, and the whole wicked system. it keeps them from the land which they ought to be sharing with us; it makes one man master, instead of all men brothers. and who is fit to be master? which of us? everybody is so ready to take the charge of other people's lives, and then look at the result!" "well, the result, even in rural england, is not always so bad," said aldous raeburn, smiling a little, but more coldly. marcella, glancing at him, understood in a moment that she had roused a certain family and class pride in him--a pride which was not going to assert itself, but none the less implied the sudden opening of a gulf between herself and him. in an instant her quick imagination realised herself as the daughter and niece of two discredited members of a great class. when she attacked the class, or the system, the man beside her--any man in similar circumstances--must naturally think: "ah, well, poor girl--dick boyce's daughter--what can you expect?" whereas--aldous raeburn!--she thought of the dignity of the maxwell name, of the width of the maxwell possessions, balanced only by the high reputation of the family for honourable, just and christian living, whether as amongst themselves or towards their neighbours and dependents. a shiver of passionate vanity, wrath, and longing passed through her as her tall frame stiffened. "there are model squires, of course," she said slowly, striving at least for a personal dignity which should match his. "there are plenty of landowners who do their duty as they understand it--no one denies that. but that does not affect the system; the grandson of the best man may be the worst, but his one-man power remains the same. no! the time has come for a wider basis. paternal government and charity were very well in their way--democratic self-government will manage to do without them!" she flung him a gay, quivering, defiant look. it delighted her to pit these wide and threatening generalisations against the maxwell power--to show the heir of it that she at least--father or no father--was no hereditary subject of his, and bound to no blind admiration of the maxwell methods and position. aldous raeburn took her onslaught very calmly, smiling frankly back at her indeed all the time. miss boyce's opinions could hardly matter to him intellectually, whatever charm and stimulus he might find in her talk. this subject of the duties, rights, and prospects of his class went, as it happened, very deep with him--too deep for chance discussion. what she said, if he ever stopped to think of it in itself, seemed to him a compound of elements derived partly from her personal history, partly from the random opinions that young people of a generous type pick up from newspapers and magazines. she had touched his family pride for an instant; but only for an instant. what he was abidingly conscious of, was of a beautiful wild creature struggling with difficulties in which he was somehow himself concerned, and out of which, in some way or other, he was becoming more and more determined--absurdly determined--to help her. "oh! no doubt the world will do very well without us some day," he said lightly, in answer to her tirade; "no one is indispensable. but are you so sure, miss boyce, you believe in your own creed? i thought i had observed--pardon me for saying it--on the two or three occasions we have met, some degenerate signs of individualism? you take pleasure in the old place, you say; you were delighted to come and live where your ancestors lived before you; you are full of desires to pull these poor people out of the mire in your own way. no! i don't feel that you are thorough-going!" marcella paused a frowning moment, then broke suddenly into a delightful laugh--a laugh of humorous confession, which changed her whole look and mood. "is that all you have noticed? if you wish to know, mr. raeburn, i love the labourers for touching their hats to me. i love the school children for bobbing to me. i love my very self--ridiculous as _you_ may think it--for being miss boyce of mellor!" "don't say things like that, please!" he interrupted; "i think i have not deserved them." his tone made her repent her gibe. "no, indeed, you have been most kind to me," she cried. "i don't know how it is. i am bitter and personal in a moment--when i don't mean to be. yes! you are quite right. i am proud of it all. if nobody comes to see us, and we are left all alone out in the cold, i shall still have room enough to be proud in--proud of the old house and our few bits of pictures, and the family papers, and the beeches! how absurd it would seem to other people, who have so much more! but i have had so little--so _little_!" her voice had a hungry lingering note. "and as for the people, yes, i am proud too that they like me, and that already i can influence them. oh, i will do my best for them, my _very best_! but it will be hard, very hard, if there is no one to help me!" she heaved a long sigh. in spite of the words, what she had said did not seem to be an appeal for his pity. rather there was in it a sweet self-dedicating note as of one going sadly alone to a painful task, a note which once more left aldous raeburn's self-restraint tottering. she was walking gently beside him, her pretty dress trailing lightly over the dry stubble, her hand in its white ruffles hanging so close beside him--after all her prophetess airs a pensive womanly thing, that must surely hear how his strong man's heart was beginning to beat! he bent over to her. "don't talk of there being no one to help! there may be many ways out of present difficulties. meanwhile, however things go, could you be large-minded enough to count one person here your friend?" she looked up at him. tall as she was, he was taller--she liked that; she liked too the quiet cautious strength of his english expression and bearing. she did not think him handsome, and she was conscious of no thrill. but inwardly her quick dramatising imagination was already constructing her own future and his. the ambition to rule leapt in her, and the delight in conquest. it was with a delicious sense of her own power, and of the general fulness of her new life, that she said, "i _am_ large-minded enough! you have been very kind, and i have been very wild and indiscreet. but i don't regret: i am sure, if you can help me, you will." there was a little pause. they were standing at the last gate before the miry village road began, and almost in sight of the little vicarage. aldous raeburn, with his hand on the gate, suddenly gathered a spray of travellers'-joy out of the hedge beside him. "that was a promise, i think, and i keep the pledge of it," he said, and with a smile put the cluster of white seed-tufts and green leaves into one of the pockets of his shooting jacket. "oh, don't tie me down!" said marcella, laughing, but flushing also. "and don't you think, mr. raeburn, that you might open that gate? at least, we can't get the scissors and the wire unless you do." chapter v. the autumn evening was far advanced when aldous raeburn, after his day's shooting, passed again by the gates of mellor park on his road home. he glanced up the ill-kept drive, with its fine overhanging limes, caught a glimpse to the left of the little church, and to the right, of the long eastern front of the house; lingered a moment to watch the sunset light streaming through the level branches of two distant cedars, standing black and sharp against the fiery west, and then walked briskly forwards in the mood of a man going as fast as may be to an appointment he both desires and dreads. he had given his gun to the keeper, who had already sped far ahead of him, in the shooting-cart which his master had declined. his dog, a black retriever, was at his heels, and both dog and man were somewhat weary and stiff with exercise. but for the privilege of solitude, aldous raeburn would at that moment have faced a good deal more than the two miles of extra walking which now lay between him and maxwell court. about him, as he trudged on, lay a beautiful world of english woodland. after he had passed through the hamlet of mellor, with its three-cornered piece of open common, and its patches of arable--representing the original forest-clearing made centuries ago by the primitive fathers of the village in this corner of the chiltern uplands--the beech woods closed thickly round him. beech woods of all kinds--from forest slopes, where majestic trees, grey and soaring pillars of the woodland roof, stood in stately isolation on the dead-leaf carpet woven by the years about their carved and polished bases, to the close plantations of young trees, where the saplings crowded on each other, and here and there amid the airless tangle of leaf and branch some long pheasant-drive, cut straight through the green heart of the wood, refreshed the seeking eye with its arched and far-receding path. two or three times on his walk aldous heard from far within the trees the sounds of hatchet and turner's wheel, which told him he was passing one of the wood-cutter's huts that in the hilly parts of this district supply the first simple steps of the chairmaking industry, carried on in the little factory towns of the more populous valleys. and two or three times also he passed a string of the great timber carts which haunt the chiltern lanes; the patient team of brown horses straining at the weight behind them, the vast prostrate trunks rattling in their chains, and the smoke from the carters' pipes rising slowly into the damp sunset air. but for the most part the road along which he walked was utterly forsaken of human kind. nor were there any signs of habitation--no cottages, no farms. he was scarcely more than thirty miles from london; yet in this solemn evening glow it would have been hardly possible to find a remoter, lonelier nature than that through which he was passing. and presently the solitude took a grander note. he was nearing the edge of the high upland along which he had been walking. in front of him the long road with its gleaming pools bent sharply to the left, showing pale and distinct against a darkening heaven and the wide grey fields which had now, on one side of his path, replaced the serried growth of young plantations. night was fast advancing from south and east over the upland. but straight in front of him and on his right, the forest trees, still flooded with sunset, fell in sharp steeps towards the plain. through their straight stems glowed the blues and purples of that lower world; and when the slopes broke and opened here and there, above the rounded masses of their red and golden leaf the level distances of the plain could be seen stretching away, illimitable in the evening dusk, to a west of glory, just vacant of the sun. the golden ball had sunk into the mists awaiting it, but the splendour of its last rays was still on all the western front of the hills, bathing the beech woods as they rose and fell with the large undulations of the ground. insensibly raeburn, filled as he was with a new and surging emotion, drew the solemnity of the forest glades and of the rolling distances into his heart. when he reached the point where the road diverged to the left, he mounted a little grassy ridge, whence he commanded the whole sweep of the hill rampart from north to west, and the whole expanse of the low country beneath, and there stood gazing for some minutes, lost in many thoughts, while the night fell. he looked over the central plain of england--the plain which stretches westward to the thames and the berkshire hills, and northward through the buckinghamshire and bedfordshire lowlands to the basin of the trent. an historic plain--symbolic, all of it, to an english eye. there in the western distance, amid the light-filled mists, lay oxford; in front of him was the site of chalgrove field, where hampden got his clumsy death wound, and thame, where he died; and far away, to his right, where the hills swept to the north, he could just discern, gleaming against the face of the down, the vast scoured cross, whereby a saxon king had blazoned his victory over his danish foes to all the plain beneath. aldous raeburn was a man to feel these things. he had seldom stood on this high point, in such an evening calm, without the expansion in him of all that was most manly, most english, most strenuous. if it had not been so, indeed, he must have been singularly dull of soul. for the great view had an interest for him personally it could hardly have possessed to the same degree for any other man. on his left hand maxwell court rose among its woods on the brow of the hill--a splendid pile which some day would be his. behind him; through all the upland he had just traversed; beneath the point where he stood; along the sides of the hills, and far into the plain, stretched the land which also would be his--which, indeed, practically was already his--for his grandfather was an old man with a boundless trust in the heir on whom, his affections and hopes were centred. the dim churches scattered over the immediate plain below; the villages clustered round them, where dwelt the toilers in these endless fields; the farms amid their trees; the cottages showing here and there on the fringes of the wood--all the equipment and organisation of popular life over an appreciable part of the english midland at his feet, depended to an extent hardly to be exaggerated, under the conditions of the england of to-day, upon him--upon his one man's brain and conscience, the degree of his mental and moral capacity. in his first youth, of course, the thought had often roused a boy's tremulous elation and sense of romance. since his cambridge days, and of late years, any more acute or dramatic perception than usual of his lot in life had been wont to bring with it rather a consciousness of weight than of inspiration. sensitive, fastidious, reflective, he was disturbed by remorses and scruples which had never plagued his forefathers. during his college days, the special circumstances of a great friendship had drawn him into the full tide of a social speculation which, as it happened, was destined to go deeper with him than with most men. the responsibilities of the rich, the disadvantages of the poor, the relation of the state to the individual--of the old radical dogma of free contract to the thwarting facts of social inequality; the tory ideal of paternal government by the few as compared with the liberal ideal of self-government by the many: these commonplaces of economical and political discussion had very early become living and often sore realities in aldous raeburn's mind, because of the long conflict in him, dating from his cambridge life, between the influences of birth and early education and the influences of an admiring and profound affection which had opened to him the gates of a new moral world. towards the close of his first year at trinity, & young man joined the college who rapidly became, in spite of various practical disadvantages, a leader among the best and keenest of his fellows. he was poor and held a small scholarship; but it was soon plain that his health was not equal to the tripos routine, and that the prizes of the place, brilliant as was his intellectual endowment, were not for him. after an inward struggle, of which none perhaps but aldous raeburn had any exact knowledge, he laid aside his first ambitions and turned himself to another career. a couple of hours' serious brainwork in the day was all that was ever possible to him henceforward. he spent it, as well as the thoughts and conversation of his less strenuous moments, on the study of history and sociology, with a view to joining the staff of lecturers for the manufacturing and country towns which the two great universities, touched by new and popular sympathies, were then beginning to organise. he came of a stock which promised well for such a pioneer's task. his father had been an able factory inspector, well-known for his share in the inauguration and revision of certain important factory reforms; the son inherited a passionate humanity of soul; and added to it a magnetic and personal charm which soon made him a remarkable power, not only in his own college, but among the finer spirits of the university generally. he had the gift which enables a man, sitting perhaps after dinner in a mixed society of his college contemporaries, to lead the way imperceptibly from the casual subjects of the hour--the river, the dons, the schools--to arguments "of great pith and moment," discussions that search the moral and intellectual powers of the men concerned to the utmost, without exciting distrust or any but an argumentative opposition, edward hallin could do this without a pose, without a false note, nay, rather by the natural force of a boyish intensity and simplicity. to many a trinity man in after life the memory of his slight figure and fair head, of the eager slightly parted mouth, of the eyes glowing with some inward vision, and of the gesture with which he would spring up at some critical point to deliver himself, standing amid his seated and often dissentient auditors, came back vivid and ineffaceable as only youth can make the image of its prophets. upon aldous raeburn, edward hallin produced from the first a deep impression. the interests to which hallin's mind soon became exclusively devoted--such as the systematic study of english poverty, or of the relation of religion to social life, reforms of the land and of the church--overflowed upon raeburn with a kindling and disturbing force. edward hallin was his gad-fly; and he had no resource, because he loved his tormentor. fundamentally, the two men were widely different. raeburn was a true son of his fathers, possessed by natural inheritance of the finer instincts of aristocratic rule, including a deep contempt for mob-reason and all the vulgarities of popular rhetoric; steeped, too, in a number of subtle prejudices, and in a silent but intense pride of family of the nobler sort. he followed with disquiet and distrust the quick motions and conclusions of hallin's intellect. temperament and the cambridge discipline made him a fastidious thinker and a fine scholar; his mind worked slowly, yet with a delicate precision; and his generally cold manner was the natural protection of feelings which had never yet, except in the case of his friendship with edward hallin, led him to much personal happiness. hallin left cambridge after a pass degree to become lecturer on industrial and economical questions in the northern english towns. raeburn stayed on a year longer, found himself third classic and the winner of a greek verse prize, and then, sacrificing the idea of a fellowship, returned to maxwell court to be his grandfather's companion and helper in the work of the estate, his family proposing that, after a few years' practical experience of the life and occupations of a country gentleman, he should enter parliament and make a career in politics. since then five or six years had passed, during which he had learned to know the estate thoroughly, and to take his normal share in the business and pleasures of the neighbourhood. for the last two years he had been his grandfather's sole agent, a poor-law guardian and magistrate besides, and a member of most of the various committees for social and educational purposes in the county. he was a sufficiently keen sportsman to save appearances with his class; enjoyed a walk after the partridges indeed, with a friend or two, as much as most men; and played the host at the two or three great battues of the year with a propriety which his grandfather however no longer mistook for enthusiasm. there was nothing much to distinguish him from any other able man of his rank. his neighbours felt him to be a personality, but thought him reserved and difficult; he was respected, but he was not popular like his grandfather; people speculated as to how he would get on in parliament, or whom he was to marry; but, except to the dwellers in maxwell court itself, or of late to the farmers and labourers on the estate, it would not have mattered much to anybody if he had not been there. nobody ever connected any romantic thought with him. there was something in his strong build, pale but healthy aquiline face, his inconspicuous brown eyes and hair, which seemed from the beginning to mark him out as the ordinary earthy dweller in an earthy world. nevertheless, these years had been to aldous raeburn years marked by an expansion and deepening of the whole man, such as few are capable of. edward hallin's visits to the court, the walking tours which brought the two friends together almost every year in switzerland or the highlands, the course of a full and intimate correspondence, and the various calls made for public purposes by the enthusiast and pioneer upon the pocket and social power of the rich man--these things and influences, together, of course, with the pressure of an environing world, ever more real, and, on the whole, ever more oppressive, as it was better understood, had confronted aldous raeburn before now with a good many teasing problems of conduct and experience. his tastes, his sympathies, his affinities were all with the old order; but the old faiths--economical, social, religious--were fermenting within him in different stages of disintegration and reconstruction; and his reserved habit and often solitary life tended to scrupulosity and over-refinement. his future career as a landowner and politician was by no means clear to him. one thing only was clear to him--that to dogmatise about any subject under heaven, at the present day, more than the immediate practical occasion absolutely demanded, was the act of an idiot. so that aldous raeburn's moments of reflection had been constantly mixed with struggle of different kinds. and the particular point of view where he stood on this september evening had been often associated in his memory with flashes of self-realisation which were, on the whole, more of a torment to him than a joy. if he had not been aldous raeburn, or any other person, tied to a particular individuality, with a particular place and label in the world, the task of the analytic mind, in face of the spectacle of what is, would have been a more possible one!--so it had often seemed to him. but to-night all this cumbering consciousness, all these self-made doubts and worries, had for the moment dropped clean away! a transfigured man it was that lingered at the old spot--a man once more young, divining with enchantment the approach of passion, feeling at last through all his being the ecstasy of a self-surrender, long missed, long hungered for. six weeks was it since he had first seen her--this tall, straight, marcella boyce? he shut his eyes impatiently against the disturbing golds and purples of the sunset, and tried to see her again as she had walked beside him across the church fields, in that thin black dress, with, the shadow of the hat across her brow and eyes--the small white teeth flashing as she talked and smiled, the hand so ready with its gesture, so restless, so alive! what a presence--how absorbing, troubling, preoccupying! no one in her company could forget her--nay, could fail to observe her. what ease and daring, and yet no hardness with it--rather deep on deep of womanly weakness, softness, passion, beneath it all! how straight she had flung her questions at him!--her most awkward embarrassing questions. what other woman would have dared such candour--unless perhaps as a stroke of fine art--he had known women indeed who could have done it so. but where could be the art, the policy, he asked himself indignantly, in the sudden outburst of a young girl pleading with her companion's sense of truth and good feeling in behalf of those nearest to her? as to her dilemma itself, in his excitement he thought of it with nothing but the purest pleasure! she had let him see that she did not expect him to be able to do much for her, though she was ready to believe him her friend. ah well--he drew a long breath. for once, raeburn, strange compound that he was of the man of rank and the philosopher, remembered his own social power and position with an exultant satisfaction. no doubt dick boyce had misbehaved himself badly--the strength of lord maxwell's feeling was sufficient proof thereof. no doubt the "county," as raeburn himself knew, in some detail, were disposed to leave mellor park severely alone. what of that? was it for nothing that the maxwells had been for generations at the head of the "county," i.e. of that circle of neighbouring families connected by the ties of ancestral friendship, or of intermarriage, on whom in this purely agricultural and rural district the social pleasure and comfort of miss boyce and her mother must depend? he, like marcella, did not believe that richard boyce's offences were of the quite unpardonable order; although, owing to a certain absent and preoccupied temper, he had never yet taken the trouble to enquire into them in detail. as to any real restoration of cordiality between the owner of mellor and his father's old friends and connections, that of course was not to be looked for; but there should be decent social recognition, and--in the case of mrs. boyce and her daughter--there should be homage and warm welcome, simply because she wished it, and it was absurd she should not have it! raeburn, whose mind was ordinarily destitute of the most elementary capacity for social intrigue, began to plot in detail how it should be done. he relied first upon winning his grandfather--his popular distinguished grandfather, whose lightest word had weight in brookshire. and then, he himself had two or three women friends in the county--not more, for women had not occupied much place in his thoughts till now. but they were good friends, and, from the social point of view, important. he would set them to work at once. these things should be chiefly managed by women. but no patronage! she would never bear that, the glancing proud creature. she must guess, indeed, let him tread as delicately as he might, that he and others were at work for her. but oh! she should be softly handled; as far as he could achieve it, she should, in a very little while, live and breathe compassed with warm airs of good-will and consideration. he felt himself happy, amazingly happy, that at the very beginning of his love, it should thus be open to him, in these trivial, foolish ways, to please and befriend her. her social dilemma and discomfort one moment, indeed, made him sore for her; the next, they were a kind of joy, since it was they gave him this opportunity to put out a strong right arm. everything about her at this moment was divine and lovely to him; all the qualities of her rich uneven youth which she had shown in their short intercourse--her rashness, her impulsiveness, her generosity. let her but trust herself to him, and she should try her social experiments as she pleased--she should plan utopias, and he would be her hodman to build them. the man perplexed with too much thinking remembered the girl's innocent, ignorant readiness to stamp the world's stuff anew after the forms of her own pitying thought, with a positive thirst of sympathy. the deep poetry and ideality at the root of him under all the weight of intellectual and critical debate leapt towards her. he thought of the rapid talk she had poured out upon him, after their compact of friendship, in their walk back to the church, of her enthusiasm for her socialist friends and their ideals,--with a momentary madness of self-suppression and tender humility. in reality, a man like aldous raeburn is born to be the judge and touchstone of natures like marcella boyce. but the illusion of passion may deal as disturbingly with moral rank as with social. it was his first love. years before, in the vacation before he went to college, his boyish mind had been crossed, by a fancy for a pretty cousin a little older than himself, who had been very kind indeed to lord maxwell's heir. but then came cambridge, the flow of a new mental life, his friendship for edward hallin, and the beginnings of a moral storm and stress. when he and the cousin next met, he was quite cold to her. she seemed to him a pretty piece of millinery, endowed with a trick of parrot phrases. she, on her part, thought him detestable; she married shortly afterwards, and often spoke to her husband in private of her "escape" from that queer fellow aldous raeburn. since then he had known plenty of pretty and charming women, both in london and in the country, and had made friends with some of them in his quiet serious way. but none of them had roused in him even a passing thrill of passion. he had despised himself for it; had told himself again and again that he was but half a man-- ah! he had done himself injustice--he had done himself injustice! his heart was light as air. when at last the sound of a clock striking in the plain roused him with a start, and he sprang up from the heap of stones where he had been sitting in the dusk, he bent down a moment to give a gay caress to his dog, and then trudged off briskly home, whistling under the emerging stars. chapter vi. by the time, however, that aldous raeburn came within sight of the windows of maxwell court his first exaltation had sobered down. the lover had fallen, for the time, into the background, and the capable, serious man of thirty, with a considerable experience of the world behind him, was perfectly conscious that there were many difficulties in his path. he could not induce his grandfather to move in the matter of richard boyce without a statement of his own feelings and aims. nor would he have avoided frankness if he could. on every ground it was his grandfather's due. the raeburns were reserved towards the rest of the world, but amongst themselves there had always been a fine tradition of mutual trust; and lord maxwell amply deserved that at this particular moment his grandson should maintain it. but raeburn could not and did not flatter himself that his grandfather would, to begin with, receive his news even with toleration. the grim satisfaction with which that note about the shooting had been despatched, was very clear in the grandson's memory. at the same time it said much for the history of those long years during which the old man and his heir had been left to console each other for the terrible bereavements which had thrown them together, that aldous raeburn never for an instant feared the kind of violent outburst and opposition that other men in similar circumstances might have looked forward to. the just living of a life-time makes a man incapable of any mere selfish handling of another's interests--a fact on which the bystander may reckon. it was quite dark by the time he entered the large open-roofed hall of the court. "is his lordship in?" he asked of a passing footman. "yes, sir--in the library. he has been asking for you, sir." aldous turned to the right along the fine corridor lighted with tudor windows to an inner quadrangle, and filled with graeco-roman statuary and sarcophagi, which made one of the principal features of the court. the great house was warm and scented, and the various open doors which he passed on his way to the library disclosed large fire-lit rooms, with panelling, tapestry, pictures, books everywhere. the colour of the whole was dim and rich; antiquity, refinement reigned, together with an exquisite quiet and order. no one was to be seen, and not a voice was to be heard; but there was no impression of solitude. these warm, darkly-glowing rooms seemed to be waiting for the return of guests just gone out of them; not one of them but had an air of cheerful company. for once, as he walked through it, aldous raeburn spared the old house an affectionate possessive thought. its size and wealth, with all that both implied, had often weighed upon him. to-night his breath quickened as he passed the range of family portraits leading to the library door. there was a vacant space here and there--"room for your missus, too, my boy, when you get her!" as his grandfather had once put it. "why, you've had a long day, aldous, all by yourself," said lord maxwell, turning sharply round at the sound of the opening door. "what's kept you so late?" his spectacles fell forward as he spoke, and the old man shut them in his hand, peering at his grandson through the shadows of the room. he was sitting by a huge fire, an "edinburgh review" open on his knee. lamp and fire-light showed a finely-carried head, with a high wave of snowy hair thrown back, a long face delicately sharp in the lines, and an attitude instinct with the alertness of an unimpaired bodily vigour. "the birds were scarce, and we followed them a good way," said aldous, as he came up to the fire. "rickman kept me on the farm, too, a good while, with interminable screeds about the things he wants done for him." "oh, there is no end to rickman," said lord maxwell, good-humouredly. "he pays his rent for the amusement of getting it back again. landowning will soon be the most disinterested form of philanthropy known to mankind. but i have some news for you! here is a letter from barton by the second post"--he named an old friend of his own, and a cabinet minister of the day. "look at it. you will see he says they can't possibly carry on beyond january. half their men are becoming unmanageable, and s----'s bill, to which they are committed, will certainly dish them. parliament will meet in january, and he thinks an amendment to the address will finish it. all this confidential, of course; but he saw no harm in letting me know. so now, my boy, you will have your work cut out for you this winter! two or three evenings a week--you'll not get off with less. nobody's plum drops into his mouth nowadays. barton tells me, too, that he hears young wharton will certainly stand for the durnford division, and will be down upon us directly. he will make himself as disagreeable to us and the levens as he can--that we may be sure of. we may be thankful for one small mercy, that his mother has departed this life! otherwise you and i would have known _furens quid femina posset_!" the old man looked up at his grandson with a humorous eye. aldous was standing absently before the fire, and did not reply immediately. "come, come, aldous!" said lord maxwell with a touch of impatience, "don't overdo the philosopher. though i am getting old, the next government can't deny me a finger in the pie. you and i between us will be able to pull through two or three of the things we care about in the next house, with ordinary luck. it is my firm belief that the next election will give our side the best chance we have had for half a generation. throw up your cap, sir! the world may be made of green cheese, but we have got to live in it!" aldous smiled suddenly--uncontrollably--with a look which left his grandfather staring. he had been appealing to the man of maturity standing on the threshold of a possibly considerable career, and, as he did so, it was as though he saw the boy of eighteen reappear! "_je ne demands pas mieux_!" said aldous with a quick lift of the voice above its ordinary key. "the fact is, grandfather, i have come home with something in my mind very different from politics--and you must give me time to change the focus. i did not come home as straight as i might--for i wanted to be sure of myself before i spoke to you. during the last few weeks--" "go on!" cried lord maxwell. but aldous did not find it easy to go on. it suddenly struck him that it was after all absurd that he should be confiding in any one at such a stage, and his tongue stumbled. but he had gone too far for retreat. lord maxwell sprang up and seized him by the arms. "you are in love, sir! out with it!" "i have seen the only woman in the world i have ever wished to marry," said aldous, flushing, but with deliberation. "whether she will ever have me, i have no idea. but i can conceive no greater happiness than to win her. and as i want _you_, grandfather, to do something for her and for me, it seemed to me i had no right to keep my feelings to myself. besides, i am not accustomed to--to--" his voice wavered a little. "you have treated me as more than a son!" lord maxwell pressed his arm affectionately. "my dear boy! but don't keep me on tenterhooks like this--tell me the name!--the name!" and two or three long meditated possibilities flashed through the old man's mind. aldous replied with a certain slow stiffness-- "marcella boyce!--richard boyce's daughter. i saw her first six weeks ago." "god bless my soul!" exclaimed lord maxwell, falling back a step or two, and staring at his companion. aldous watched him with anxiety. "you know that fellow's history, aldous?" "richard boyce? not in detail. if you will tell me now all you know, it will be a help. of course, i see that you and the neighbourhood mean to cut him,--and--for the sake of--of miss boyce and her mother, i should be glad to find a way out." "good heavens!" said lord maxwell, beginning to pace the room, hands pressed behind him, head bent. "good heavens! what a business! what an extraordinary business!" he stopped short in front of aldous. "where have you been meeting her--this young lady?" "at the hardens'--sometimes in mellor village. she goes about among the cottages a great deal." "you have not proposed to her?" "i was not certain of myself till to-day. besides it would have been presumption so far. she has shown me nothing but the merest friendliness." "what, you can suppose she would refuse you!" cried lord maxwell, and could not for the life of him keep the sarcastic intonation out of his voice. aldous's look showed distress. "you have not seen her, grandfather," he said quietly. lord maxwell began to pace again, trying to restrain the painful emotion that filled him. of course, aldous had been entrapped; the girl had played upon his pity, his chivalry--for obvious reasons. aldous tried to soothe him, to explain, but lord maxwell hardly listened. at last he threw himself into his chair again with a long breath. "give me time, aldous--give me time. the thought of marrying my heir to that man's daughter knocks me over a little." there was silence again. then lord maxwell looked at his watch with old-fashioned precision. "there is half an hour before dinner. sit down, and let us talk this thing out." * * * * * the conversation thus started, however, was only begun by dinner-time; was resumed after miss raeburn--the small, shrewd, bright-eyed person who governed lord maxwell's household--had withdrawn; and was continued in the library some time beyond his lordship's usual retiring hour. it was for the most part a monologue on the part of the grandfather, broken by occasional words from his companion; and for some time marcella boyce herself--the woman whom aldous desired to marry--was hardly mentioned in it. oppressed and tormented by a surprise which struck, or seemed to strike, at some of his most cherished ideals and just resentments, lord maxwell was bent upon letting his grandson know, in all their fulness, the reasons why no daughter of richard boyce could ever be, in the true sense, fit wife for a raeburn. aldous was, of course, perfectly familiar with the creed implied in it all. a maxwell should give himself no airs whatever, should indeed feel no pride whatever, towards "men of goodwill," whether peasant, professional, or noble. such airs or such feeling would be both vulgar and unchristian. but when it came to _marriage_, then it behoved him to see that "the family"--that carefully grafted and selected stock to which he owed so much--should suffer no loss or deterioration through him. marriage with the fit woman meant for a raeburn the preservation of a pure blood, of a dignified and honourable family habit, and moreover the securing to his children such an atmosphere of self-respect within, and of consideration from without, as he had himself grown up in. and a woman could not be fit, in this sense, who came either of an insignificant stock, untrained to large uses and opportunities, or of a stock which had degenerated, and lost its right of equal mating with the vigorous owners of unblemished names. money was of course important and not to be despised, but the present lord maxwell, at any rate, large-minded and conscious of wealth he could never spend, laid comparatively little stress upon it; whereas, in his old age, the other instinct had but grown the stronger with him, as the world waxed more democratic, and the influence of the great families waned. nor could aldous pretend to be insensible to such feelings and beliefs. supposing the daughter could be won, there was no doubt whatever that richard boyce would be a cross and burden to a raeburn son-in-law. but then! after all! love for once made philosophy easy--made class tradition sit light. impatience grew; a readiness to believe richard boyce as black as erebus and be done with it,--so that one might get to the point--the real point. as to the story, it came to this. in his youth, richard boyce had been the younger and favourite son of his father. he possessed some ability, some good looks, some manners, all of which were wanting in his loutish elder brother. sacrifices were accordingly made for him. he was sent to the bar. when he stood for parliament his election expenses were jubilantly paid, and his father afterwards maintained him with as generous a hand as the estate could possibly bear, often in the teeth of the grudging resentment of robert his firstborn. richard showed signs of making a rapid success, at any rate on the political platform. he spoke with facility, and grappled with the drudgery of committees during his first two years at westminster in a way to win him the favourable attention of the tory whips. he had a gift for modern languages, and spoke chiefly on foreign affairs, so that when an important eastern commission had to be appointed, in connection with some troubles in the balkan states, his merits and his father's exertions with certain old family friends sufficed to place him upon it. the commission was headed by a remarkable man, and was able to do valuable work at a moment of great public interest, under the eyes of europe. its members came back covered with distinction, and were much fêted through the london season. old mr. boyce came up from mellor to see dick's success for himself, and his rubicund country gentleman's face and white head might have been observed at many a london party beside the small italianate physique of his son. and love, as he is wont, came in the wake of fortune. a certain fresh west-country girl, miss evelyn merritt, who had shown her stately beauty at one of the earliest drawing-rooms of the season, fell across mr. richard boyce at this moment when he was most at ease with the world, and the world was giving him every opportunity. she was very young, as unspoilt as the daffodils of her somersetshire valleys, and her character--a character of much complexity and stoical strength--was little more known to herself than it was to others. she saw dick boyce through a mist of romance; forgot herself absolutely in idealising him, and could have thanked him on her knees when he asked her to marry him. five years of parliament and marriage followed, and then--a crash. it was a common and sordid story, made tragic by the quality of the wife, and the disappointment of the father, if not by the ruined possibilities of dick boyce himself. first, the desire to maintain a "position," to make play in society with a pretty wife, and, in the city, with a marketable reputation; then company-promoting of a more and more doubtful kind; and, finally, a swindle more energetic and less skilful than the rest, which bomb-like went to pieces in the face of the public, filling the air with noise, lamentations, and unsavoury odours. nor was this all. a man has many warnings of ruin, and when things were going badly in the stock market, richard boyce, who on his return from the east had been elected by acclamation a member of several fashionable clubs, tried to retrieve himself at the gaming-table. lastly, when money matters at home and abroad, when the anxieties of his wife and the altered manners of his acquaintance in and out of the house of commons grew more than usually disagreeable, a certain little chorus girl came upon the scene and served to make both money and repentance scarcer even than they were before. no story could be more commonplace or more detestable. "ah, how well i remember that poor old fellow--old john boyce," said lord maxwell, slowly, shaking his stately white head over it, as he leant talking and musing against the mantelpiece. "i saw him the day he came back from the attempt to hush up the company business. i met him in the road, and could not help pulling up to speak to him. i was so sorry for him. we had been friends for many years, he and i. 'oh, good god!' he said, when he saw me. 'don't stop me--don't speak to me!' and he lashed his horse up--as white as a sheet--fat, fresh-coloured man that he was in general--and was off. i never saw him again till after his death. first came the trial, and dick boyce got three months' imprisonment, on a minor count, while several others of the precious lot he was mixed up with came in for penal servitude. there was some technical flaw in the evidence with regard to him, and the clever lawyers they put on made the most of it; but we all thought, and society thought, that dick was morally as bad as any of them. then the papers got hold of the gambling debts and the woman. she made a disturbance at his club, i believe, during the trial, while he was out on bail--anyway it all came out. two or three other people were implicated in the gambling business--men of good family. altogether it was one of the biggest scandals i remember in my time." the old man paused, the long frowning face sternly set. aldous gazed at him in silence. it was certainly pretty bad--worse than he had thought. "and the wife and child?" he said presently. "oh, poor things!"--said lord maxwell, forgetting everything for the moment but his story--"when boyce's imprisonment was up they disappeared with him. his constituents held indignation meetings, of course. he gave up his seat, and his father allowed him a small fixed income--she had besides some little money of her own--which was secured him afterwards, i believe, on the estate during his brother's lifetime. some of her people would have gladly persuaded her to leave him, for his behaviour towards her had been particularly odious,--and they were afraid, too, i think, that he might come to worse grief yet and make her life unbearable. but she wouldn't. and she would have no sympathy and no talk. i never saw her after the first year of their marriage, when she was a most radiant and beautiful creature. but, by all accounts of her behaviour at the time, she must be a remarkable woman. one of her family told me that she broke with all of them. she would know nobody who would not know him. nor would she take money, though they were wretchedly poor; and dick boyce was not squeamish. she went off to little lodgings in the country or abroad with him without a word. at the same time, it was plain that her life was withered. she could make one great effort; but, according to my informant, she had no energy left for anything else--not even to take interest in her little girl--" aldous made a movement. "suppose we talk about her?" he said rather shortly. lord maxwell started and recollected himself. after a pause he said, looking down under his spectacles at his grandson with an expression in which discomfort strove with humour-- "i see. you think we are beating about the bush. perhaps we are. it is the difference between being old and being young, aldous, my boy. well--now then--for miss boyce. how much have you seen of her?--how deep has it gone? you can't wonder that i am knocked over. to bring that man amongst us! why, the hound!" cried the old man, suddenly, "we could not even get him to come and see his father when he was dying. john had lost his memory mostly--had forgotten, anyway, to be angry--and just _craved_ for dick, for the only creature he had ever loved. with great difficulty i traced the man, and tried my utmost. no good! he came when his father no longer knew him, an hour before the end. his nerves, i understood, were delicate--not so delicate, however, as to prevent his being present at the reading of the will! i have never forgiven him that cruelty to the old man, and never will!" and lord maxwell began to pace the library again, by way of working off memory and indignation. aldous watched him rather gloomily. they had now been discussing boyce's criminalities in great detail for a considerable time, and nothing else seemed to have any power to touch--or, at any rate, to hold--lord maxwell's attention. a certain deep pride in aldous--the pride of intimate affection--felt itself wounded. "i see that you have grave cause to think badly of her father," he said at last, rising as he spoke. "i must think how it concerns me. and to-morrow you must let me tell you something about her. after all, she has done none of these things. but i ought not to keep you up like this. you will remember clarke was very emphatic about your not exhausting yourself at night, last time he was here." lord maxwell turned and stared. "why--why, what is the matter with you, aldous? offended? well--well--there--i _am_ an old fool!" and, walking up to his grandson, he laid an affectionate and rather shaking hand on the younger's shoulder. "you have a great charge upon you, aldous--a charge for the future. it has upset me--i shall be calmer to-morrow. but as to any quarrel between us! are you a youth, or am i a three-tailed bashaw? as to money, you know, i care nothing. but it goes against me, my boy, it goes against me, that _your_ wife should bring such a story as that with her into this house!" "i understand," said aldous, wincing. "but you must see her, grandfather. only, let me say it again--don't for one moment take it for granted that she will marry me. i never saw any one so free, so unspoilt, so unconventional." his eyes glowed with the pleasure of remembering her looks, her tones. lord maxwell withdrew his hand and shook his head slowly. "you have a great deal to offer. no woman, unless she were either foolish or totally unexperienced, could overlook that. is she about twenty?" "about twenty." lord maxwell waited a moment, then, bending over the fire, shrugged his shoulders in mock despair. "it is evident you are out of love with me, aldous. why, i don't know yet whether she is dark or fair!" the conversation jarred on both sides. aldous made an effort. "she is very dark," he said; "like her mother in many ways, only quite different in colour. to me she seems the most beautiful--the only beautiful woman i have ever seen. i should think she was very clever in some ways--and very unformed--childish almost--in others. the hardens say she has done everything she could--of course it isn't much--for that miserable village in the time she has been there. oh! by the way, she is a socialist. she thinks that all we landowners should be done away with." aldous looked round at his grandfather, so soon probably to be one of the lights of a tory cabinet, and laughed. so, to his relief, did lord maxwell. "well, don't let her fall into young wharton's clutches, aldous, or he will be setting her to canvas. so, she is beautiful and she is clever--and _good_, my boy? if she comes here, she will have to fill your mother's and your grandmother's place." aldous tried to reply once or twice, but failed. "if i did not feel that she were everything in herself to be loved and respected"--he said at last with some formality--"i should not long, as i do, to bring you and her together." silence fell again. but instinctively aldous felt that his grandfather's mood had grown gentler--his own task easier. he seized on the moment at once. "in the whole business," he said, half smiling, "there is only one thing clear, grandfather, and that is, that, if you will, you can do me a great service with miss boyce." lord maxwell turned quickly and was all sharp attention, the keen commanding eyes under their fine brows absorbing, as it were, expression and life from the rest of the blanched and wrinkled face. "you could, if you would, make matters easy for her and her mother in the county," said aldous, anxious to carry it off lightly. "you could, if you would, without committing yourself to any personal contact with boyce himself, make it possible for me to bring her here, so that you and my aunt might see her and judge." the old man's expression darkened. "what, take back that note, aldous! i never wrote anything with greater satisfaction in my life!" "well,--more or less," said aldous, quietly. "a very little would do it. a man in richard boyce's position will naturally not claim very much--will take what he can get." "and you mean besides," said his grandfather, interrupting him, "that i must send your aunt to call?" "it will hardly be possible to ask miss boyce here unless she does!" said aldous. "and you reckon that i am not likely to go to mellor, even to see her? and you want me to say a word to other people--to the winterbournes and the levens, for instance?" "precisely," said aldous. lord maxwell meditated; then rose. "let me now appease the memory of clarke by going to bed!" (clarke was his lordship's medical attendant and autocrat.) "i must sleep upon this, aldous." "i only hope i shall not have tired you out." aldous moved to extinguish a lamp standing on a table near. suddenly his grandfather called him. "aldous!" "yes." but, as no words followed, aldous turned. he saw his grandfather standing erect before the fire, and was startled by the emotion he instantly perceived in eye and mouth. "you understand, aldous, that for twenty years--it is twenty years last month since your father died--you have been the blessing of my life? oh! don't say anything, my boy; i don't want any more agitation. i have spoken strongly; it was hardly possible but that on such a matter i should feel strongly. but don't go away misunderstanding me--don't imagine for one instant that there is anything in the world that really matters to me in comparison with your happiness and your future!" the venerable old man wrung the hand he held, walked quickly to the door, and shut it behind him. * * * * * an hour later, aldous was writing in his own sitting-room, a room on the first floor, at the western corner of the house, and commanding by daylight the falling slopes of wood below the court, and all the wide expanses of the plain. to-night, too, the blinds were up, and the great view drawn in black and pearl, streaked with white mists in the ground hollows and overarched by a wide sky holding a haloed moon, lay spread before the windows. on a clear night aldous felt himself stifled by blinds and curtains, and would often sit late, reading and writing, with a lamp so screened that it threw light upon his book or paper, while not interfering with the full range of his eye over the night-world without. he secretly believed that human beings see far too little of the night, and so lose a host of august or beautiful impressions, which might be honestly theirs if they pleased, without borrowing or stealing from anybody, poet or painter. the room was lined with books, partly temporary visitors from the great library downstairs, partly his old college books and prizes, and partly representing small collections for special studies. here were a large number of volumes, blue books, and pamphlets, bearing on the condition of agriculture and the rural poor in england and abroad; there were some shelves devoted to general economics, and on a little table by the fire lay the recent numbers of various economic journals, english and foreign. between the windows stood a small philosophical bookcase, the volumes of it full of small reference slips, and marked from end to end; and on the other side of the room was a revolving book-table crowded with miscellaneous volumes of poets, critics, and novelists--mainly, however, with the first two. aldous raeburn read few novels, and those with a certain impatience. his mind was mostly engaged in a slow wrestle with difficult and unmanageable fact; and for that transformation and illumination of fact in which the man of idealist temper must sometimes take refuge and comfort, he went easily and eagerly to the poets and to natural beauty. hardly any novel writing, or reading, seemed to him worth while. a man, he thought, might be much better employed than in doing either. above the mantelpiece was his mother's picture--the picture of a young woman in a low dress and muslin scarf, trivial and empty in point of art, yet linked in aldous's mind with a hundred touching recollections, buried all of them in the silence of an unbroken reserve. she had died in childbirth when he was nine; her baby had died with her, and her husband, lord maxwell's only son and surviving child, fell a victim two years later to a deadly form of throat disease, one of those ills which come upon strong men by surprise, and excite in the dying a sense of helpless wrong which even religious faith can only partially soothe. aldous remembered his mother's death; still more his father's, that father who could speak no last message to his son, could only lie dumb upon his pillows, with those eyes full of incommunicable pain, and the hand now restlessly seeking, now restlessly putting aside the small and trembling hand of the son. his boyhood had been spent under the shadow of these events, which had aged his grandfather, and made him too early realise himself as standing alone in the gap of loss, the only hope left to affection and to ambition. this premature development, amid the most melancholy surroundings, of the sense of personal importance--not in any egotistical sense, but as a sheer matter of fact--had robbed a nervous and sensitive temperament of natural stores of gaiety and elasticity which it could ill do without. aldous raeburn had been too much thought for and too painfully loved. but for edward hallin he might well have acquiesced at manhood in a certain impaired vitality, in the scholar's range of pleasures, and the landowner's customary round of duties. it was to edward hallin he was writing to-night, for the stress and stir of feeling caused by the events of the day, and not least by his grandfather's outburst, seemed to put sleep far off. on the table before him stood a photograph of hallin, besides a miniature of his mother as a girl. he had drawn the miniature closer to him, finding sympathy and joy in its youth, in the bright expectancy of the eyes, and so wrote, as it were, having both her and his friend in mind and sight. to hallin he had already spoken of miss boyce, drawing her in light, casual, and yet sympathetic strokes as the pretty girl in a difficult position whom one would watch with curiosity and some pity. to-night his letter, which should have discussed a home colonisation scheme of hallin's, had but one topic, and his pen flew. "would you call her beautiful? i ask myself again and again, trying to put myself behind your eyes. she has nothing, at any rate, in common with the beauties we have down here, or with those my aunt bade me admire in london last may. the face has a strong italian look, but not italian of to-day. do you remember the ghirlandajo frescoes in santa maria novella, or the side groups in andrea's frescoes at the annunziata? among them, among the beautiful tall women of them, there are, i am sure, noble, freely-poised, suggestive heads like hers--hair, black wavy hair, folded like hers in large simple lines, and faces with the same long, subtle curves. it is a face of the renaissance, extraordinarily beautiful, as it seems to me, in colour and expression; imperfect in line, as the beauty which marks the meeting point between antique perfection and modern character must always be. it has _morbidezza_--unquiet melancholy charm, then passionate gaiety--everything that is most modern grafted on things greek and old. i am told that burne jones drew her several times while she was in london, with delight. it is the most _artistic_ beauty, having both the harmonies and the dissonances that a full-grown art loves. "she may be twenty or rather more. the mind has all sorts of ability; comes to the right conclusion by a divine instinct, ignoring the how and why. what does such a being want with the drudgery of learning? to such keenness life will be master enough. yet she has evidently read a good deal--much poetry, some scattered political economy, some modern socialistic books, matthew arnold, ruskin, carlyle. she takes everything dramatically, imaginatively, goes straight from it to life, and back again. among the young people with whom she made acquaintance while she was boarding in london and working at south kensington, there seem to have been two brothers, both artists, and both socialists; ardent young fellows, giving all their spare time to good works, who must have influenced her a great deal. she is full of angers and revolts, which you would delight in. and first of all, she is applying herself to her father's wretched village, which will keep her hands full. a large and passionate humanity plays about her. what she says often seems to me foolish--in the ear; but the inner sense, the heart of it, command me. "stare as you please, ned! only write to me, and come down here as soon as you can. i can and will hide nothing from you, so you will believe me when i say that all is uncertain, that i know nothing, and, though i hope everything, may just as well fear everything too. but somehow i am another man, and the world shines and glows for me by day and night." aldous raeburn rose from his chair and, going to the window, stood looking out at the splendour of the autumn moon. marcella moved across the whiteness of the grass; her voice was still speaking to his inward ear. his lips smiled; his heart was in a wild whirl of happiness. then he walked to the table, took up his letter, read it, tore it across, and locked the fragments in a drawer. "not yet, ned--not yet, dear old fellow, even to you," he said to himself, as he put out his lamp. chapter vii. three days passed. on the fourth marcella returned late in the afternoon from a round of parish visits with mary harden. as she opened the oak doors which shut off the central hall of mellor from the outer vestibule, she saw something white lying on the old cut and disused billiard table, which still occupied the middle of the floor till richard boyce, in the course of his economies and improvements, could replace it by a new one. she ran forward and took up a sheaf of cards, turning them over in a smiling excitement. "viscount maxwell," "mr. raeburn," "miss raeburn," "lady winterbourne and the misses winterbourne," two cards of lord winterbourne's--all perfectly in form. then a thought flashed upon her. "of course it is his doing--and i asked him!" the cards dropped from her hand on the billiard table, and she stood looking at them, her pride fighting with her pleasure. there was something else in her feeling too--the exultation of proved power over a person not, as she guessed, easily influenced, especially by women. "marcella, is that you?" it was her mother's voice. mrs. boyce had come in from the garden through the drawing-room, and was standing at the inner door of the hall, trying with shortsighted eyes to distinguish her daughter among the shadows of the great bare place. a dark day was drawing to its close, and there was little light left in the hall, except in one corner where a rainy sunset gleam struck a grim contemporary portrait of mary tudor, bringing out the obstinate mouth and the white hand holding a jewelled glove. marcella turned, and by the same gleam her mother saw her flushed and animated look. "any letters?" she asked. "no; but there are some cards. oh yes, there is a note," and she pounced upon an envelope she had overlooked. "it is for you, mother--from the court." mrs. boyce came up and took note and cards from her daughter's hand. marcella watched her with quick breath. her mother looked through the cards, slowly putting them down one by one without remark. "oh, mother! do read the note!" marcella could not help entreating. mrs. boyce drew herself together with a quick movement as though her daughter jarred upon her, and opened the note. marcella dared not look over her. there was a dignity about her mother's lightest action, about every movement of her slender fingers and fine fair head, which had always held the daughter in check, even while she rebelled. mrs. boyce read it, and then handed it to marcella. "i must go and make the tea," she said, in a light, cold tone, and turning, she went back to the drawing-room, whither afternoon tea had just been carried. marcella followed, reading. the note was from miss raeburn, and it contained an invitation to mrs. boyce and her daughter to take luncheon at the court on the following friday. the note was courteously and kindly worded. "we should be so glad," said the writer, "to show you and miss boyce our beautiful woods while they are still at their best, in the way of autumn colour." "how will mamma take it?" thought marcella anxiously. "there is not a word of papa!" when she entered the drawing-room, she caught her mother standing absently at the tea-table. the little silver caddy was still in her hand as though she had forgotten to put it down; and her eyes, which evidently saw nothing, were turned to the window, the brows frowning. the look of suffering for an instant was unmistakable; then she started at the sound of marcella's step, and put down the caddy amid the delicate china crowded on the tray, with all the quiet precision of her ordinary manner. "you will have to wait for your tea," she said, "the water doesn't nearly boil." marcella went up to the fire and, kneeling before it, put the logs with which it was piled together. but she could not contain herself for long. "will you go to the court, mamma?" she asked quickly, without turning round. there was a pause. then mrs. boyce said drily-- "miss raeburn's proceedings are a little unexpected. we have been here four months, within two miles of her, and it has never occurred to her to call. now she calls and asks us to luncheon in the same afternoon. either she took too little notice of us before, or she takes too much now--don't you think so?" marcella was silent a moment. should she confess? it began to occur to her for the first time that in her wild independence she had been taking liberties with her mother. "mamma!" "yes." "i asked mr. aldous raeburn the other day whether everybody here was going to cut us! papa told me that lord maxwell had written him an uncivil letter and--" "you--asked--mr. raeburn--" said mrs. boyce, quickly. "what do you mean?" marcella turned round and met the flash of her mother's eyes. "i couldn't help it," she said in a low hurried voice. "it seemed so horrid to feel everybody standing aloof--we were walking together--he was very kind and friendly--and i asked him to explain." "i see!" said mrs. boyce. "and he went to his aunt--and she went to lady winterbourne--they were compassionate--and there are the cards. you have certainly taken us all in hand, marcella!" marcella felt an instant's fear--fear of the ironic power in the sparkling look so keenly fixed on her offending self; she shrank before the proud reserve expressed in every line of her mother's fragile imperious beauty. then a cry of nature broke from the girl. "you have got used to it, mamma! i feel as if it would kill me to live here, shut off from everybody--joining with nobody--with no friendly feelings or society. it was bad enough in the old lodging-house days; but here--why _should_ we?" mrs. boyce had certainly grown pale. "i supposed you would ask sooner or later," she said in a low determined voice, with what to marcella was a quite new note of reality in it. "probably mr. raeburn told you--but you must of course have guessed it long ago--that society does not look kindly on us--and has its reasons. i do not deny in the least that it has its reasons. i do not accuse anybody, and resent nothing. but the question with me has always been, shall i accept pity? i have always been able to meet it with a no! you are very different from me--but for you also i believe it would be the happiest answer." the eyes of both met--the mother's full of an indomitable fire which had for once wholly swept away her satiric calm of every day; the daughter's troubled and miserable. "i want friends!" said marcella, slowly. "there are so many things i want to do here, and one can do nothing if every one is against you. people would be friends with you and me--and with papa too,--through us. some of them wish to be kind"--she added insistently, thinking of aldous raeburn's words and expression as he bent to her at the gate--"i know they do. and if we can't hold our heads high because--because of things in the past--ought we to be so proud that we won't take their hands when they stretch them out--when they write so kindly and nicely as this?" and she laid her fingers almost piteously on the note upon her knee. mrs. boyce tilted the silver urn and replenished the tea-pot. then with a delicate handkerchief she rubbed away a spot from the handle of a spoon near her. "you shall go," she said presently--"you wish it--then go--go by all means. i will write to miss raeburn and send you over in the carriage. one can put a great deal on health--mine is quite serviceable in the way of excuses. i will try and do you no harm, marcella. if you have chosen your line and wish to make friends here--very well--i will do what i can for you so long as you do not expect me to change my life--for which, my dear, i am grown too crotchety and too old." marcella looked at her with dismay and a yearning she had never felt before. "and you will never go out with me, mamma?" there was something childlike and touching in the voice, something which for once suggested the normal filial relation. but mrs. boyce did not waver. she had long learnt perhaps to regard marcella as a girl singularly well able to take care of herself; and had recognised the fact with relief. "i will not go to the court with you anyway," she said, daintily sipping her tea--"in your interests as well as mine. you will make all the greater impression, my dear, for i have really forgotten how to behave. those cards shall be properly returned, of course. for the rest--let no one disturb themselves till they must. and if i were you, marcella, i would hardly discuss the family affairs any more--with mr. raeburn or anybody else." and again her keen glance disconcerted the tall handsome girl, whose power over the world about her had never extended to her mother. marcella flushed and played with the fire. "you see, mamma," she said after a moment, still looking at the logs and the shower of sparks they made as she moved them about, "you never let me discuss them with you." "heaven forbid!" said mrs. boyce, quickly; then, after a pause: "you will find your own line in a little while, marcella, and you will see, if you so choose it, that there will be nothing unsurmountable in your way. one piece of advice let me give you. don't be too _grateful_ to miss raeburn, or anybody else! you take great interest in your boyce belongings, i perceive. you may remember too, perhaps, that there is other blood in you--and that no merritt has ever submitted quietly to either patronage or pity." marcella started. her mother had never named her own kindred to her before that she could remember. she had known for many years that there was a breach between the merritts and themselves. the newspapers had told her something at intervals of her merritt relations, for they were fashionable and important folk, but no one of them had crossed the boyces' threshold since the old london days, wherein marcella could still dimly remember the tall forms of certain merritt uncles, and even a stately lady in a white cap whom she knew to have been her mother's mother. the stately lady had died while she was still a child at her first school; she could recollect her own mourning frock; but that was almost the last personal remembrance she had, connected with the merritts. and now this note of intense personal and family pride, under which mrs. boyce's voice had for the first time quivered a little! marcella had never heard it before, and it thrilled her. she sat on by the fire, drinking her tea and every now and then watching her companion with a new and painful curiosity. the tacit assumption of many years with her had been that her mother was a dry limited person, clever and determined in small ways, that affected her own family, but on the whole characterless as compared with other people of strong feelings and responsive susceptibilities. but her own character had been rapidly maturing of late, and her insight sharpening. during these recent weeks of close contact, her mother's singularity had risen in her mind to the dignity at least of a problem, an enigma. presently mrs. boyce rose and put the scones down by the fire. "your father will be in, i suppose. yes, i hear the front door." as she spoke she took off her velvet cloak, put it carefully aside on a sofa, and sat down again, still in her bonnet, at the tea-table. her dress was very different from marcella's, which, when they were not in mourning, was in general of the ample "aesthetic" type, and gave her a good deal of trouble out of doors. marcella wore "art serges" and velveteens; mrs. boyce attired herself in soft and costly silks, generally black, closely and fashionably made, and completed by various fanciful and distinguished trifles--rings, an old chatelaine, a diamond brooch--which marcella remembered, the same, and worn in the same way, since her childhood. mrs. boyce, however, wore her clothes so daintily, and took such scrupulous and ingenious care of them, that her dress cost, in truth, extremely little--certainly less than marcella's. there were sounds first of footsteps in the hall, then of some scolding of william, and finally mr. boyce entered, tired and splashed from shooting, and evidently in a bad temper. "well, what are you going to do about those cards?" he asked his wife abruptly when she had supplied him with tea, and he was beginning to dry by the fire. he was feeling ill and reckless; too tired anyway to trouble himself to keep up appearances with marcella. "return them," said mrs. boyce, calmly, blowing out the flame of her silver kettle. "_i_ don't want any of their precious society," he said irritably. "they should have done their calling long ago. there's no grace in it now; i don't know that one isn't inclined to think it an intrusion." but the women were silent. marcella's attention was diverted from her mother to the father's small dark head and thin face. there was a great repulsion and impatience in her heart, an angry straining against circumstance and fate; yet at the same time a mounting voice of natural affection, an understanding at once sad and new, which paralysed and silenced her. he stood in her way--terribly in her way--and yet it strangely seemed to her, that never before till these last few weeks had she felt herself a daughter. "you are very wet, papa," she said to him as she took his cup; "don't you think you had better go at once and change?" "i'm all right," he said shortly--"as right as i'm likely to be, anyway. as for the shooting, it's nothing but waste of time and shoe leather. i shan't go out any more. the place has been clean swept by some of those brutes in the village--your friends, marcella. by the way, evelyn, i came across young wharton in the road just now." "wharton?" said his wife, interrogatively. "i don't remember--ought i?" "why, the liberal candidate for the division, of course," he said testily. "i wish you would inform yourself of what goes on. he is working like a horse, he tells me. dodgson, the raeburns' candidate, has got a great start; this young man will want all his time to catch him up. i like him. i won't vote for him; but i'll see fair play. i've asked him to come to tea here on saturday, evelyn. he'll be back again by the end of the week. he stays at dell's farm when he comes--pretty bad accommodation, i should think. we must show him some civility." he rose and stood with his back to the fire, his spare frame stiffening under his nervous determination to assert himself--to hold up his head physically and morally against those who would repress him. richard boyce took his social punishment badly. he had passed his first weeks at mellor in a tremble of desire that his father's old family and country friends should recognise him again and condone his "irregularities." all sorts of conciliatory ideas had passed through his head. he meant to let people see that he would be a good neighbour if they would give him the chance--not like that miserly fool, his brother robert. the past was so much past; who now was more respectable or more well intentioned than he? he was an impressionable imaginative man in delicate health; and the tears sometimes came into his eyes as he pictured himself restored to society--partly by his own efforts, partly, no doubt, by the charms and good looks of his wife and daughter--forgiven for their sake, and for the sake also of that store of virtue he had so laboriously accumulated since that long-past catastrophe. would not most men have gone to the bad altogether, after such a lapse? he, on the contrary, had recovered himself, had neither drunk nor squandered, nor deserted his wife and child. these things, if the truth were known, were indeed due rather to a certain lack of physical energy and vitality, which age had developed in him, than to self-conquest; but he was no doubt entitled to make the most of them. there were signs indeed that his forecast had been not at all unreasonable. his womenkind _were_ making their way. at the very moment when lord maxwell had written him a quelling letter, he had become aware that marcella was on good terms with lord maxwell's heir. had he not also been stopped that morning in a remote lane by lord winterbourne and lord maxwell on their way back from the meet, and had not both recognised and shaken hands with him? and now there were these cards. unfortunately, in spite of raeburn's opinion to the contrary, no man in such a position and with such a temperament ever gets something without claiming more--and more than he can conceivably or possibly get. startled and pleased at first by the salutation which lord maxwell and his companion had bestowed upon him, richard boyce had passed his afternoon in resenting and brooding over the cold civility of it. so these were the terms he was to be on with them--the deuce take them and their pharisaical airs! if all the truth were known, most men would look foolish; and the men who thanked god that they were not as other men, soonest of all. he wished he had not been taken by surprise; he wished he had not answered them; he would show them in the future that he would eat no dirt for them or anybody else. so on the way home there had been a particular zest in his chance encounter with the young man who was likely to give the raeburns and their candidate--so all the world said--a very great deal of trouble. the seat had been held to be an entirely safe one for the maxwell nominee. young wharton, on the contrary, was making way every day, and, what with securing aldous's own seat in the next division, and helping old dodgson in this, lord maxwell and his grandson had their hands full. dick boyce was glad of it. he was a tory; but all the same he wished every success to this handsome, agreeable young man, whose deferential manners to him at the end of the day had come like ointment to a wound. the three sat on together for a little while in silence. marcella kept her seat by the fire on the old gilt fenderstool, conscious in a dreamlike way of the room in front of her--the stately room with its stucco ceiling, its tall windows, its prussian-blue wall-paper behind the old cabinets and faded pictures, and the chair covers in turkey-red twill against the blue, which still remained to bear witness at once to the domestic economies and the decorative ideas of old robert boyce--conscious also of the figures on either side of her, and of her own quick-beating youth betwixt them. she was sore and unhappy; yet, on the whole, what she was thinking most about was aldous raeburn. what had he said to lord maxwell?--and to the winterbournes? she wished she could know. she wished with leaping pulse that she could see him again quickly. yet it would be awkward too. * * * * * presently she got up and went away to take off her things. as the door closed behind her, mrs. boyce held out miss raeburn's note, which marcella had returned to her, to her husband. "they have asked marcella and me to lunch," she said. "i am not going, but i shall send her." he read the note by the firelight, and it produced the most contradictory effects upon him. "why don't you go?" he asked her aggressively, rousing himself for a moment to attack her, and so vent some of his ill-humour. "i have lost the habit of going out," she said quietly, "and am too old to begin again." "what! you mean to say," he asked her angrily, raising his voice, "that you have never _meant_ to do your duties here--the duties of your position?" "i did not foresee many, outside this house and land. why should we change our ways? we have done very well of late. i have no mind to risk what i have got." he glanced round at her in a quick nervous way, and then looked back again at the fire. the sight of her delicate blanched face had in some respects a more and more poignant power with him as the years went on. his anger sank into moroseness. "then why do you let marcella go? what good will it do her to go about without her parents? people will only despise her for a girl of no spirit--as they ought." "it depends upon how it is done. i can arrange it, i think," said mrs. boyce. "a woman has always convenient limitations to plead in the way of health. she need never give offence if she has decent wits. it will be understood that i do not go out, and then someone--miss raeburn or lady winterbourne--will take up marcella and mother her." she spoke with her usual light gentleness, but he was not appeased. "if you were to talk of _my_ health, it would be more to the purpose," he said, with grim inconsequence. and raising his heavy lids he looked at her full. she got up and went over to him. "do you feel worse again? why will you not change your things directly you come in? would you like dr. clarke sent for?" she was standing close beside him; her beautiful hand, for which in their young days it had pleased his pride to give her rings, almost touched him. a passionate hunger leapt within him. she would stoop and kiss him if he asked her; he knew that. but he would not ask her; he did not want it; he wanted something that never on this earth would she give him again. then moral discomfort lost itself in physical. "clarke does me no good--not an atom," he said, rising. "there--don't you come. i can look after myself." he went, and mrs. boyce remained alone in the great fire-lit room. she put her hands on the mantelpiece, and dropped her head upon them, and so stood silent for long. there was no sound audible in the room, or from the house outside. and in the silence a proud and broken heart once more nerved itself to an endurance that brought it peace with neither man nor god. * * * * * "i shall go, for all our sakes," thought marcella, as she stood late that night brushing her hair before her dimly-lighted and rickety dressing-table. "we have, it seems, no right to be proud." a rush of pain and bitterness filled her heart--pain, new-born and insistent, for her mother, her father, and herself. ever since aldous raeburn's hesitating revelations, she had been liable to this sudden invasion of a hot and shamed misery. and to-night, after her talk with her mother, it could not but overtake her afresh. but her strong personality, her passionate sense of a moral independence not to be undone by the acts of another, even a father, made her soon impatient of her own distress, and she flung it from her with decision. "no, we have no right to be proud," she repeated to herself. "it must be all true what mr. raeburn said--probably a great deal more. poor, poor mamma! but, all the same, there is nothing to be got out of empty quarrelling and standing alone. and it was so long ago." her hand fell, and she stood absently looking at her own black and white reflection in the old flawed glass. she was thinking, of course, of mr. raeburn. he had been very prompt in her service. there could be no question but that he was specially interested in her. and he was not a man to be lightly played upon--nay, rather a singularly reserved and scrupulous person. so, at least, it had been always held concerning him. marcella was triumphantly conscious that he had not from the beginning given _her_ much trouble. but the common report of him made his recent manner towards her, this last action of his, the more significant. even the hardens--so marcella gathered from her friend and admirer mary--unworldly dreamy folk, wrapt up in good works, and in the hastening of christ's kingdom, were on the alert and beginning to take note. it was not as though he were in the dark as to her antecedents. he knew all--at any rate, more than she did--and yet it might end in his asking her to marry him. what then? scarcely a quiver in the young form before the glass! _love_, at such a thought, must have sunk upon its knees and hid its face for tender humbleness and requital. marcella only looked quietly at the beauty which might easily prove to be so important an arrow in her quiver. what was stirring in her was really a passionate ambition--ambition to be the queen and arbitress of human lives--to be believed in by her friends, to make a mark for herself among women, and to make it in the most romantic and yet natural way, without what had always seemed to her the sordid and unpleasant drudgeries of the platform, of a tiresome co-operation with, or subordination to others who could not understand your ideas. of course, if it happened, people would say that she had tried to capture aldous raeburn for his money and position's sake. let them say it. people with base minds must think basely; there was no help for it. those whom she would make her friends would know very well for what purpose she wanted money, power, and the support of such a man, and such a marriage. her modern realism played with the thought quite freely; her maidenliness, proud and pure as it was, being nowise ashamed. oh! for something to carry her _deep_ into life; into the heart of its widest and most splendid opportunities! she threw up her hands, clasping them above her head amid her clouds of curly hair--a girlish excited gesture. "i could revive the straw-plaiting; give them better teaching and better models. the cottages should be rebuilt. papa would willingly hand the village over to me if i found the money! we would have a parish committee to deal with the charities--oh! the hardens would come in. the old people should have their pensions as of right. no hopeless old age, no cringing dependence! we would try co-operation on the land, and pull it through. and not in mellor only. one might be the ruler, the regenerator of half a county!" memory brought to mind in vivid sequence the figures and incidents of the afternoon, of her village round with mary harden. "_as the eyes of servants towards the hand of their mistress_"--the old words occurred to her as she thought of herself stepping in and out of the cottages. then she was ashamed of herself and rejected the image with vehemence. dependence was the curse of the poor. her whole aim, of course, should be to teach them to stand on their own feet, to know themselves as men. but naturally they would be grateful, they would let themselves be led. intelligence and enthusiasm give power, and ought to give it--power for good. no doubt, under socialism, there will be less scope for either, because there will be less need. but socialism, as a system, will not come in our generation. what we have to think for is the transition period. the cravens had never seen that, but marcella saw it. she began to feel herself a person of larger experience than they. as she undressed, it seemed to her as though she still felt the clinging hands of the hurd children round her knees, and through them, symbolised by them, the suppliant touch of hundreds of other helpless creatures. she was just dropping to sleep when her own words to aldous raeburn flashed across her,-- "everybody is so ready to take charge of other people's lives, and look at the result!" she must needs laugh at herself, but it made little matter. she fell asleep cradled in dreams. aldous raeburn's final part in them was not great! chapter viii. mrs. boyce wrote her note to miss raeburn, a note containing cold though civil excuses as to herself, while accepting the invitation for marcella, who should be sent to the court, either in the carriage or under the escort of a maid who could bring her back. marcella found her mother inclined to insist punctiliously on conventions of this kind. it amused her, in submitting to them, to remember the free and easy ways of her london life. but she submitted--and not unwillingly. on the afternoon of the day which intervened between the maxwells' call and her introduction to the court, marcella walked as usual down to the village. she was teeming with plans for her new kingdom, and could not keep herself out of it. and an entry in one of the local papers had suggested to her that hurd might possibly find work in a parish some miles from mellor. she must go and send him off there. when mrs. hurd opened the door to her, marcella was astonished to perceive behind her the forms of several other persons filling up the narrow space of the usually solitary cottage--in fact, a tea-party. "oh, come in, miss," said mrs. hurd, with some embarrassment, as though it occurred to her that her visitor might legitimately wonder to find a person of her penury entertaining company. then, lowering her voice, she hurriedly explained: "there's mrs. brunt come in this afternoon to help me wi' the washin' while i finished my score of plait for the woman who takes 'em into town to-morrow. and there's old patton an' his wife--you know 'em, miss?--them as lives in the parish houses top o' the common. he's walked out a few steps to-day. it's not often he's able, and when i see him through the door i said to 'em, 'if you'll come in an' take a cheer, i dessay them tea-leaves 'ull stan' another wettin'. i haven't got nothink else.' and there's mrs. jellison, she came in along o' the pattons. you can't say her no, she's a queer one. do you know her, miss?" "oh, bless yer, yes, yes. she knows me!" said a high, jocular voice, making mrs. hurd start; "she couldn't be long hereabouts without makkin' eëaste to know me. you coom in, miss. we're not afraid o' you--lor' bless you!" mrs. hurd stood aside for her visitor to pass in, looking round her the while, in some perplexity, to see whether there was a spare chair and room to place it. she was a delicate, willowy woman, still young in figure, with a fresh colour, belied by the grey circles under the eyes and the pinched sharpness of the features. the upper lip, which was pretty and childish, was raised a little over the teeth; the whole expression of the slightly open mouth was unusually soft and sensitive. on the whole, minta hurd was liked in the village, though she was thought a trifle "fine." the whole family, indeed, "kept theirsels to theirsels," and to find mrs. hurd with company was unusual. her name, of course, was short for araminta. marcella laughed as she caught mrs. jellison's remarks, and made her way in, delighted. for the present, these village people affected her like figures in poetry or drama. she saw them with the eye of the imagination through a medium provided by socialist discussion, or by certain phases of modern art; and the little scene of mrs. hurd's tea-party took for her in an instant the dramatic zest and glamour. "look here, mrs. jellison," she said, going up to her; "i was just going to leave these apples for your grandson. perhaps you'll take them, now you're here. they're quite sweet, though they look green. they're the best we've got, the gardener says." "oh, they are, are they?" said mrs. jellison, composedly, looking up at her. "well, put 'em down, miss. i dare say he'll eat 'em. he eats most things, and don't want no doctor's stuff nayther, though his mother do keep on at me for spoilin' his stummuck." "you are just fond of that boy, aren't you, mrs. jellison?" said marcella, taking a wooden stool, the only piece of furniture left in the tiny cottage on which it was possible to sit, and squeezing herself into a corner by the fire, whence she commanded the whole group. "no! don't you turn mr. patton out of that chair, mrs. hurd, or i shall have to go away." for mrs. hurd, in her anxiety, was whispering in old patton's ear that it might be well for him to give up her one wooden arm-chair, in which he was established, to miss boyce. but he, being old, deaf, and rheumatic, was slow to move, and marcella's peremptory gesture bade her leave him in peace. "well, it's you that's the young 'un, ain't it, miss?" said mrs. jellison, cheerfully. "poor old patton, he do get slow on his legs, don't you, patton? but there, there's no helping it when you're turned of eighty." and she turned upon him a bright, philosophic eye, being herself a young thing not much over seventy, and energetic accordingly. mrs. jellison passed for the village wit, and was at least talkative and excitable beyond her fellows. "well, _you_ don't seem to mind getting old, mrs. jellison," said marcella, smiling at her. the eyes of all the old people round their tea-table were by now drawn irresistibly to miss boyce in the chimney corner, to her slim grace, and the splendour of her large black hat and feathers. the new squire's daughter had so far taken them by surprise. some of them, however, were by now in the second stage of critical observation--none the less critical because furtive and inarticulate. "ah?" said mrs. jellison, interrogatively, with a high, long-drawn note peculiar to her. "well, i've never found you get forrarder wi' snarlin' over what you can't help. and there's mercies. when you've had a husband in his bed for fower year, miss, and he's took at last, you'll _know_." she nodded emphatically. marcella laughed. "i know you were very fond of him, mrs. jellison, and looked after him very well, too." "oh, i don't say nothin' about that," said mrs. jellison, hastily. "but all the same you kin reckon it up, and see for yoursen. fower year--an' fire upstairs, an' fire downstairs, an' fire all night, an' soomthin' allus wanted. an' he such an objeck afore he died! it do seem like a holiday now to sit a bit." and she crossed her hands on her lap with a long breath of content. a lock of grey hair had escaped from her bonnet, across her wrinkled forehead, and gave her a half-careless rakish air. her youth of long ago--a youth of mad spirits, and of an extraordinary capacity for physical enjoyment, seemed at times to pierce to the surface again, even through her load of years. but in general she had a dreamy, sunny look, as of one fed with humorous fancies, but disinclined often to the trouble of communicating them. "well, i missed my daughter, i kin tell you," said mrs. brunt, with a sigh, "though she took a deal more lookin' after nor your good man, mrs. jellison." mrs. brunt was a gentle, pretty old woman, who lived in another of the village almshouses, next door to the pattons, and was always ready to help her neighbours in their domestic toils. her last remaining daughter, the victim of a horrible spinal disease, had died some nine or ten months before the boyces arrived at mellor. marcella had already heard the story several times, but it was part of her social gift that she was a good listener to such things even at the twentieth hearing. "you wouldn't have her back though," she said gently, turning towards the speaker. "no, i wouldn't have her back, miss," said mrs. brunt, raising her hand to brush away a tear, partly the result of feeling, partly of a long-established habit. "but i do miss her nights terrible! 'mother, ain't it ten o'clock?--mother, look at the clock, do, mother--ain't it time for my stuff, mother--oh, i do _hope_ it is.' that was her stuff, miss, to make her sleep. and when she'd got it, she'd _groan_--you'd think she couldn't be asleep, and yet she was, dead-like--for two hours. i didn't get no rest with her, and now i don't seem to get no rest without her." and again mrs. brunt put her hand up to her eyes. "ah, you were allus one for toilin' an' frettin'," said mrs. jellison, calmly. "a body must get through wi' it when it's there, but i don't hold wi' thinkin' about it when it's done." "i know one," said old patton, slily, "that fretted about _her_ darter when it didn't do her no good." he had not spoken so far, but had sat with his hands on his stick, a spectator of the women's humours. he was a little hunched man, twisted and bent double with rheumatic gout, the fruit of seventy years of field work. his small face was almost lost, dog-like, under shaggy hair and overgrown eyebrows, both snow-white. he had a look of irritable eagerness, seldom, however, expressed in words. a sudden passion in the faded blue eyes; a quick spot of red in his old cheeks; these marcella had often noticed in him, as though the flame of some inner furnace leapt. he had been a radical and a rebel once in old rick-burning days, long before he lost the power in his limbs and came down to be thankful for one of the parish almshouses. to his social betters he was now a quiet and peaceable old man, well aware of the cakes and ale to be got by good manners; but in the depths of him there were reminiscences and the ghosts of passions, which were still stirred sometimes by causes not always intelligible to the bystander. he had rarely, however, physical energy enough to bring any emotion--even of mere worry at his physical ills--to the birth. the pathetic silence of age enwrapped him more and more. still he could gibe the women sometimes, especially mrs. jellison, who was in general too clever for her company. "oh, you may talk, patton!" said mrs. jellison, with a little flash of excitement. "you do like to have your talk, don't you! well, i dare say i _was_ orkard with isabella. i won't go for to say i _wasn't_ orkard, for i _was_. she should ha' used me to 't before, if she wor took that way. she and i had just settled down comfortable after my old man went, and i didn't see no sense in it, an' i don't now. she might ha' let the men alone. she'd seen enough o' the worrit ov 'em." "well, she did well for hersen," said mrs. brunt, with the same gentle melancholy. "she married a stiddy man as 'ull keep her well all her time, and never let her want for nothink." "a sour, wooden-faced chap as iver i knew," said mrs. jellison, grudgingly. "i don't have nothink to say to him, nor he to me. he thinks hissen the grand turk, he do, since they gi'en him his uniform, and made him full keeper. a nassty, domineerin' sort, i calls him. he's allus makin' bad blood wi' the yoong fellers when he don't need. it's the way he's got wi' 'im. but _i_ don't make no account of 'im, an' i let 'im see 't." all the tea-party grinned except mrs. hurd. the village was well acquainted with the feud between mrs. jellison and her son-in-law, george westall, who had persuaded isabella jellison at the mature age of thirty-five to leave her mother and marry him, and was now one of lord maxwell's keepers, with good pay, and an excellent cottage some little way out of the village. mrs. jellison had never forgiven her daughter for deserting her, and was on lively terms of hostility with her son-in-law; but their only child, little johnnie, had found the soft spot in his grandmother, and her favourite excitement in life, now that he was four years old, was to steal him from his parents and feed him on the things of which isabella most vigorously disapproved. mrs. hurd, as has been said, did not smile. at the mention of westall, she got up hastily, and began to put away the tea things. marcella meanwhile had been sitting thoughtful. "you say westall makes bad blood with the young men, mrs. jellison?" she said, looking up. "is there much poaching in this village now, do you think?" there was a dead silence. mrs. hurd was at the other end of the cottage with her back to marcella; at the question, her hands paused an instant in their work. the eyes of all the old people--of patton and his wife, of mrs. jellison, and pretty mrs. brunt--were fixed on the speaker, but nobody said a word, not even mrs. jellison. marcella coloured. "oh, you needn't suppose--" she said, throwing her beautiful head back, "you needn't suppose that _i_ care about the game, or that i would ever be mean enough to tell anything that was told me. i know it _does_ cause a great deal of quarrelling and bad blood. i believe it does here--and i should like to know more about it. i want to make up my mind what to think. of course, my father has got his land and his own opinions. and lord maxwell has too. but i am not bound to think like either of them--i should like you to understand that. it seems to me right about all such things that people should enquire and find out for themselves." still silence. mrs. jellison's mouth twitched, and she threw a sly provocative glance at old patton, as though she would have liked to poke him in the ribs. but she was not going to help him out; and at last the one male in the company found himself obliged to clear his throat for reply. "we're old folks, most on us, miss, 'cept mrs. hurd. we don't hear talk o' things now like as we did when we were younger. if you ast mr. harden he'll tell you, i dessay." patton allowed himself an inward chuckle. even mrs. jellison, he thought, must admit that he knew a thing or two as to the best way of dealing with the gentry. but marcella fixed him with her bright frank eyes. "i had rather ask in the village," she said. "if you don't know how it is now, mr. patton, tell me how it used to be when you were young. was the preserving very strict about here? were there often fights, with the keepers--long ago?--in my grandfather's days?--and do you think men poached because they were hungry, or because they wanted sport?" patton looked at her fixedly a moment undecided, then her strong nervous youth seemed to exercise a kind of compulsion on him; perhaps, too, the pretty courtesy of her manner. he cleared his throat again, and tried to forget mrs. jellison, who would be sure to let him hear of it again, whatever he said. "well, i can't answer for 'em, miss, i'm sure, but if you ast _me_, i b'lieve ther's a bit o' boath in it. yer see it's not in human natur, when a man's young and 's got his blood up, as he shouldn't want ter have 'is sport with the wild creeturs. perhaps he see 'em when ee's going to the wood with a wood cart--or he cooms across 'em in the turnips--wounded birds, you understan', miss, perhaps the day after the gentry 'as been bangin' at 'em all day. an' ee don't see, not for the life of 'im, why ee shouldn't have 'em. ther's bin lots an' lots for the rich folks, an' he don't see why _ee_ shouldn't have a few arter they've enjoyed theirselves. and mebbe he's eleven shillin' a week--an' two-threy little chillen--you understan', miss?" "of course i understand!" said marcella, eagerly, her dark cheek flushing. "of course i do! but there's a good deal of game given away in these parts, isn't there? i know lord maxwell does, and they say lord winterbourne gives all his labourers rabbits, almost as many as they want." her questions wound old patton up as though he had been a disused clock. he began to feel a whirr among his creaking wheels, a shaking of all his rusty mind. "perhaps they do, miss," he said, and his wife saw that he was beginning to tremble. "i dessay they do--i don't say nothink agen it--though theer's none of it cooms my way. but that isn't all the rights on it nayther--no, that it ain't. the labourin' man ee's glad enough to get a hare or a rabbit for 'is eatin'--but there's more in it nor that, miss. ee's allus in the fields, that's where it is--ee can't help seein' the hares and the rabbits a-comin' in and out o' the woods, if it were iver so. ee knows ivery run ov ivery one on 'em; if a hare's started furthest corner o' t' field, he can tell yer whar she'll git in by, because he's allus there, you see, miss, an' it's the only thing he's got to take his mind off like. and then he sets a snare or two--an' ee gits very sharp at settin' on 'em--an' ee'll go out nights for the sport of it. ther isn't many things _ee's_ got to liven him up; an' ee takes 'is chances o' goin' to jail--it's wuth it, ee thinks." the old man's hands on his stick shook more and more visibly. bygones of his youth had come back to him. "oh, i know! i know!" cried marcella, with an accent half of indignation, half of despair. "it's the whole wretched system. it spoils those who've got, and those who haven't got. and there'll be no mending it till the _people_ get the land back again, and till the rights on it are common to all." "my! she do speak up, don't she?" said mrs. jellison, grinning again at her companions. then, stooping forward with one of her wild movements, she caught marcella's arm--"i'd like to hear yer tell that to lord maxwell, miss. i likes a roompus, i do." marcella flushed and laughed. "i wouldn't mind saying that or anything else to lord maxwell," she said proudly. "i'm not ashamed of anything i think." "no, i'll bet you ain't," said mrs. jellison, withdrawing her hand. "now then, patton, you say what _you_ thinks. you ain't got no vote now you're in the parish houses--i minds that. the quality don't trouble _you_ at 'lection times. this yoong man, muster wharton, as is goin' round so free, promisin' yer the sun out o' the sky, iv yer'll only vote for 'im, so th' men say--_ee_ don't coom an' set down along o' you an' me, an' cocker of us up as ee do joe simmons or jim hurd here. but that don't matter. yur thinkin's yur own, anyway." but she nudged him in vain. patton had suddenly run down, and there was no more to be got out of him. not only had nerves and speech failed him as they were wont, but in his cloudy soul there had risen, even while marcella was speaking, the inevitable suspicion which dogs the relations of the poor towards the richer class. this young lady, with her strange talk, was the new squire's daughter. and the village had already made up its mind that richard boyce was "a poor sort," and "a hard sort" too, in his landlord capacity. he wasn't going to be any improvement on his brother--not a haporth! what was the good of this young woman talking, as she did, when there were three summonses as he, patton, heard tell, just taken out by the sanitary inspector against mr. boyce for bad cottages? and not a farthing given away in the village neither, except perhaps the bits of food that the young lady herself brought down to the village now and then, for which no one, in truth, felt any cause to be particularly grateful. besides, what did she mean by asking questions about the poaching? old patton knew as well as anybody else in the village, that during robert boyce's last days, and after the death of his sportsman son, the mellor estate had become the haunt of poachers from far and near, and that the trouble had long since spread into the neighbouring properties, so that the winterbourne and maxwell keepers regarded it their most arduous business to keep watch on the men of mellor. of course the young woman knew it all, and she and her father wanted to know more. that was why she talked. patton hardened himself against the creeping ways of the quality. "i don't think nought," he said roughly in answer to mrs. jellison. "thinkin' won't come atwixt me and the parish coffin when i'm took. i've no call to think, i tell yer." marcella's chest heaved with indignant feeling. "oh, but, mr. patton!" she cried, leaning forward to him, "won't it comfort you a bit, even if you can't live to see it, to think there's a better time coming? there must be. people can't go on like this always--hating each other and trampling on each other. they're beginning to see it now, they are! when i was living in london, the persons i was with talked and thought of it all day. some day, whenever the people choose--for they've got the power now they've got the vote--there'll be land for everybody, and in every village there'll be a council to manage things, and the labourer will count for just as much as the squire and the parson, and he'll be better educated and better fed, and care for many things he doesn't care for now. but all the same, if he wants sport and shooting, it will be there for him to get. for everybody will have a chance and a turn, and there'll be no bitterness between classes, and no hopeless pining and misery as there is now!" the girl broke off, catching her breath. it excited her to say these things to these people, to these poor tottering old things who had lived out their lives to the end under the pressure of an iron system, and had no lien on the future, whatever paradise it might bring. again the situation had something foreseen and dramatic in it. she saw herself, as the preacher, sitting on her stool beside the poor grate--she realised as a spectator the figures of the women and the old man played on by the firelight--the white, bare, damp-stained walls of the cottage, and in the background the fragile though still comely form of minta hurd, who was standing with her back to the dresser, and her head bent forward, listening to the talk while her fingers twisted the straw she plaited eternally from morning till night, for a wage of about s. d. a week: her mind was all aflame with excitement and defiance--defiance of her father, lord maxwell, aldous raeburn. let him come, her friend, and see for himself what she thought it right to do and say in this miserable village. her soul challenged him, longed to provoke him! well, she was soon to meet him, and in a new and more significant relation and environment. the fact made her perception of the whole situation the more rich and vibrant. patton, while these broken thoughts and sensations were coursing through marcella's head, was slowly revolving what she had been saying, and the others were waiting for him. at last he rolled his tongue round his dry lips and delivered himself by a final effort. "them as likes, miss, may believe as how things are going to happen that way, but yer won't ketch me! them as have got 'ull _keep_"--he let his stick sharply down on the floor--"an' them as 'aven't got 'ull 'ave to go without and _lump it_--as long as you're alive, miss, you mark my words!" "oh, lor', you wor allus one for makin' a poor mouth, patton!" said mrs. jellison. she had been sitting with her arms folded across her chest, part absent, part amused, part malicious. "the young lady speaks beautiful, just like a book she do. an' she's likely to know a deal better nor poor persons like you and me. all _i_ kin say is,--if there's goin' to be dividin' up of other folks' property, when i'm gone, i hope george westall won't get nothink ov it! he's bad enough as 'tis. isabella 'ud have a fine time if _ee_ took to drivin' ov his carriage." the others laughed out, marcella at their head, and mrs. jellison subsided, the corners of her mouth still twitching, and her eyes shining as though a host of entertaining notions were trooping through her--which, however, she preferred to amuse herself with rather than the public. marcella looked at patton thoughtfully. "you've been all your life in this village, haven't you, mr. patton?" she asked him. "born top o' witchett's hill, miss. an' my wife here, she wor born just a house or two further along, an' we two bin married sixty-one year come next march." he had resumed his usual almshouse tone, civil and a little plaintive. his wife behind him smiled gently at being spoken of. she had a long fair face, and white hair surmounted by a battered black bonnet, a mouth set rather on one side, and a more observant and refined air than most of her neighbours. she sighed while she talked, and spoke in a delicate quaver. "d'ye know, miss," said mrs. jellison, pointing to mrs. patton, "as she kep' school when she was young?" "did you, mrs. patton?" asked marcella in her tone of sympathetic interest. "the school wasn't very big then, i suppose?" "about forty, miss," said mrs. patton, with a sigh. "there was eighteen the rector paid for, and eighteen mr. boyce paid for, and the rest paid for themselves." her voice dropped gently, and she sighed again like one weighted with an eternal fatigue. "and what did you teach them?" "well, i taught them the plaitin', miss, and as much readin' and writin' as i knew myself. it wasn't as high as it is now, you see, miss," and a delicate flush dawned on the old cheek as mrs. patton threw a glance round her companions as though appealing to them not to tell stories of her. but mrs. jellison was implacable. "it wor she taught _me_," she said, nodding at marcella and pointing sideways to mrs. patton. "she had a queer way wi' the hard words, i can tell yer, miss. when she couldn't tell 'em herself she'd never own up to it. 'say jerusalem, my dear, and pass on.' that's what she'd say, she would, sure's as you're alive! i've heard her do it times. an' when isabella an' me used to read the bible, nights, i'd allus rayther do 't than be beholden to me own darter. it gets yer through, anyway." "well, it wor a good word," said mrs. patton, blushing and mildly defending herself. "it didn't do none of yer any harm." "oh, an' before her, miss, i went to a school to another woman, as lived up shepherd's row. you remember her, betsy brunt?" mrs. brunt's worn eyes began already to gleam and sparkle. "yis, i recolleck very well, mrs. jellison. she wor mercy moss, an' a goodish deal of trouble you'd use to get me into wi' mercy moss, all along o' your tricks." mrs. jellison, still with folded arms, began to rock herself gently up and down as though to stimulate memory. "my word, but muster maurice--he wor the clergyman here then, miss--wor set on mercy moss. he and his wife they flattered and cockered her up. ther wor nobody like her for keepin' school, not in their eyes--till one midsummer--she--well she--i don't want to say nothink onpleasant--_but she transgressed_," said mrs. jellison, nodding mysteriously, triumphant however in the unimpeachable delicacy of her language, and looking round the circle for approval. "what do you say?" asked marcella, innocently. "what did mercy moss do?" mrs. jellison's eyes danced with malice and mischief, but her mouth shut like a vice. patton leaned forward on his stick, shaken with a sort of inward explosion; his plaintive wife laughed under her breath till she must needs sigh because laughter tired her old bones. mrs. brunt gurgled gently. and finally mrs. jellison was carried away. "oh, my goodness me, don't you make me tell tales o' mercy moss!" she said at last, dashing the water out of her eyes with an excited tremulous hand. "she's bin dead and gone these forty year--married and buried mos' respeckable--it 'ud be a burning shame to bring up tales agen her now. them as tittle-tattles about dead folks needn't look to lie quiet theirselves in their graves. i've said it times, and i'll say it again. what are you lookin' at me for, betsy brunt?" and mrs. jellison drew up suddenly with a fierce glance at mrs. brunt. "why, mrs. jellison, i niver meant no offence," said mrs. brunt, hastily. "i won't stand no insinooating," said mrs. jellison, with energy. "if you've got soomthink agen me, you may out wi' 't an' niver mind the young lady." but mrs. brunt, much flurried, retreated amid a shower of excuses, pursued by her enemy, who was soon worrying the whole little company, as a dog worries a flock of sheep, snapping here and teasing there, chattering at the top of her voice in broad dialect, as she got more and more excited, and quite as ready to break her wit on marcella as on anybody else. as for the others, most of them had known little else for weeks than alternations of toil and sickness; they were as much amused and excited to-night by mrs. jellison's audacities as a londoner is by his favourite low comedian at his favourite music-hall. they played chorus to her, laughed, baited her; even old patton was drawn against his will into a caustic sociability. marcella meanwhile sat on her stool, her chin upon her hand, and her full glowing eyes turned upon the little spectacle, absorbing it all with a covetous curiosity. the light-heartedness, the power of enjoyment left in these old folk struck her dumb. mrs. brunt had an income of two-and-sixpence a week, _plus_ two loaves from the parish, and one of the parish or "charity" houses, a hovel, that is to say, of one room, scarcely fit for human habitation at all. she had lost five children, was allowed two shillings a week by two labourer sons, and earned sixpence a week--about--by continuous work at "the plait." her husband had been run over by a farm cart and killed; up to the time of his death his earnings averaged about twenty-eight pounds a year. much the same with the pattons. they had lost eight children out of ten, and were now mainly supported by the wages of a daughter in service. mrs. patton had of late years suffered agonies and humiliations indescribable, from a terrible illness which the parish doctor was quite incompetent to treat, being all through a singularly sensitive woman, with a natural instinct for the decorous and the beautiful. amazing! starvation wages; hardships of sickness and pain; horrors of birth and horrors of death; wholesale losses of kindred and friends; the meanest surroundings; the most sordid cares--of this mingled cup of village fate every person in the room had drunk, and drunk deep. yet here in this autumn twilight, they laughed and chattered, and joked--weird, wrinkled children, enjoying an hour's rough play in a clearing of the storm! dependent from birth to death on squire, parson, parish, crushed often, and ill-treated, according to their own ideas, but bearing so little ill-will; amusing themselves with their own tragedies even, if they could but sit by a fire and drink a neighbour's cup of tea. her heart swelled and burned within her. yes, the old people were past hoping for; mere wreck and driftwood on the shore, the spring-tide of death would soon have swept them all into unremembered graves. but the young men and women, the children, were they too to grow up, and grow old like these--the same smiling, stunted, ignobly submissive creatures? one woman at least would do her best with her one poor life to rouse some of them to discontent and revolt! chapter ix. the fire sank, and mrs. hurd made no haste to light her lamp. soon the old people were dim chattering shapes in a red darkness. mrs. hurd still plaited, silent and upright, lifting her head every now and then at each sound upon the road. at last there was a knock at the door. mrs. hurd ran to open it. "mother, i'm going your way," said a strident voice. "i'll help you home if you've a mind." on the threshold stood mrs. jellison's daughter, mrs. westall, with her little boy beside her, the woman's broad shoulders and harsh striking head standing out against the pale sky behind. marcella noticed that she greeted none of the old people, nor they her. and as for mrs. hurd, as soon as she saw the keeper's wife, she turned her back abruptly on her visitor, and walked to the other end of the kitchen. "are you comin', mother?" repeated isabella. mrs. jellison grumbled, gibed at her, and made long leave-takings, while the daughter stood silent, waiting, and every now and then peering at marcella, who had never seen her before. "i don' know where yur manners is," said mrs. jellison sharply to her, as though she had been a child of ten, "that you don't say good evenin' to the young lady." mrs. westall curtsied low, and hoped she might be excused, as it had grown so dark. her tone was smooth and servile, and marcella disliked her as she shook hands with her. the other old people, including mrs. brunt, departed a minute or two after the mother and daughter, and marcella was left an instant with mrs. hurd. "oh, thank you, thank you kindly, miss," said mrs. hurd, raising her apron to her eyes to staunch some irrepressible tears, as marcella showed her the advertisement which it might possibly be worth hurd's while to answer. "he'll try, you may be sure. but i can't think as how anythink 'ull come ov it." and then suddenly, as though something unexplained had upset her self-control, the poor patient creature utterly broke down. leaning against the bare shelves which held their few pots and pans, she threw her apron over her head and burst into the forlornest weeping. "i wish i was dead; i wish i was dead, an' the chillen too!" marcella hung over her, one flame of passionate pity, comforting, soothing, promising help. mrs. hurd presently recovered enough to tell her that hurd had gone off that morning before it was light to a farm near thame, where it had been told him he might possibly find a job. "but he'll not find it, miss, he'll not find it," she said, twisting her hands in a sort of restless misery; "there's nothing good happens to such as us. an' he wor allus a one to work if he could get it." there was a sound outside. mrs. hurd flew to the door, and a short, deformed man, with a large head and red hair, stumbled in blindly, splashed with mud up to his waist, and evidently spent with long walking. he stopped on the threshold, straining his eyes to see through the fire-lit gloom. "it's miss boyce, jim," said his wife. "did you hear of anythink?" "they're turnin' off hands instead of takin' ov 'em on," he said briefly, and fell into a chair by the grate. he had hardly greeted marcella, who had certainly looked to be greeted. ever since her arrival in august, as she had told aldous raeburn, she had taken a warm interest in this man and his family. there was something about them which marked them out a bit from their fellows--whether it was the husband's strange but not repulsive deformity, contrasted with the touch of plaintive grace in the wife, or the charm of the elfish children, with their tiny stick-like arms and legs, and the glancing wildness of their blue eyes, under the frizzle of red hair, which shone round their little sickly faces. very soon she had begun to haunt them in her eager way, to try and penetrate their peasant lives, which were so full of enigma and attraction to her, mainly because of their very defectiveness, their closeness to an animal simplicity, never to be reached by any one of her sort. she soon discovered or imagined that hurd had more education than his neighbours. at any rate, he would sit listening to her--and smoking, as she made him do--while she talked politics and socialism to him; and though he said little in return, she made the most of it, and was sure anyway that he was glad to see her come in, and must some time read the labour newspapers and venturist leaflets she brought him, for they were always well thumbed before they came back to her. but to-night his sullen weariness would make no effort, and the hunted restless glances he threw from side to side as he sat crouching over the fire--the large mouth tight shut, the nostrils working--showed her that he would be glad when she went away. her young exacting temper was piqued. she had been for some time trying to arrange their lives for them. so, in spite of his dumb resistance, she lingered on, questioning and suggesting. as to the advertisement she had brought down, he put it aside almost without looking at it. "there ud be a hun'erd men after it before ever he could get there," was all he would say to it. then she inquired if he had been to ask the steward of the maxwell court estate for work. he did not answer, but mrs. hurd said timidly that she heard tell a new drive was to be made that winter for the sake of giving employment. but their own men on the estate would come first, and there were plenty of them out of work. "well, but there is the game," persisted marcella. "isn't it possible they might want some extra men now the pheasant shooting has begun. i might go and inquire of westall--i know him a little." the wife made a startled movement, and hurd raised his misshapen form with a jerk. "thank yer, miss, but i'll not trouble yer. i don't want nothing to do with westall." and taking up a bit of half-burnt wood which lay on the hearth, he threw it violently back into the grate. marcella looked from one to the other with surprise. mrs. hurd's expression was one of miserable discomfort, and she kept twisting her apron in her gnarled hands. "yes, i _shall_ tell, jim!" she broke out. "i shall. i know miss boyce is one as ull understand--" hurd turned round and looked at his wife full. but she persisted. "you see, miss, they don't speak, don't jim and george westall. when jim was quite a lad he was employed at mellor, under old westall, george's father as was. jim was 'watcher,' and young george he was assistant. that was in mr. robert's days, you understand, miss--when master harold was alive; and they took a deal o' trouble about the game. an' george westall, he was allays leading the others a life--tale-bearing an' spyin', an' settin' his father against any of 'em as didn't give in to him. an', oh, he behaved _fearful_ to jim! jim ull tell you. now, jim, what's wrong with you--why shouldn't i tell?" for hurd had risen, and as he and his wife looked at each other a sort of mute conversation seemed to pass between them. then he turned angrily, and went out of the cottage by the back door into the garden. the wife sat in some agitation a moment, then she resumed. "he can't bear no talk about westall--it seems to drive him silly. but i say as how people _should_ know." her wavering eye seemed to interrogate her companion. marcella was puzzled by her manner--it was so far from simple. "but that was long ago, surely," she said. "yes, it wor long ago, but you don't forget them things, miss! an' westall, he's just the same sort as he was then, so folks say," she added hurriedly. "you see jim, miss, how he's made? his back was twisted that way when he was a little un. his father was a good old man--everybody spoke well of 'im--but his mother, she was a queer mad body, with red hair, just like jim and the children, and a temper! my word. they do say she was an irish girl, out of a gang as used to work near here--an' she let him drop one day when she was in liquor, an' never took no trouble about him afterwards. he was a poor sickly lad, he was! you'd wonder how he grew up at all. and oh! george westall he treated him _cruel_. he'd kick and swear at him; then he'd dare him to fight, an' thrash him till the others came in, an' got him away. then he'd carry tales to his father, and one day old westall beat jim within an inch of 'is life, with a strap end, because of a lie george told 'im. the poor chap lay in a ditch under disley wood all day, because he was that knocked about he couldn't walk, and at night he crawled home on his hands and knees. he's shown me the place many a time! then he told his father, and next morning he told me, as he couldn't stand it no longer, an' he never went back no more." "and he told no one else?--he never complained?" asked marcella, indignantly. "what ud ha been the good o' that, miss?" mrs. hurd said, wondering. "nobody ud ha taken his word agen old westall's. but he come and told me. i was housemaid at lady leven's then, an' he and his father were old friends of ourn. and i knew george westall too. he used to walk out with me of a sunday, just as civil as could be, and give my mother rabbits now and again, and do anything i'd ask him. an' i up and told him he was a brute to go ill-treatin' a sickly fellow as couldn't pay him back. that made him as cross as vinegar, an' when jim began to be about with me ov a sunday sometimes, instead of him, he got madder and madder. an' jim asked me to marry him--he begged of me--an' i didn't know what to say. for westall had asked me twice; an' i was afeard of jim's health, an' the low wages he'd get, an' of not bein' strong myself. but one day i was going up a lane into tudley end woods, an' i heard george westall on tother side of the hedge with a young dog he was training. somethin' crossed him, an' he flew into a passion with it. it turned me _sick_. i ran away and i took against him there and then. i was frightened of him. i duresn't trust myself, and i said to jim i'd take him. so you can understan', miss, can't you, as jim don't want to have nothing to do with westall? thank you kindly, all the same," she added, breaking off her narrative with the same uncertainty of manner, the same timid scrutiny of her visitor that marcella had noticed before. marcella replied that she could certainly understand. "but i suppose they've not got in each other's way of late years," she said as she rose to go. "oh! no, miss, no," said mrs. hurd as she went hurriedly to fetch a fur tippet which her visitor had laid down on the dresser. "there is _one_ person i can speak to," said marcella, as she put on the wrap. "and i will." against her will she reddened a little; but she had not been able to help throwing out the promise. "and now, you won't despair, will you? you'll trust me? i could always do something." she took mrs. hurd's hand with a sweet look and gesture. standing there in her tall vigorous youth, her furs wrapped about her, she had the air of protecting and guiding this poverty that could not help itself. the mother and wife felt herself shy, intimidated. the tears came back to her brown eyes. * * * * * when miss boyce had gone, minta hurd went to the fire and put it together, sighing all the time, her face still red and miserable. the door opened and her husband came in. he carried some potatoes in his great earth-stained hands. "you're goin' to put that bit of hare on? well, mak' eëaste, do, for i'm starvin'. what did she want to stay all that time for? you go and get it. i'll blow the fire up--damn these sticks!--they're as wet as dugnall pond." nevertheless, as she sadly came and went, preparing the supper, she saw that he was appeased, in a better temper than before. "what did you tell 'er?" he asked abruptly. "what do you spose i'd tell her? i acted for the best. i'm always thinkin' for you!" she said as though with a little cry, "or we'd soon be in trouble--worse trouble than we are!" she added miserably. he stopped working the old bellows for a moment, and, holding his long chin, stared into the flames. with his deformity, his earth-stains, his blue eyes, his brown wrinkled skin, and his shock of red hair, he had the look of some strange gnome crouching there. "i don't know what you're at, i'll swear," he said after a pause. "i ain't in any pertickler trouble just now--if yer wouldn't send a fellow stumpin' the country for nothink. if you'll just let me alone i'll get a livin' for you and the chillen right enough. don't you trouble yourself--an' hold your tongue!" she threw down her apron with a gesture of despair as she stood beside him, in front of the fire, watching the pan. "what am i to do, jim, an' them chillen--when you're took to prison?" she asked him vehemently. "i shan't get took to prison, i tell yer. all the same, westall got holt o' me this mornin'. i thought praps you'd better know." her exclamation of terror, her wild look at him, were exactly what he had expected; nevertheless, he flinched before them. his brutality was mostly assumed. he had adopted it as a mask for more than a year past, because he _must_ go his way, and she worried him. "now look here," he said resolutely, "it don't matter. i'm not goin' to be took by westall. i'd kill him or myself first. but he caught me lookin' at a snare this mornin'--it wor misty, and i didn't see no one comin'. it wor close to the footpath, and it worn't my snare." "'jim, my chap,' says he, mockin', 'i'm sorry for it, but i'm going to search yer, so take it quietly,' says he. he had young dynes with him--so i didn't say nought--i kep' as still as a mouse, an' sure enough he put his ugly han's into all my pockets. an' what do yer think he foun'?" "what?" she said breathlessly. "nothink!" he laughed out. "nary an end o' string, nor a kink o' wire--nothink. i'd hidden the two rabbits i got las' night, and all my bits o' things in a ditch far enough out o' his way. i just laughed at the look ov 'im. 'i'll have the law on yer for assault an' battery, yer damned miscalculatin' brute!' says i to him--'why don't yer get that boy there to teach yer your business?' an' off i walked. don't you be afeared--'ee'll never lay hands on me!" but minta was sore afraid, and went on talking and lamenting while she made the tea. he took little heed of her. he sat by the fire quivering and thinking. in a public-house two nights before this one, overtures had been made to him on behalf of a well-known gang of poachers with head-quarters in a neighbouring county town, who had their eyes on the pheasant preserves in westall's particular beat--the tudley end beat--and wanted a local watcher and accomplice. he had thought the matter at first too dangerous to touch. moreover, he was at that moment in a period of transition, pestered by minta to give up "the poachin'," and yet drawn back to it after his spring and summer of field work by instincts only recently revived, after long dormancy, but now hard to resist. presently he turned with anger upon one of minta's wails which happened to reach him. "look 'ere!" said he to her, "where ud you an' the chillen be this night if i 'adn't done it? 'adn't we got rid of every stick o' stuff we iver 'ad? 'ere's a well-furnished place for a chap to sit in!"--he glanced bitterly round the bare kitchen, which had none of the little properties of the country poor, no chest, no set of mahogany drawers, no comfortable chair, nothing, but the dresser and the few rush chairs and the table, and a few odds and ends of crockery and household stuff--"wouldn't we all a bin on the parish, if we 'adn't starved fust--_wouldn't_ we?--jes' answer me that! _didn't_ we sit here an' starve, till the bones was comin' through the chillen's skin?--didn't we?" that he could still argue the point with her showed the inner vulnerableness, the inner need of her affection and of peace with her, which he still felt, far as certain new habits were beginning to sweep him from her. "it's westall or jenkins (jenkins was the village policeman) havin' the _law_ on yer, jim," she said with emphasis, putting down a cup and looking at him--it's the thought of _that_ makes me cold in my back. none o' _my_ people was ever in prison--an' if it 'appened to you i should just die of shame!" "then yer'd better take and read them papers there as _she_ brought," he said impatiently, first jerking his finger over his shoulder in the direction of mellor to indicate miss boyce, and then pointing to a heap of newspapers which lay on the floor in a corner, "they'd tell yer summat about the shame o' _makin_' them game-laws--not o' breakin' ov 'em. but i'm sick o' this! where's them chillen? why do yer let that boy out so late?" and opening the door he stood on the threshold looking up and down the village street, while minta once more gave up the struggle, dried her eyes, and told herself to be cheerful. but it was hard. she was far better born and better educated than her husband. her father had been a small master chair-maker in wycombe, and her mother, a lackadaisical silly woman, had given her her "fine" name by way of additional proof that she and her children were something out of the common. moreover, she had the conforming law-abiding instincts of the well-treated domestic servant, who has lived on kindly terms with the gentry and shared their standards. and for years after their marriage hurd had allowed her to govern him. he had been so patient, so hard-working, such a kind husband and father, so full of a dumb wish to show her he was grateful to her for marrying such a fellow as he. the quarrel with westall seemed to have sunk out of his mind. he never spoke to or of him. low wages, the burden of quick-coming children, the bad sanitary conditions of their wretched cottage, and poor health, had made their lives one long and sordid struggle. but for years he had borne his load with extraordinary patience. he and his could just exist, and the man who had been in youth the lonely victim of his neighbours' scorn had found a woman to give him all herself and children to love. hence years of submission, a hidden flowering time for both of them. till that last awful winter!--the winter before richard boyce's succession to mellor--when the farmers had been mostly ruined, and half the able-bodied men of mellor had tramped "up into the smoke," as the village put it, in search of london work--then, out of actual sheer starvation--that very rare excuse of the poacher!--hurd had gone one night and snared a hare on the mellor land. would the wife and mother ever forget the pure animal satisfaction of that meal, or the fearful joy of the next night, when he got three shillings from a local publican for a hare and two rabbits? but after the first relief minta had gone in fear and trembling. for the old woodcraft revived in hurd, and the old passion for the fields and their chances which he had felt as a lad before his "watcher's" place had been made intolerable to him by george westall's bullying. he became excited, unmanageable. very soon he was no longer content with mellor, where, since the death of young harold, the heir, the keepers had been dismissed, and what remained of a once numerous head of game lay open to the wiles of all the bold spirits of the neighbourhood. he must needs go on to those woods of lord maxwell's, which girdled the mellor estate on three sides. and here he came once more across his enemy. for george westall was now in the far better-paid service of the court--and a very clever keeper, with designs on the head keeper's post whenever it might be vacant. in the case of a poacher he had the scent of one of his own hares. it was known to him in an incredibly short time that that "low caselty fellow hurd" was attacking "his" game. hurd, notwithstanding, was cunning itself, and westall lay in wait for him in vain. meanwhile, all the old hatred between the two men revived. hurd drank this winter more than he had ever drunk yet. it was necessary to keep on good terms with one or two publicans who acted as "receivers" of the poached game of the neighbourhood. and it seemed to him that westall pursued him into these low dens. the keeper--big, burly, prosperous--would speak to him with insolent patronage, watching him all the time, or with the old brutality, which hurd dared not resent. only in his excitable dwarf's sense hate grew and throve, very soon to monstrous proportions. westall's menacing figure darkened all his sky for him. his poaching, besides a means of livelihood, became more and more a silent duel between him and his boyhood's tyrant. and now, after seven months of regular field-work and respectable living, it was all to begin again with the new winter! the same shudders and terrors, the same shames before the gentry and mr. harden!--the soft, timid woman with her conscience could not endure the prospect. for some weeks after the harvest was over she struggled. he had begun to go out again at nights. but she drove him to look for employment, and lived in tears when he failed. as for him, she knew that he was glad to fail; there was a certain ease and jauntiness in his air to-night as he stood calling the children: "will!--you come in at once! daisy!--nellie!" two little figures came pattering up the street in the moist october dusk, a third, panted behind. the girls ran in to their mother chattering and laughing. hurd lifted the boy in his arm. "where you bin, will? what were yo out for in this nasty damp? i've brought yo a whole pocket full o' chestnuts, and summat else too." he carried him in to the fire and sat him on his knees. the little emaciated creature, flushed with the pleasure of his father's company, played contentedly in the intervals of coughing with the shining chestnuts, or ate his slice of the fine pear--the gift of a friend in thame--which proved to be the "summat else" of promise. the curtains were close-drawn; the paraffin lamp flared on the table, and as the savoury smell of the hare and onions on the fire filled the kitchen, the whole family gathered round watching for the moment of eating. the fire played on the thin legs and pinched faces of the children; on the baby's cradle in the further corner; on the mother, red-eyed still, but able to smile and talk again; on the strange celtic face and matted hair of the dwarf. family affection--and the satisfaction of the simpler physical needs--these things make the happiness of the poor. for this hour, to-night, the hurds were happy. meanwhile, in the lane outside, marcella, as she walked home, passed a tall broad-shouldered man in a velveteen suit and gaiters, his gun over his shoulder and two dogs behind him, his pockets bulging on either side. he walked with a kind of military air, and touched his cap to her as he passed. marcella barely nodded. "tyrant and bully!" she thought to herself with mrs. hurd's story in her mind. "yet no doubt he is a valuable keeper; lord maxwell would be sorry to lose him! it is the system makes such men--and must have them." the clatter of a pony carriage disturbed her thoughts. a small, elderly lady, in a very large mushroom hat, drove past her in the dusk and bowed stiffly. marcella was so taken by surprise that she barely returned the bow. then she looked after the carriage. that was miss raeburn. to-morrow! chapter x. "won't you sit nearer to the window? we are rather proud of our view at this time of year," said miss raeburn to marcella, taking her visitor's jacket from her as she spoke, and laying it aside. "lady winterbourne is late, but she will come, i am sure. she is very precise about engagements." marcella moved her chair nearer to the great bow-window, and looked out over the sloping gardens of the court, and the autumn splendour of the woods girdling them in on all sides. she held her head nervously erect, was not apparently much inclined to talk, and miss raeburn, who had resumed her knitting within a few paces of her guest, said to herself presently after a few minutes' conversation on the weather and the walk from mellor: "difficult--decidedly difficult--and too much manner for a young girl. but the most picturesque creature i ever set eyes on!" lord maxwell's sister was an excellent woman, the inquisitive, benevolent despot of all the maxwell villages; and one of the soundest tories still left to a degenerate party and a changing time. her brother and her great-nephew represented to her the flower of human kind; she had never been capable, and probably never would be capable, of quarrelling with either of them on any subject whatever. at the same time she had her rights with them. she was at any rate their natural guardian in those matters, relating to womankind, where men are confessedly given to folly. she had accordingly kept a shrewd eye in aldous's interest on all the young ladies of the neighbourhood for many years past; knew perfectly well all that he might have done, and sighed over all that he had so far left undone. at the present moment, in spite of the even good-breeding with which she knitted and chattered beside marcella, she was in truth consumed with curiosity, conjecture, and alarm on the subject of this miss boyce. profoundly as they trusted each other, the raeburns were not on the surface a communicative family. neither her brother nor aldous had so far bestowed any direct confidence upon her; but the course of affairs had, notwithstanding, aroused her very keenest attention. in the first place, as we know, the mistress of maxwell court had left mellor and its new occupants unvisited; she had plainly understood it to be her brother's wish that she should do so. how, indeed, could you know the women without knowing richard boyce? which, according to lord maxwell, was impossible. and now it was lord maxwell who had suggested not only that after all it would be kind to call upon the poor things, who were heavily weighted enough already with dick boyce for husband and father, but that it would be a graceful act on his sister's part to ask the girl and her mother to luncheon. dick boyce of course must be made to keep his distance, but the resources of civilisation were perhaps not unequal to the task of discriminating, if it were prudently set about. at any rate miss raeburn gathered that she was expected to try, and instead of pressing her brother for explanations she held her tongue, paid her call forthwith, and wrote her note. but although aldous, thinking no doubt that he had been already sufficiently premature, had said nothing at all as to his own feelings to his great-aunt, she knew perfectly well that he had said a great deal on the subject of miss boyce and her mother to lady winterbourne, the only woman in the neighbourhood with whom he was ever really confidential. no woman, of course, in miss raeburn's position, and with miss raeburn's general interest in her kind, could have been ignorant for any appreciable number of days after the boyces' arrival at mellor that they possessed a handsome daughter, of whom the hardens in particular gave striking but, as miss raeburn privately thought, by no means wholly attractive accounts. and now, after all these somewhat agitating preliminaries, here was the girl established in the court drawing-room, aldous more nervous and preoccupied than she had ever seen him, and lord maxwell expressing a particular anxiety to return from his board meeting in good time for luncheon, to which he had especially desired that lady winterbourne should be bidden, and no one else! it may well be supposed that miss raeburn was on the alert. as for marcella, she was on her side keenly conscious of being observed, of having her way to make. here she was alone among these formidable people, whose acquaintance she had in a manner compelled. well--what blame? what was to prevent her from doing the same thing again to-morrow? her conscience was absolutely clear. if they were not ready to meet her in the same spirit in which through mr. raeburn she had approached them, she would know perfectly well how to protect herself--above all, how to live out her life in the future without troubling them. meanwhile, in spite of her dignity and those inward propitiations it from time to time demanded, she was, in her human vivid way, full of an excitement and curiosity she could hardly conceal as perfectly as she desired--curiosity as to the great house and the life in it, especially as to aldous raeburn's part therein. she knew very little indeed of the class to which by birth she belonged; great houses and great people were strange to her. she brought her artist's and student's eyes to look at them with; she was determined not to be dazzled or taken in by them. at the same time, as she glanced every now and then round the splendid room in which they sat, with its tudor ceiling, its fine pictures, its combination of every luxury with every refinement, she was distinctly conscious of a certain thrill, a romantic drawing towards the stateliness and power which it all implied, together with a proud and careless sense of equality, of kinship so to speak, which she made light of, but would not in reality have been without for the world. in birth and blood she had nothing to yield to the raeburns--so her mother assured her. if things were to be vulgarly measured, this fact too must come in. but they should not be vulgarly measured. she did not believe in class or wealth--not at all. only--as her mother had told her--she must hold her head up. an inward temper, which no doubt led to that excess of manner of which miss raeburn was meanwhile conscious. where were the gentlemen? marcella was beginning to resent and tire of the innumerable questions as to her likes and dislikes, her accomplishments, her friends, her opinions of mellor and the neighbourhood, which this knitting lady beside her poured out upon her so briskly, when to her great relief the door opened and a footman announced "lady winterbourne." a very tall thin lady in black entered the room at the words. "my dear!" she said to miss raeburn, "i am very late, but the roads are abominable, and those horses edward has just given me have to be taken such tiresome care of. i told the coachman next time he might wrap them in shawls and put them to bed, and _i_ should walk." "you are quite capable of it, my dear," said miss raeburn, kissing her. "we know you! miss boyce--lady winterbourne." lady winterbourne shook hands with a shy awkwardness which belied her height and stateliness. as she sat down beside miss raeburn the contrast between her and lord maxwell's sister was sufficiently striking. miss raeburn was short, inclined to be stout, and to a certain gay profusion in her attire. her cap was made of a bright silk handkerchief edged with lace; round her neck were hung a number of small trinkets on various gold chains; she abounded too in bracelets, most of which were clearly old-fashioned mementos of departed relatives or friends. her dress was a cheerful red verging on crimson; and her general air suggested energy, bustle, and a good-humoured common sense. lady winterbourne, on the other hand, was not only dressed from head to foot in severe black without an ornament; her head and face belonged also to the same impression, as of some strong and forcible study in black and white. the attitude was rigidly erect; the very dark eyes, under the snowy and abundant hair, had a trick of absent staring; in certain aspects the whole figure had a tragic, nay, formidable dignity, from which one expected, and sometimes got, the tone and gesture of tragic acting. yet at the same time, mixed in therewith, a curious strain of womanish, nay childish, weakness, appealingness. altogether, a great lady, and a personality--yet something else too--something ill-assured, timid, incongruous--hard to be defined. "i believe you have not been at mellor long?" the new-comer asked, in a deep contralto voice which she dragged a little. "about seven weeks. my father and mother have been there since may." "you must of course think it a very interesting old place?" "of course i do; i love it," said marcella, disconcerted by the odd habit lady winterbourne had of fixing her eyes upon a person, and then, as it were, forgetting what she had done with them. "oh, i haven't been there, agneta," said the new-comer, turning after a pause to miss raeburn, "since that summer--_you_ remember that party when the palmerstons came over--so long ago--twenty years!" marcella sat stiffly upright. lady winterbourne grew a little nervous and flurried. "i don't think i ever saw your mother, miss boyce--i was much away from home about then. oh, yes, i did once--" the speaker stopped, a sudden red suffusing her pale cheeks. she had felt certain somehow, at sight of marcella, that she should say or do something untoward, and she had promptly justified her own prevision. the only time she had ever seen mrs. boyce had been in court, on the last day of the famous trial in which richard boyce was concerned, when she had made out the wife sitting closely veiled as near to her husband as possible, waiting for the verdict. as she had already confided this reminiscence to miss raeburn, and had forgotten she had done so, both ladies had a moment of embarrassment. "mrs. boyce, i am sorry to say, does not seem to be strong," said miss raeburn, bending over the heel of her stocking. "i wish we could have had the pleasure of seeing her to-day." there was a pause. lady winterbourne's tragic eyes were once more considering marcella. "i hope you will come and see me," she said at last abruptly--"and mrs. boyce too." the voice was very soft and refined though so deep, and marcella looking up was suddenly magnetised. "yes, i will," she said, all her face melting into sensitive life. "mamma won't go anywhere, but i will come, if you will ask me." "will you come next tuesday?" said lady winterbourne quickly--"come to tea, and i will drive you back. mr. raeburn told me about you. he says--you read a great deal." the solemnity of the last words, the fixedness of the tragic look, were not to be resisted. marcella laughed out, and both ladies simultaneously thought her extraordinarily radiant and handsome. "how can he know? why, i have hardly talked about books to him at all." "well! here he comes," said lady winterbourne, smiling suddenly; "so i can ask him. but i am sure he did say so." it was now marcella's turn to colour. aldous raeburn crossed the room, greeted lady winterbourne, and next moment she felt her hand in his. "you did tell me, aldous, didn't you," said lady winterbourne, "that miss boyce was a great reader?" the speaker had known aldous raeburn as a boy, and was, moreover, a sort of cousin, which explained the christian name. aldous smiled. "i said i thought miss boyce was like you and me, and had a weakness that way, lady winterbourne. but i won't be cross-examined!" "i don't think i am a great reader," said marcella, bluntly--"at least i read a great deal, but i hardly ever read a book through. i haven't patience." "you want to get at everything so quickly?" said miss raeburn, looking up sharply. "i suppose so!" said marcella. "there seems to be always a hundred things tearing one different ways, and no time for any of them." "yes, when one is young one feels like that," said lady winterbourne, sighing. "when one is old one accepts one's limitations. when i was twenty i never thought that i should still be an ignorant and discontented woman at nearly seventy." "it is because you are so young still, lady winterbourne, that you feel so," said aldous, laughing at her, as one does at an old friend. "why, you are younger than any of us! i feel all brushed and stirred up--a boy at school again--after i have been to see you!" "well, i don't know what you mean, i'm sure," said lady winterbourne, sighing again. then she looked at the pair beside her--at the alert brightness in the man's strong and quiet face as he sat stooping forward, with his hands upon his knees, hardly able to keep his eyes for an instant from the dark apparition beside him--at the girl's evident shyness and pride. "my dear!" she said, turning suddenly to miss raeburn, "have you heard what a monstrosity alice has produced this last time in the way of a baby? it was born with four teeth!" miss raeburn's astonishment fitted the provocation, and the two old friends fell into a gossip on the subject of lady winterbourne's numerous family, which was clearly meant for a _tête-à-tête_. "will you come and look at our tapestry?" said aldous to his neighbour, after a few nothings had passed between them as to the weather and her walk from mellor. "i think you would admire it, and i am afraid my grandfather will be a few minutes yet. he hoped to get home earlier than this, but his board meeting was very long and important, and has kept him an unconscionable time." marcella rose, and they moved together towards the south end of the room where a famous piece of italian renaissance tapestry entirely filled the wall from side to side. "how beautiful!" cried the girl, her eyes filling with delight. "what a delicious thing to live with." and, indeed, it was the most adorable medley of forms, tints, suggestions, of gods and goddesses, nymphs and shepherds, standing in flowery grass under fruit-laden trees and wreathed about with roses. both colour and subject were of fairyland. the golds and browns and pinks of it, the greens and ivory whites had been mellowed and pearled and warmed by age into a most glowing, delicate, and fanciful beauty. it was italy at the great moment--subtle, rich, exuberant. aldous enjoyed her pleasure. "i thought you would like it; i hoped you would. it has been my special delight since i was a child, when my mother first routed it out of a garret. i am not sure that i don't in my heart prefer it to any of the pictures." "the flowers!" said marcella, absorbed in it--"look at them--the irises, the cyclamens, the lilies! it reminds one of the dreams one used to have when one was small of what it would be like to have _flowers enough_. i was at school, you know, in a part of england where one seemed always cheated out of them! we walked two and two along the straight roads, and i found one here and one there--but such a beggarly, wretched few, for all one's trouble. i used to hate the hard dry soil, and console myself by imagining countries where the flowers grew like this--yes, just like this, in a gold and pink and blue mass, so that one might thrust one's hands in and gather and gather till one was really _satisfied_! that is the worst of being at school when you are poor! you never get enough of anything. one day it's flowers--but the next day it is pudding--and the next frocks." her eye was sparkling, her tongue loosened. not only was it pleasant to feel herself beside him, enwrapped in such an atmosphere of admiration and deference, but the artistic sensitive chord in her had been struck, and vibrated happily. "well, only wait till may, and the cowslips in your own fields will make up to you!" he said, smiling at her. "but now, i have been wondering to myself in my room upstairs what you would like to see. there are a good many treasures in this house, and you will care for them, because you are an artist. but you shall not be bored with them! you shall see what and as much as you like. you had about a quarter of an hour's talk with my aunt, did you not?" he asked, in a quite different tone. so all the time while she and miss raeburn had been making acquaintance, he had known that she was in the house, and he had kept away for his own purposes! marcella felt a colour she could not restrain leap into her cheek. "miss raeburn was very kind," she said, with a return of shyness, which passed however the next moment by reaction, into her usual daring. "yes, she was very kind!--but all the same she doesn't like me--i don't think she is going to like me--i am not her sort." "have you been talking socialism to her?" he asked her, smiling. "no, not yet--not yet," she said emphatically. "but i am dreadfully uncertain--i can't always hold my tongue--i am afraid you will be sorry you took me up." "are you so aggressive? but aunt neta is so mild!--she wouldn't hurt a fly. she mothers every one in the house and out of it. the only people she is hard upon are the little servant girls, who will wear feathers in their hats!" "there!" cried marcella, indignantly. "why shouldn't they wear feathers in their hats? it is their form of beauty--their tapestry!" "but if one can't have both feathers and boots?" he asked her humbly, a twinkle in his grey eye. "if one hasn't boots, one may catch a cold and die of it--which is, after all, worse than going featherless." "but why _can't_ they have feathers and boots? it is because you--we--have got too much. you have the tapestry--and--and the pictures"--she turned and looked round the room--"and this wonderful house--and the park. oh, no--i think it is miss raeburn has too many feathers!" "perhaps it is," he admitted, in a different tone, his look changing and saddening as though some habitual struggle of thought were recalled to him. "you see i am in a difficulty. i want to show you our feathers. i think they would please you--and you make me ashamed of them." "how absurd!" cried marcella, "when i told you how i liked the school children bobbing to me!" they laughed, and then aldous looked round with a start--"ah, here is my grandfather!" then he stood back, watching the look with which lord maxwell, after greeting lady winterbourne, approached miss boyce. he saw the old man's somewhat formal approach, the sudden kindle in the blue eyes which marked the first effect of marcella's form and presence, the bow, the stately shake of the hand. the lover hearing his own heart beat, realised that his beautiful lady had so far done well. "you must let me say that i see a decided likeness in you to your grandfather," said lord maxwell, when they were all seated at lunch, marcella on his left hand, opposite to lady winterbourne. "he was one of my dearest friends." "i'm afraid i don't know much about him," said marcella, rather bluntly, "except what i have got out of old letters. i never saw him that i remember." lord maxwell left the subject, of course, at once, but showed a great wish to talk to her, and make her talk. he had pleasant things to say about mellor and its past, which could be said without offence; and some conversation about the boyce monuments in mellor church led to a discussion of the part played by the different local families in the civil wars, in which it seemed to aldous that his grandfather tried in various shrewd and courteous ways to make marcella feel at ease with herself and her race, accepted, as it were, of right into the local brotherhood, and so to soothe and heal those bruised feelings he could not but divine. the girl carried herself a little loftily, answering with an independence and freedom beyond her age and born of her london life. she was not in the least abashed or shy. yet it was clear that lord maxwell's first impressions were favourable. aldous caught every now and then his quick, judging look sweeping over her and instantly withdrawn--comparing, as the grandson very well knew, every point, and tone, and gesture with some inner ideal of what a raeburn's wife should be. how dream-like the whole scene was to aldous, yet how exquisitely real! the room, with its carved and gilt cedar-wood panels, its vandykes, its tall windows opening on the park, the autumn sun flooding the gold and purple fruit on the table, and sparkling on the glass and silver, the figures of his aunt and lady winterbourne, the moving servants, and dominant of it all, interpreting it all for him anew, the dark, lithe creature beside his grandfather, so quick, sensitive, extravagant, so much a woman, yet, to his lover's sense, so utterly unlike any other woman he had ever seen--every detail of it was charged to him with a thousand new meanings, now oppressive, now delightful. for he was passing out of the first stage of passion, in which it is, almost, its own satisfaction, so new and enriching is it to the whole nature, into the second stage--the stage of anxiety, incredulity. marcella, sitting there on his own ground, after all his planning, seemed to him not nearer, but further from him. she was terribly on her dignity! where was all that girlish abandonment gone which she had shown him on that walk, beside the gate? there had been a touch of it, a divine touch, before luncheon. how could he get her to himself again? meanwhile the conversation passed to the prevailing local topic--the badness of the harvest, the low prices of everything, the consequent depression among the farmers, and stagnation in the villages. "i don't know what is to be done for the people this winter," said lord maxwell, "without pauperising them, i mean. to give money is easy enough. our grandfathers would have doled out coal and blankets, and thought no more of it. we don't get through so easily." "no," said lady winterbourne, sighing. "it weighs one down. last winter was a nightmare. the tales one heard, and the faces one saw!--though we seemed to be always giving. and in the middle of it edward would buy me a new set of sables. i begged him not, but he laughed at me." "well, my dear," said miss raeburn, cheerfully, "if nobody bought sables, there'd be other poor people up in russia, isn't it?--or hudson's bay?--badly off. one has, to think of that. oh, you needn't talk, aldous! i know you say it's a fallacy. _i_ call it common sense." she got, however, only a slight smile from aldous, who had long ago left his great-aunt to work out her own economics. and, anyway, she saw that he was wholly absorbed from his seat beside lady winterbourne in watching miss boyce. "it's precisely as lord maxwell says," replied lady winterbourne; "that kind of thing used to satisfy everybody. and our grandmothers were very good women. i don't know why we, who give ourselves so much more trouble than they did, should carry these thorns about with us, while they went free." she drew herself up, a cloud over her fine eyes. miss raeburn, looking round, was glad to see the servants had left the room. "miss boyce thinks we are all in a very bad way, i'm sure. i have heard tales of miss boyce's opinions!" said lord maxwell, smiling at her, with an old man's indulgence, as though provoking her to talk. her slim fingers were nervously crumbling some bread beside her; her head was drooped a little. at his challenge she looked up with a start. she was perfectly conscious of him, as both the great magnate on his native heath, and as the trained man of affairs condescending to a girl's fancies. but she had made up her mind not to be afraid. "what tales have you heard?" she asked him. "you alarm us, you know," he said gallantly, waiving her question. "we can't afford a prophetess to the other side, just now." miss raeburn drew herself up, with a sharp dry look at miss boyce, which escaped every one but lady winterbourne. "oh! i am not a radical!" said marcella, half scornfully. "we socialists don't fight for either political party as such. we take what we can get out of both." "so you call yourself a socialist? a real full-blown one?" lord maxwell's pleasant tone masked the mood of a man who after a morning of hard work thinks himself entitled to some amusement at luncheon. "yes, i am a socialist," she said slowly, looking at him. "at least i ought to be--i am in my conscience." "but not in your judgment?" he said laughing. "isn't that the condition of most of us?" "no, not at all!" she exclaimed, both her vanity and her enthusiasm roused by his manner. "both my judgment and my conscience make me a socialist. it's only one's wretched love for one's own little luxuries and precedences--the worst part of one--that makes me waver, makes me a traitor! the people i worked with in london would think me a traitor often, i know." "and you really think that the world ought to be 'hatched over again and hatched different'? that it ought to be, if it could be?" "i think that things are intolerable as they are," she broke out, after a pause. "the london poor were bad enough; the country poor seem to me worse! how can any one believe that such serfdom and poverty--such mutilation of mind and body--were meant to go on for ever!" lord maxwell's brows lifted. but it certainly was no wonder that aldous should find those eyes of hers superb? "can you really imagine, my dear young lady," he asked her mildly, "that if all property were divided to-morrow the force of natural inequality would not have undone all the work the day after, and given us back our poor?" the "newspaper cant" of this remark, as the cravens would have put it, brought a contemptuous look for an instant into the girl's face. she began to talk eagerly and cleverly, showing a very fair training in the catch words of the school, and a good memory--as one uncomfortable person at the table soon perceived--for some of the leading arguments and illustrations of a book of venturist essays which had lately been much read and talked of in london. then, irritated more and more by lord maxwell's gentle attention, and the interjections he threw in from time to time, she plunged into history, attacked the landowning class, spoke of the statute of labourers, the law of settlement, the new poor law, and other great matters, all in the same quick flow of glancing, picturesque speech, and all with the same utter oblivion--so it seemed to her stiff indignant hostess at the other end of the table--of the manners and modesty proper to a young girl in a strange house, and that young girl richard boyce's daughter! aldous struck in now and then, trying to soothe her by supporting her to a certain extent, and so divert the conversation. but marcella was soon too excited to be managed; and she had her say; a very strong say often as far as language went: there could be no doubt of that. "ah, well," said lord maxwell, wincing at last under some of her phrases, in spite of his courteous _savoir-faire_, "i see you are of the same opinion as a good man whose book i took up yesterday: 'the landlords of england have always shown a mean and malignant passion for profiting by the miseries of others?' well, aldous, my boy, we are judged, you and i--no help for it!" the man whose temper and rule had made the prosperity of a whole country side for nearly forty years, looked at his grandson with twinkling eyes. miss raeburn was speechless. lady winterbourne was absently staring at marcella, a spot of red on each pale cheek. then marcella suddenly wavered, looked across at aldous, and broke down. "of course, you think me very ridiculous," she said, with a tremulous change of tone. "i suppose i am. and i am as inconsistent as anybody--i hate myself for it. very often when anybody talks to me on the other side, i am almost as much persuaded as i am by the socialists: they always told me in london i was the prey of the last speaker. but it can't make any difference to one's _feeling_: nothing touches that." she turned to lord maxwell, half appealing-- "it is when i go down from our house to the village; when i see the places the people live in; when one is comfortable in the carriage, and one passes some woman in the rain, ragged and dirty and tired, trudging back from her work; when one realises that they have no _rights_ when they come to be old, nothing to look to but charity, for which _we_, who have everything, expect them to be grateful; and when i know that every one of them has done more useful work in a year of their life than i shall ever do in the whole of mine, then i feel that the whole state of things is _somehow_ wrong and topsy-turvy and _wicked_." her voice rose a little, every emphasis grew more passionate. "and if i don't do something--the little such a person as i can--to alter it before i die, i might as well never have lived." everybody at table started. lord maxwell looked at miss raeburn, his mouth twitching over the humour of his sister's dismay. well! this was a forcible young woman: was aldous the kind of man to be able to deal conveniently with such eyes, such emotions, such a personality? suddenly lady winterbourne's deep voice broke in: "i never could say it half so well as that, miss boyce; but i agree with you. i may say that i have agreed with you all my life." the girl turned to her, grateful and quivering. "at the same time," said lady winterbourne, relapsing with a long breath from tragic emphasis into a fluttering indecision equally characteristic, "as you say, one is inconsistent. i was poor once, before edward came to the title, and i did not at all like it--not at all. and i don't wish my daughters to marry poor men; and what i should do without a maid or a carriage when i wanted it, i cannot imagine. edward makes the most of these things. he tells me i have to choose between things as they are, and a graduated income tax which would leave nobody--not even the richest--more than four hundred a year." "just enough, for one of those little houses on your station road," said lord maxwell, laughing at her. "i think you might still have a maid." "there, you laugh," said lady winterbourne, vehemently: "the men do. but i tell you it is no laughing matter to feel that your _heart_ and _conscience_ have gone over to the enemy. you want to feel with your class, and you can't. think of what used to happen in the old days. my grandmother, who was as good and kind a woman as ever lived, was driving home through our village one evening, and a man passed her, a labourer who was a little drunk, and who did not take off his hat to her. she stopped, made her men get down and had him put in the stocks there and then--the old stocks were still standing on the village green. then she drove home to her dinner, and said her prayers no doubt that night with more consciousness than usual of having done her duty. but if the power of the stocks still remained to us, my dear friend"--and she laid her thin old woman's hand, flashing with diamonds, on lord maxwell's arm--"we could no longer do it, you or i. we have lost the sense of _right_ in our place and position--at least i find i have. in the old days if there was social disturbance the upper class could put it down with a strong hand." "so they would still," said lord maxwell, drily, "if there were violence. once let it come to any real attack on property, and you will see where all these socialist theories will be. and of course it will not be _we_--not the landowners or the capitalists--who will put it down. it will be the hundreds and thousands of people with something to lose--a few pounds in a joint-stock mill, a house of their own built through a co-operative store, an acre or two of land stocked by their own savings--it is they, i am afraid, who will put miss boyce's friends down so far as they represent any real attack on property--and brutally, too, i fear, if need be." "i dare say," exclaimed marcella, her colour rising again. "i never can see how we socialists are to succeed. but how can any one _rejoice_ in it? how can any one _wish_ that the present state of things should go on? oh! the horrors one sees in london. and down here, the cottages, and the starvation wages, and the ridiculous worship of game, and then, of course, the poaching--" miss raeburn pushed back her chair with a sharp noise. but her brother was still peeling his pear, and no one else moved. why did he let such talk go on? it was too unseemly. lord maxwell only laughed. "my dear young lady," he said, much amused, "are you even in the frame of mind to make a hero of a poacher? disillusion lies that way!--it does indeed. why--aldous!--i have been hearing such tales from westall this morning. i stopped at corbett's farm a minute or two on the way home, and met westall at the gate coming out. he says he and his men are being harried to death round about tudley end by a gang of men that come, he thinks, from oxford, a driving gang with a gig, who come at night or in the early morning--the smartest rascals out, impossible to catch. but he says he thinks he will soon have his hand on the local accomplice--a mellor man--a man named hurd: not one of our labourers, i think." "hurd!" cried marcella, in dismay. "oh no, it _can't_ be--impossible!" lord maxwell looked at her in astonishment. "do you know any hurds? i am afraid your father will find that mellor is a bad place for poaching." "if it is, it is because they are so starved and miserable," said marcella, trying hard to speak coolly, but excited almost beyond bounds by the conversation and all that it implied. "and the hurds--i don't believe it a bit! but if it were true--oh! they have been in such straits--they were out of work most of last winter; they are out of work now, no one _could_ grudge them. i told you about them, didn't i?" she said, suddenly glancing at aldous. "i was going to ask you to-day, if you could help them?" her prophetess air had altogether left her. she felt ready to cry; and nothing could have been more womanish than her tone. he bent across to her. miss raeburn, invaded by a new and intolerable sense of calamity, could have beaten him for what she read in his shining eyes, and in the flush on his usually pale cheek. "is he still out of work?" he said. "and you are unhappy about it? but i am sure we can find him work: i am just now planning improvements at the north end of the park. we can take him on; i am certain of it. you must give me his full name and address." "and let him beware of westall," said lord maxwell, kindly. "give him a hint, miss boyce, and nobody will rake up bygones. there is nothing i dislike so much as rows about the shooting. all the keepers know that." "and of course," said miss raeburn, coldly, "if the family are in real distress there are plenty of people at hand to assist them. the man need not steal." "oh, charity!" cried marcella, her lip curling. "a worse crime than poaching, you think," said lord maxwell, laughing. "well, these are big subjects. i confess, after my morning with the lunatics, i am half inclined, like horace walpole, to think everything serious ridiculous. at any rate shall we see what light a cup of coffee throws upon it? agneta, shall we adjourn?" chapter xi. lord maxwell closed the drawing-room door behind aldous and marcella. aldous had proposed to take their guest to see the picture gallery, which was on the first floor, and had found her willing. the old man came back to the two other women, running his hand nervously through his shock of white hair--a gesture which miss raeburn well knew to show some disturbance of mind. "i should like to have your opinion of that young lady," he said deliberately, taking a chair immediately in front of them. "i like her," said lady winterbourne, instantly. "of course she is crude and extravagant, and does not know quite what she may say. but all that will improve. i like her, and shall make friends with her." miss raeburn threw up her hands in angry amazement. "most forward, conceited, and ill-mannered," she said with energy. "i am certain she has no proper principles, and as to what her religious views may be, i dread to think of them! if _that_ is a specimen of the girls of the present day--" "my dear," interrupted lord maxwell, laying a hand on her knee, "lady winterbourne is an old friend, a very old friend. i think we may be frank before her, and i don't wish you to say things you may regret. aldous has made up his mind to get that girl to marry him, if he can." lady winterbourne was silent, having in fact been forewarned by that odd little interview with aldous in her own drawing-room, when he had suddenly asked her to call on mrs. boyce. but she looked at miss raeburn. that lady took up her knitting, laid it down again, resumed it, then broke out-- "how did it come about? where have they been meeting?" "at the hardens mostly. he seems to have been struck from the beginning, and now there is no question as to his determination. but she may not have him; he professes to be still entirely in the dark." "oh!" cried miss raeburn, with a scornful shrug, meant to express all possible incredulity. then she began to knit fast and furiously, and presently said in great agitation,-- "what can he be thinking of? she is very handsome, of course, but--" then her words failed her. "when aldous remembers his mother, how can he?--undisciplined! self-willed! why, she laid down the law to _you_, henry, as though you had nothing to do but to take your opinions from a chit of a girl like her. oh! no, no; i really can't; you must give me time. and her father--the disgrace and trouble of it! i tell you, henry, it will bring misfortune!" lord maxwell was much troubled. certainly he should have talked to agneta beforehand. but the fact was he had his cowardice, like other men, and he had been trusting to the girl herself, to this beauty he heard so much of, to soften the first shock of the matter to the present mistress of the court. "we will hope not, agneta," he said gravely. "we will hope not. but you must remember aldous is no boy. i cannot coerce him. i see the difficulties, and i have put them before him. but i am more favourably struck with the girl than you are. and anyway, if it comes about, we must make the best of it." miss raeburn made no answer, but pretended to set her heel, her needles shaking. lady winterbourne was very sorry for her two old friends. "wait a little," she said, laying her hand lightly on miss raeburn's. "no doubt with her opinions she felt specially drawn to assert herself to-day. one can imagine it very well of a girl, and a generous girl in her position. you will see other sides of her, i am sure you will. and you would never--you could never--make a breach with aldous." "we must all remember," said lord maxwell, getting up and beginning to walk up and down beside them, "that aldous is in no way dependent upon me. he has his own resources. he could leave us to-morrow. dependent on me! it is the other way, i think, agneta--don't you?" he stopped and looked at her, and she returned his look in spite of herself. a tear dropped on her stocking which she hastily brushed away. "come, now," said lord maxwell, seating himself; "let us talk it over rationally. don't go, lady winterbourne." "why, they may be settling it at this moment," cried miss raeburn, half-choked, and feeling as though "the skies were impious not to fall." "no, no!" he said smiling. "not yet, i think. but let us prepare ourselves." * * * * * meanwhile the cause of all this agitation was sitting languidly in a great louis quinze chair in the picture gallery upstairs, with aldous beside her. she had taken off her big hat as though it oppressed her, and her black head lay against a corner of the chair in fine contrast to its mellowed golds and crimsons. opposite to her were two famous holbein portraits, at which she looked from time to time as though attracted to them in spite of herself, by some trained sense which could not be silenced. but she was not communicative, and aldous was anxious. "do you think i was rude to your grandfather?" she asked him at last abruptly, cutting dead short some information she had stiffly asked him for just before, as to the date of the gallery and its collection. "rude!" he said startled. "not at all. not in the least. do you suppose we are made of such brittle stuff, we poor landowners, that we can't stand an argument now and then?" "your aunt thought i was rude," she said unheeding. "i think i was. but a house like this excites me." and with a little reckless gesture she turned her head over her shoulder and looked down the gallery. a velasquez was beside her; a great titian over the way; a priceless rembrandt beside it. on her right hand stood a chair of carved steel, presented by a german town to a german emperor, which, had not its equal in europe; the brocade draping the deep windows in front of her had been specially made to grace a state visit to the house of charles ii. "at mellor," she went on, "we are old and tumble-down. the rain comes in; there are no shutters to the big hall, and we can't afford to put them--we can't afford even to have the pictures cleaned. i can pity the house and nurse it, as i do the village. but here--" and looking about her, she gave a significant shrug. "what--our feathers again!" he said laughing. "but consider. even you allow that socialism cannot begin to-morrow. there must be a transition time, and clearly till the state is ready to take over the historical houses and their contents, the present nominal owners of them are bound, if they can, to take care of them. otherwise the state will be some day defrauded." she could not be insensible to the charm of his manner towards her. there was in it, no doubt, the natural force and weight of the man older and better informed than his companion, and amused every now and then by her extravagance. but even her irritable pride could not take offence. for the intellectual dissent she felt at bottom was tempered by a moral sympathy of which the gentleness and warmth touched and moved her in spite of herself. and now that they were alone he could express himself. so long as they had been in company he had seemed to her, as often before, shy, hesitating, and ineffective. but with the disappearance of spectators, who represented to him, no doubt, the harassing claim of the critical judgment, all was freer, more assured, more natural. she leant her chin on her hand, considering his plea. "supposing you live long enough to see the state take it, shall you be able to reconcile yourself to it? or shall you feel it a wrong, and go out a rebel?" a delightful smile was beginning to dance in the dark eyes. she was recovering the tension of her talk with lord maxwell. "all must depend, you see, on the conditions--on how you and your friends are going to manage the transition. you may persuade me--conceivably--or you may eject me with violence." "oh, no!" she interposed quickly. "there will be no violence. only we shall gradually reduce your wages. of course, we can't do without leaders--we don't want to do away with the captains of any industry, agricultural or manufacturing. only we think you overpaid. you must be content with less." "don't linger out the process," he said laughing, "otherwise it will be painful. the people who are condemned to live in these houses before the commune takes to them, while your graduated land and income taxes are slowly starving them out, will have a bad time of it." "well, it will be your first bad time! think of the labourer now, with five children, of school age, on twelve shillings a week--think of the sweated women in london." "ah, think of them," he said in a different tone. there was a pause of silence. "no!" said marcella, springing up. "don't let's think of them. i get to believe the whole thing a _pose_ in myself and other people. let's go back to the pictures. do you think titian 'sweated' his drapery men--paid them starvation rates, and grew rich on their labour? very likely. all the same, that blue woman"--she pointed to a bending magdalen--"will be a joy to all time." they wandered through the gallery, and she was now all curiosity, pleasure, and intelligent interest, as though she had thrown off an oppression. then they emerged into the upper corridor answering to the corridor of the antiques below. this also was hung with pictures, principally family portraits of the second order, dating back to the tudors--a fine series of berobed and bejewelled personages, wherein clothes pre-dominated and character was unimportant. marcella's eye was glancing along the brilliant colour of the wall, taking rapid note of jewelled necks surmounting stiff embroidered dresses, of the whiteness of lace ruffs, or the love-locks and gleaming satin of the caroline beauties, when it suddenly occurred to her,-- "i shall be their successor. this is already potentially mine. in a few months, if i please, i shall be walking this house as mistress--its future mistress, at any rate!" she was conscious of a quickening in the blood, a momentary blurring of the vision. a whirlwind of fancies swept across her. she thought of herself as the young peeress--lord maxwell after all was over seventy--her own white neck blazing with diamonds, the historic jewels of a great family--her will making law in this splendid house--in the great domain surrounding it. what power--what a position--what a romance! she, the out-at-elbows marcella, the socialist, the friend of the people. what new lines of social action and endeavour she might strike out! miss raeburn should not stop her. she caressed the thought of the scandals in store for that lady. only it annoyed her that her dream of large things should be constantly crossed by this foolish delight, making her feet dance--in this mere prospect of satin gowns and fine jewels--of young and fêted beauty holding its brilliant court. if she made such a marriage, it should be, it must be, on public grounds. her friends must have no right to blame her. then she stole a glance at the tall, quiet gentleman beside her. a man to be proud of from the beginning, and surely to be very fond of in time. "he would always be my friend," she thought. "i could lead him. he is very clever, one can see, and knows a great deal. but he admires what i like. his position hampers him--but i could help him to get beyond it. we might show the way to many!" "will you come and see this room here?" he said, stopping suddenly, yet with a certain hesitation in the voice. "it is my own sitting-room. there are one or two portraits i should like to show you if you would let me." she followed him with a rosy cheek, and they were presently standing in front of the portrait of his mother. he spoke of his recollections of his parents, quietly and simply, yet she felt through every nerve that he was not the man to speak of such things to anybody in whom he did not feel a very strong and peculiar interest. as he was talking a rush of liking towards him came across her. how good he was--how affectionate beneath his reserve--a woman might securely trust him with her future. so with every minute she grew softer, her eye gentler, and with each step and word he seemed to himself to be carried deeper into the current of joy. intoxication was mounting within him, as her slim, warm youth moved and breathed beside him; and it was natural that he should read her changing behaviour for something other than it was. a man of his type asks for no advance from the woman; the woman he loves does not make them; but at the same time he has a natural self-esteem, and believes readily in his power to win the return he is certain he will deserve. "and this?" she said, moving restlessly towards his table, and taking up the photograph of edward hallin. "ah! that is the greatest friend i have in the world. but i am sure you know the name. mr. hallin--edward hallin." she paused bewildered. "what! _the_ mr. hallin--_that_ was edward hallin--who settled the nottingham strike last month--who lectures so much in the east end, and in the north?" "the same. we are old college friends. i owe him much, and in all his excitements he does not forget old friends. there, you see--" and he opened a blotting book and pointed smiling to some closely written sheets lying within it--"is my last letter to him. i often write two of those in the week, and he to me. we don't agree on a number of things, but that doesn't matter." "what can you find to write about?" she said wondering. "i thought nobody wrote letters nowadays, only notes. is it books, or people?" "both, when it pleases us!" how soon, oh! ye favouring gods, might he reveal to her the part she herself played in those closely covered sheets? "but he writes to me on social matters chiefly. his whole heart, as you probably know, is in certain experiments and reforms in which he sometimes asks me to help him." marcella opened her eyes. these were new lights. she began to recall all that she had heard of young hallin's position in the labour movement; his personal magnetism and prestige; his power as a speaker. her socialist friends, she remembered, thought him in the way--a force, but a dangerous one. he was for the follies of compromise--could not be got to disavow the principle of private property, while ready to go great lengths in certain directions towards collective action and corporate control. the "stalwarts" of _her_ sect would have none of him as a leader, while admitting his charm as a human being--a charm she remembered to have heard discussed with some anxiety among her venturist friends. but for ordinary people he went far enough. her father, she remembered, had dubbed him an "anarchist" in connection with the terms he had been able to secure for the nottingham strikers, as reported in the newspapers. it astonished her to come across the man again as mr. raeburn's friend. they talked about hallin a little, and about aldous's cambridge acquaintance with him. then marcella, still nervous, went to look at the bookshelves, and found herself in front of that working collection of books on economics which aldous kept in his own room under his hand, by way of guide to the very fine special collection he was gradually making in the library downstairs. here again were surprises for her. aldous had never made the smallest claim to special knowledge on all those subjects she had so often insisted on making him discuss. he had been always tentative and diffident, deferential even so far as her own opinions were concerned. and here already was the library of a student. all the books she had ever read or heard discussed were here--and as few among many. the condition of them, moreover, the signs of close and careful reading she noticed in them, as she took them out, abashed her: _she_ had never learnt to read in this way. it was her first contact with an exact and arduous culture. she thought of how she had instructed lord maxwell at luncheon. no doubt he shared his grandson's interests. her cheek burned anew; this time because it seemed to her that she had been ridiculous. "i don't know why you never told me you took a particular interest in these subjects," she said suddenly, turning round upon him resentfully--she had just laid down, of all things, a volume of venturist essays. "you must have thought i talked a great deal of nonsense at luncheon." "why!--i have always been delighted to find you cared for such things and took an interest in them. how few women do!" he said quite simply, opening his eyes. "do you know these three pamphlets? they were privately printed, and are very rare." he took out a book and showed it to her as one does to a comrade and equal--as he might have done to edward hallin. but something was jarred in her--conscience or self-esteem--and she could not recover her sense of heroineship. she answered absently, and when he returned the book to the shelf she said that it was time for her to go, and would he kindly ask for her maid, who was to walk with her? "i will ring for her directly," he said. "but you will let me take you home?" then he added hurriedly, "i have some business this afternoon with a man who lives in your direction." she assented a little stiffly--but with an inward thrill. his words and manner seemed suddenly to make the situation unmistakable. among the books it had been for the moment obscured. he rang for his own servant, and gave directions about the maid. then they went downstairs that marcella might say good-bye. miss raeburn bade her guest farewell, with a dignity which her small person could sometimes assume, not unbecomingly. lady winterbourne held the girl's hand a little, looked her out of countenance, and insisted on her promising again to come to winterbourne park the following tuesday. then lord maxwell, with old-fashioned politeness, made marcella take his arm through the hall. "you must come and see us again," he said smiling; "though we are such belated old tories, we are not so bad as we sound." and under cover of his mild banter he fixed a penetrating attentive look upon her. flushed and embarrassed! had it indeed been done already? or would aldous settle it on this walk? to judge from his manner and hers, the thing was going with rapidity. well, well, there was nothing for it but to hope for the best. on their way through the hall she stopped him, her hand still in his arm. aldous was in front, at the door, looking for a light shawl she had brought with her. "i should like to thank you," she said shyly, "about the hurds. it will be very kind of you and mr. raeburn to find them work." lord maxwell was pleased; and with the usual unfair advantage of beauty her eyes and curving lips gave her little advance a charm infinitely beyond what any plainer woman could have commanded. "oh, don't thank me!" he said cheerily. "thank aldous. he does all that kind of thing. and if in your good works you want any help we can give, ask it, my dear young lady. my old comrade's grand-daughter will always find friends in this house." lord maxwell would have been very much astonished to hear himself making this speech six weeks before. as it was, he handed her over gallantly to aldous, and stood on the steps looking after them in a stir of mind not unnoted by the confidential butler who held the door open behind him. would aldous insist on carrying his wife off to the dower house on the other side of the estate? or would they be content to stay in the old place with the old people? and if so, how were that girl and his sister to get on? as for himself, he was of a naturally optimist temper, and ever since the night of his first interview with aldous on the subject, he had been more and more inclining to take a cheerful view. he liked to see a young creature of such evident character and cleverness holding opinions and lines of her own. it was infinitely better than mere nonentity. of course, she was now extravagant and foolish, perhaps vain too. but that would mend with time--mend, above all, with her position as aldous's wife. aldous was a strong man--how strong, lord maxwell suspected that this impetuous young lady hardly knew. no, he thought the family might be trusted to cope with her when once they got her among them. and she would certainly be an ornament to the old house. her father of course was, and would be, the real difficulty, and the blight which had descended on the once honoured name. but a man so conscious of many kinds of power as lord maxwell could not feel much doubt as to his own and his grandson's competence to keep so poor a specimen of humanity as richard boyce in his place. how wretchedly ill, how feeble, both in body and soul, the fellow had looked when he and winterbourne met him! the white-haired owner of the court walked back slowly to his library, his hands in his pockets, his head bent in cogitation. impossible to settle to the various important political letters lying on his table, and bearing all of them on that approaching crisis in the spring which must put lord maxwell and his friends in power. he was over seventy, but his old blood quickened within him as he thought of those two on this golden afternoon, among the beech woods. how late aldous had left all these experiences! his grandfather, by twenty, could have shown him the way. * * * * * meanwhile the two in question were walking along the edge of the hill rampart overlooking the plain, with the road on one side of them, and the falling beech woods on the other. they were on a woodland path, just within the trees, sheltered, and to all intents and purposes alone. the maid, with leisurely discretion, was following far behind them on the high road. marcella, who felt at moments as though she could hardly breathe, by reason of a certain tumult of nerve, was yet apparently bent on maintaining a conversation without breaks. as they diverged from the road into the wood-path, she plunged into the subject of her companion's election prospects. how many meetings did he find that he must hold in the month? what places did he regard as his principal strongholds? she was told that certain villages, which she named, were certain to go radical, whatever might be the tory promises. as to a well-known conservative league, which was very strong in the country, and to which all the great ladies, including lady winterbourne, belonged, was he actually going to demean himself by accepting its support? how was it possible to defend the bribery, buns, and beer by which it won its corrupting way? altogether, a quick fire of questions, remarks, and sallies, which aldous met and parried as best he might, comforting himself all the time by thought of those deeper and lonelier parts of the wood which lay before them. at last she dropped out, half laughing, half defiant, words which arrested him,-- "well, i shall know what the other side think of their prospects very soon. mr. wharton is coming to lunch with us to-morrow." "harry wharton!" he said astonished. "but mr. boyce is not supporting him. your father, i think, is conservative?" one of dick boyce's first acts as owner of mellor, when social rehabilitation had still looked probable to him, had been to send a contribution to the funds of the league aforesaid, so that aldous had public and conspicuous grounds for his remark. "need one measure everything by politics?" she asked him a little disdainfully. "mayn't one even feed a radical?" he winced visibly a moment, touched in his philosopher's pride. "you remind me," he said, laughing and reddening--"and justly--that an election perverts all one's standards and besmirches all one's morals. then i suppose mr. wharton is an old friend?" "papa never saw him before last week," she said carelessly. "now he talks of asking him to stay some time, and says that, although he won't vote for him, he hopes that he will make a good fight." raeburn's brow contracted in a puzzled frown. "he will make an excellent fight," he said rather shortly. "dodgson hardly hopes to get in. harry wharton is a most taking speaker, a very clever fellow, and sticks at nothing in the way of promises. ah, you will find him interesting, miss boyce! he has a co-operative farm on his lincolnshire property. last year he started a labour paper--which i believe you read. i have heard you quote it. he believes in all that you hope for--great increase in local government and communal control--the land for the people--graduated income-tax--the extinction of landlord and capitalist as soon as may be--_e tutti quanti_. he talks with great eloquence and ability. in our villages i find he is making way every week. the people think his manners perfect. ''ee 'as a way wi' un,' said an old labourer to me last week. 'if 'ee wor to coe the wild birds, i do believe, muster raeburn, they'd coom to un!'" "yet you dislike him!" said marcella, a daring smile dancing on the dark face she turned to him. "one can hear it in every word you say." he hesitated, trying, even at the moment that an impulse of jealous alarm which astonished himself had taken possession of him, to find the moderate and measured phrase. "i have known him from a boy," he said. "he is a connection of the levens, and used to be always there in old days. he is very brilliant and very gifted--" "your 'but' must be very bad," she threw in, "it is so long in coming." "then i will say, whatever opening it gives you," he replied with spirit, "that i admire him without respecting him." "who ever thought otherwise of a clever opponent?" she cried. "it is the stock formula." the remark stung, all the more because aldous was perfectly conscious that there was much truth in her implied charge of prejudice. he had never been very capable of seeing this particular man in the dry light of reason, and was certainly less so than before, since it had been revealed to him that wharton and mr. boyce's daughter were to be brought, before long, into close neighbourhood. "i am sorry that i seem to you such a pharisee," he said, turning upon her a look which had both pain and excitement in it. she was silent, and they walked on a few yards without speaking. the wood had thickened around them: the high road was no longer visible. no sound of wheels or footsteps reached them. the sun struck freely through the beech-trees, already half bared, whitening the grey trunks at intervals to an arrowy distinctness and majesty, or kindling the slopes of red and freshly fallen leaves below into great patches of light and flame. through the stems, as always, the girdling blues of the plain, and in their faces a gay and buoyant breeze, speaking rather of spring than autumn. robins, "yellow autumn's nightingales," sang in the hedge to their right. in the pause between them, sun, wind, birds made their charm felt. nature, perpetual chorus as she is to man, stole in, urging, wooing, defining. aldous's heart leapt to the spur of a sudden resolve. instinctively she turned to him at the same moment as he to her, and seeing his look she paled a little. "do you guess at all why it hurts me to jar with you?" he said--finding his words in a rush, he did not know how--"why every syllable of yours matters to me? it is because i have hopes--dreams--which have become my life! if you could accept this--this--feeling--this devotion--which has grown up in me--if you could trust yourself to me--you should have no cause, i think--ever--to think me hard or narrow towards any person, any enthusiasm for which you had sympathy. may i say to you all that is in my mind--or--or--am i presuming?" she looked away from him, crimson again. a great wave of exultation--boundless, intoxicating--swept through her. then it was checked by a nobler feeling--a quick, penitent sense of his nobleness. "you don't know me," she said hurriedly: "you think you do. but i am all odds and ends. i should annoy--wound--disappoint you." his quiet grey eyes flamed. "come and sit down here, on these dry roots," he said, taking already joyous command of her. "we shall be undisturbed. i have so much to say!" she obeyed trembling. she felt no passion, but the strong thrill of something momentous and irreparable, together with a swelling pride--pride in such homage from such a man. he led her a few steps down the slope, found a place for her against a sheltering trunk, and threw himself down beside her. as he looked up at the picture she made amid the autumn branches, at her bent head, her shy moved look, her white hand lying ungloved on her black dress, happiness overcame him. he took her hand, found she did not resist, drew it to him, and clasping it in both his, bent his brow, his lips upon it. it shook in his hold, but she was passive. the mixture of emotion and self-control she showed touched him deeply. in his chivalrous modesty he asked for nothing else, dreamt of nothing more. half an hour later they were still in the same spot. there had been much talk between them, most of it earnest, but some of it quite gay, broken especially by her smiles. her teasing mood, however, had passed away. she was instead composed and dignified, like one conscious that life had opened before her to great issues. yet she had flinched often before that quiet tone of eager joy in which he had described his first impressions of her, his surprise at finding in her ideals, revolts, passions, quite unknown to him, so far, in the women of his own class. naturally he suppressed, perhaps he had even forgotten, the critical amusement and irritation she had often excited in him. he remembered, he spoke only of sympathy, delight, pleasure--of his sense, as it were, of slaking some long-felt moral thirst at the well of her fresh feeling. so she had attracted him first,--by a certain strangeness and daring--by what she _said_-- "now--and above all by what you _are_!" he broke out suddenly, moved out of his even speech. "oh! it is too much to believe--to dream of! put your hand in mine, and say again that it is really _true_ that we two are to go forward together--that you will be always there to inspire--to help--" and as she gave him the hand, she must also let him--in this first tremor of a pure passion--take the kiss which was now his by right. that she should flush and draw away from him as she did, seemed to him the most natural thing in the world, and the most maidenly. then, as their talk wandered on, bit by bit, he gave her all his confidence, and she had felt herself honoured in receiving it. she understood now at least something--a first fraction--of that inner life, masked so well beneath his quiet english capacity and unassuming manner. he had spoken of his cambridge years, of his friend, of the desire of his heart to make his landowner's power and position contribute something towards that new and better social order, which he too, like hallin--though more faintly and intermittently--believed to be approaching. the difficulties of any really new departure were tremendous; he saw them more plainly and more anxiously than hallin. yet he believed that he had thought his way to some effective reform on his grandfather's large estate, and to some useful work as one of a group of like-minded men in parliament. she must have often thought him careless and apathetic towards his great trust. but he was not so--not careless--but paralysed often by intellectual difficulty, by the claims of conflicting truths. she, too, explained herself most freely, most frankly. she would have nothing on her conscience. "they will say, of course," she said with sudden nervous abruptness, "that i am marrying you for wealth and position. and in a sense i shall be. no! don't stop me! i should not marry you if--if--i did not like you. but you can give me--you have--great opportunities. i tell you frankly, i shall enjoy them and use them. oh! do think well before you do it. i shall _never_ be a meek, dependent wife. a woman, to my mind, is bound to cherish her own individuality sacredly, married or not married. have you thought that i may often think it right to do things you disagree with, that may scandalise your relations?" "you shall be free," he said steadily. "i have thought of it all." "then there is my father," she said, turning her head away. "he is ill--he wants pity, affection. i will accept no bond that forces me to disown him." "pity and affection are to me the most sacred things in the world," he said, kissing her hand gently. "be content--be at rest--my beautiful lady!" there was again silence, full of thought on her side, of heavenly happiness on his. the sun had sunk almost to the verge of the plain, the wind had freshened. "we _must_ go home," she said, springing up. "taylor must have got there an hour ago. mother will be anxious, and i must--i must tell them." "i will leave you at the gate," he suggested as they walked briskly; "and you will ask your father, will you not, if i may see him to-night after dinner?" the trees thinned again in front of them, and the path curved inward to the front. suddenly a man, walking on the road, diverged into the path and came towards them. he was swinging a stick and humming. his head was uncovered, and his light chestnut curls were blown about his forehead by the wind. marcella, looking up at the sound of the steps, had a sudden impression of something young and radiant, and aldous stopped with an exclamation. the new-comer perceived them, and at sight of aldous smiled, and approached, holding out his hand. "why, raeburn, i seem to have missed you twenty times a day this last fortnight. we have been always on each other's tracks without meeting. yet i think, if we had met, we could have kept our tempers." "miss boyce, i think you do not know mr. wharton," said aldous, stiffly. "may i introduce you?" the young man's blue eyes, all alert and curious at the mention of marcella's name, ran over the girl's face and form. then he bowed with a certain charming exaggeration--like an eighteenth-century beau with his hand upon his heart--and turned back with them a step or two towards the road. book ii. "a woman has enough to govern wisely her own demeanours, passions and divisions." chapter i. on a certain night in the december following the engagement of marcella boyce to aldous raeburn, the woods and fields of mellor, and all the bare rampart of chalk down which divides the buckinghamshire plain from the forest upland of the chilterns lay steeped in moonlight, and in the silence which belongs to intense frost. winter had set in before the leaf had fallen from the last oaks; already there had been a fortnight or more of severe cold, with hardly any snow. the pastures were delicately white; the ditches and the wet furrows in the ploughed land, the ponds on mellor common, and the stagnant pool in the midst of the village, whence it drew its main water supply, were frozen hard. but the ploughed chalk land itself lay a dull grey beside the glitter of the pastures, and the woods under the bright sun of the days dropped their rime only to pass once more with the deadly cold of the night under the fantastic empire of the frost. every day the veil of morning mist rose lightly from the woods, uncurtaining the wintry spectacle, and melting into the brilliant azure of an unflecked sky; every night the moon rose without a breath of wind, without a cloud; and all the branch-work of the trees, where they stood in the open fields, lay reflected clean and sharp on the whitened ground. the bitter cold stole into the cottages, marking the old and feeble with the touch of azrael; while without, in the field solitudes, bird and beast cowered benumbed and starving in hole and roosting place. how still it was--this midnight--on the fringe of the woods! two men sitting concealed among some bushes at the edge of mr. boyce's largest cover, and bent upon a common errand, hardly spoke to each other, so strange and oppressive was the silence. one was jim hurd; the other was a labourer, a son of old patton of the almshouses, himself a man of nearly sixty, with a small wizened face showing sharp and white to-night under his slouched hat. they looked out over a shallow cup of treeless land to a further bound of wooded hill, ending towards the north in a bare bluff of down shining steep under the moon. they were in shadow, and so was most of the wide dip of land before them; but through a gap to their right, beyond the wood, the moonbeams poured, and the farms nestling under the opposite ridge, the plantations ranging along it, and the bald beacon hill in which it broke to the plain, were all in radiant light. not a stir of life anywhere. hurd put up his hand to his ear, and leaning forward listened intently. suddenly--a vibration, a dull thumping sound in the soil of the bank immediately beside him. he started, dropped his hand, and, stooping, laid his ear to the ground. "gi' us the bag," he said to his companion, drawing himself upright. "you can hear 'em turnin' and creepin' as plain as anything. now then, you take these and go t' other side." he handed over a bundle of rabbit nets. patton, crawling on hands and knees, climbed over the low overgrown bank on which the hedge stood into the precincts of the wood itself. the state of the hedge, leaving the cover practically open and defenceless along its whole boundary, showed plainly enough that it belonged to the mellor estate. but the field beyond was lord maxwell's. hurd applied himself to netting the holes on his own side, pushing the brambles and undergrowth aside with the sure hand of one who had already reconnoitred the ground. then he crept over to patton to see that all was right on the other side, came back, and went for the ferrets, of whom he had four in a closely tied bag. a quarter of an hour of intense excitement followed. in all, five rabbits bolted--three on hurd's side, two on patton's. it was all the two men could do to secure their prey, manage the ferrets, and keep a watch on the holes. hurd's great hands--now fixing the pegs that held the nets, now dealing death to the entangled rabbit, whose neck he broke in an instant by a turn of the thumb, now winding up the line that held the ferret--seemed to be everywhere. at last a ferret "laid up," the string attached to him having either slipped or broken, greatly to the disgust of the men, who did not want to be driven either to dig, which made a noise and took time, or to lose their animal. the rabbits made no more sign, and it was tolerably evident that they had got as much as they were likely to get out of that particular "bury." hurd thrust his arm deep into the hole where he had put the ferret. "ther's summat in the way," he declared at last. "mos' likely a dead un. gi' me the spade." he dug away the mouth of the hole, making as little noise as possible, and tried again. "'ere ee be," he cried, clutching at something, drew it out, exclaimed in disgust, flung it away, and pounced upon a rabbit which on the removal of the obstacle followed like a flash, pursued by the lost ferret. hurd caught the rabbit by the neck, held it by main force, and killed it; then put the ferret into his pocket. "lord!" he said, wiping his brow, "they do come suddent." what he had pulled out was a dead cat; a wretched puss, who on some happy hunt had got itself wedged in the hole, and so perished there miserably. he and patton stooped over it wondering; then hurd walked some paces along the bank, looking warily out to the right of him across the open country all the time. he threw the poor malodorous thing far into the wood and returned. the two men lit their pipes under the shelter of the bushes, and rested a bit, well hidden, but able to see out through a break in the bit of thicket. "six on 'em," said hurd, looking at the stark creatures beside him. "i be too done to try another bury. i'll set a snare or two, an' be off home." patton puffed silently. he was wondering whether hurd would give him one rabbit or two. hurd had both "plant" and skill, and patton would have been glad enough to come for one. still he was a plaintive man with a perpetual grievance, and had already made up his mind that hurd would treat him shabbily to-night, in spite of many past demonstrations that his companion was on the whole of a liberal disposition. "you bin out workin' a day's work already, han't yer?" he said presently. he himself was out of work, like half the village, and had been presented by his wife with boiled swede for supper. but he knew that hurd had been taken on at the works at the court, where the new drive was being made, and a piece of ornamental water enlarged and improved--mainly for the sake of giving employment in bad times. he, patton, and some of his mates, had tried to get a job there. but the steward had turned them back. the men off the estate had first claim, and there was not room for all of them. yet hurd had been taken on, which had set people talking. hurd nodded, and said nothing. he was not disposed to be communicative on the subject of his employment at the court. "an' it be true as _she_ be goin' to marry muster raeburn?" patton jerked his head towards the right, where above a sloping hedge the chimneys of mellor and the tops of the mellor cedars, some two or three fields away, showed distinct against the deep night blue. hurd nodded again, and smoked diligently. patton, nettled by this parsimony of speech, made the inward comment that his companion was "a deep un." the village was perfectly aware of the particular friendship shown by miss boyce to the hurds. he was goaded into trying a more stinging topic. "westall wor braggin' last night at bradsell's"--(bradsell was the landlord of "the green man" at mellor)--"ee said as how they'd taken you on at the court--but that didn't prevent 'em knowin' as you was a bad lot. ee said _ee_ 'ad 'is eye on yer--ee 'ad warned yer twoice last year--" "that's a lie!" said hurd, removing his pipe an instant and putting it back again. patton looked more cheerful. "well, ee spoke cru'l. ee was certain, ee said, as you could tell a thing or two about them coverts at tudley end, if the treuth were known. you wor allus a loafer, an' a loafer you'd be. yer might go snivellin' to miss boyce, ee said, but yer wouldn't do no honest work--ee said--not if yer could help it--that's what ee said." "devil!" said hurd between his teeth, with a quick lift of all his great misshapen chest. he took his pipe out of his mouth, rammed it down fiercely with his thumb, and put it in his pocket. "look out!" exclaimed patton with a start. a whistle!--clear and distinct--from the opposite side of the hollow. then a man's figure, black and motionless an instant on the whitened down, with a black speck beside it; lastly, another figure higher up along the hill, in quick motion towards the first, with other specks behind it. the poachers instantly understood that it was westall--whose particular beat lay in this part of the estate--signalling to his night watcher, charlie dynes, and that the two men would be on them in no time. it was the work of a few seconds to efface as far as possible the traces of their raid, to drag some thick and trailing brambles which hung near over the mouth of the hole where there had been digging, to catch up the ferrets and game, and to bid hurd's lurcher to come to heel. the two men crawled up the ditch with their burdens as far away to leeward as they could get from the track by which the keepers would cross the field. the ditch was deeply overgrown, and when the approaching voices warned them to lie close, they crouched under a dense thicket of brambles and overhanging bushes, afraid of nothing but the noses of the keepers' dogs. dogs and men, however, passed unsuspecting. "hold still!" said hurd, checking patton's first attempt to move. "he'll be back again mos' like. it's 'is dodge." and sure enough in twenty minutes or so the men reappeared. they retraced their steps from the further corner of the field, where some preserves of lord maxwell's approached very closely to the big mellor wood, and came back again along the diagonal path within fifty yards or so of the men in the ditch. in the stillness the poachers could hear westall's harsh and peremptory voice giving some orders to his underling, or calling to the dogs, who had scattered a little in the stubble. hurd's own dog quivered beside him once or twice. then steps and voices faded into the distance and all was safe. the poachers crept out grinning, and watched the keepers' progress along the hill-face, till they disappeared into the maxwell woods. "_ee_ be sold again--blast 'im!" said hurd, with a note of quite disproportionate exultation in his queer, cracked voice. "now i'll set them snares. but you'd better git home." patton took the hint, gave a grunt of thanks as his companion handed him two rabbits, which he stowed away in the capacious pockets of his poacher's coat, and slouched off home by as sheltered and roundabout a way as possible. hurd, left to himself, stowed his nets and other apparatus in a hidden crevice of the bank, and strolled along to set his snares in three hare-runs, well known to him, round the further side of the wood. then he waited impatiently for the striking of the clock in mellor church. the cold was bitter, but his night's work was not over yet, and he had had very good reasons for getting rid of patton. almost immediately the bell rang out, the echo rolling round the bend of the hills in the frosty silence. half-past twelve hurd scrambled over the ditch, pushed his way through the dilapidated hedge, and began to climb the ascent of the wood. the outskirts of it were filled with a thin mixed growth of sapling and underwood, but the high centre of it was crowned by a grove of full-grown beeches, through which the moon, now at its height, was playing freely, as hurd clambered upwards amid the dead leaves just freshly strewn, as though in yearly festival, about their polished trunks. such infinite grace and strength in the line work of the branches!--branches not bent into gnarled and unexpected fantasies, like those of the oak, but gathered into every conceivable harmony of upward curve and sweep, rising all together, black against the silvery light, each tree related to and completing its neighbour, as though the whole wood, so finely rounded on itself and to the hill, were but one majestic conception of a master artist. but hurd saw nothing of this as he plunged through the leaves. he was thinking that it was extremely likely a man would be on the look-out for him to-night under the big beeches--a man with some business to propose to him. a few words dropped in his ear at a certain public-house the night before had seemed to him to mean this, and he had accordingly sent patton out of the way. but when he got to the top of the hill no one was to be seen or heard, and he sat him down on a fallen log to smoke and wait awhile. he had no sooner, however, taken his seat than he shifted it uneasily, turning himself round so as to look in the other direction. for in front of him, as he was first placed, there was a gap in the trees, and over the lower wood, plainly visible and challenging attention, rose the dark mass of mellor house. and the sight of mellor suggested reflections just now that were not particularly agreeable to jim hurd. he had just been poaching mr. boyce's rabbits without any sort of scruple. but the thought of _miss_ boyce was not pleasant to him when he was out on these nightly raids. why had she meddled? he bore her a queer sort of grudge for it. he had just settled down to the bit of cobbling which, together with his wife's plait, served him for a blind, and was full of a secret excitement as to various plans he had in hand for "doing" westall, combining a maximum of gain for the winter with a maximum of safety, when miss boyce walked in, radiant with the news that there was employment for him at the court, on the new works, whenever he liked to go and ask for it. and then she had given him an odd look. "and i was to pass you on a message from lord maxwell, hurd," she had said: "'you tell him to keep out of westall's way for the future, and bygones shall be bygones.' now, i'm not going to ask what that means. if you've been breaking some of our landlords' law, i'm not going to say i'm shocked. i'd alter the law to-morrow, if i could!--you know i would. but i do say you're a fool if you go on with it, now you've got good work for the winter; you must please remember your wife and children." and there he had sat like a log, staring at her--both he and minta not knowing where to look, or how to speak. then at last his wife had broken out, crying: "oh, miss! we should ha starved--" and miss boyce had stopped her in a moment, catching her by the hand. didn't she know it? was she there to preach to them? only hurd must promise not to do it any more, for his wife's sake. and he--stammering--left without excuse or resource, either against her charge, or the work she offered him--had promised her, and promised her, moreover--in his trepidation--with more fervency than he at all liked to remember. for about a fortnight, perhaps, he had gone to the court by day, and had kept indoors by night. then, just as the vagabond passions, the celtic instincts, so long repressed, so lately roused, were goading at him again, he met westall in the road--westall, who looked him over from top to toe with an insolent smile, as much as to say, "well, my man, we've got the whip hand of you now!" that same night he crept out again in the dark and the early morning, in spite of all minta's tears and scolding. well, what matter? as towards the rich and the law, he had the morals of the slave, who does not feel that he has had any part in making the rules he is expected to keep, and breaks them when he can with glee. it made him uncomfortable, certainly, that miss boyce should come in and out of their place as she did, should be teaching willie to read, and bringing her old dresses to make up for daisy and nellie, while he was making a fool of her in this way. still he took it all as it came. one sensation wiped out another. besides, miss boyce had, after all, much part in this double life of his. whenever he was at home, sitting over the fire with a pipe, he read those papers and things she had brought him in the summer. he had not taken much notice of them at first. now he spelled them out again and again. he had always thought "them rich people took advantage of yer." but he had never supposed, somehow, they were such thieves, such mean thieves, as it appeared, they were. a curious ferment filled his restless, inconsequent brain. the poor were downtrodden, but they were coming to their rights. the land and its creatures were for the people! not for the idle rich. above all, westall was a devil, and must be put down. for the rest, if he could have given words to experience, he would have said that since he began to go out poaching he had burst his prison and found himself. a life which was not merely endurance pulsed in him. the scent of the night woods, the keenness of the night air, the tracks and ways of the wild creatures, the wiles by which he slew them, the talents and charms of his dog bruno--these things had developed in him new aptitudes both of mind and body, which were in themselves exhilaration. he carried his dwarf's frame more erect, breathed from an ampler chest. as for his work at the court, he thought of it often with impatience and disgust. it was a more useful blind than his cobbling, or he would have shammed illness and got quit of it. "them were sharp uns that managed that business at tudley end!" he fell thinking about it and chuckling over it as he smoked. two of westall's best coverts swept almost clear just before the big shoot in november!--and all done so quick and quiet, before you could say "jack robinson." well, there was plenty more yet, more woods, and more birds. there were those coverts down there, on the mellor side of the hollow--they had been kept for the last shoot in january. hang him! why wasn't that fellow up to time? but no one came, and he must sit on, shivering and smoking, a sack across his shoulders. as the stir of nerve and blood caused by the ferreting subsided, his spirits began to sink. mists of celtic melancholy, perhaps of celtic superstition, gained upon him. he found himself glancing from side to side, troubled by the noises in the wood. a sad light wind crept about the trunks like a whisper; the owls called overhead; sometimes there was a sudden sharp rustle or fall of a branch that startled him. yet he knew every track, every tree in that wood. up and down that field outside he had followed his father at the plough, a little sickly object of a lad, yet seldom unhappy, so long as childhood lasted, and his mother's temper could be fled from, either at school or in the fields. under that boundary hedge to the right he had lain stunned and bleeding all a summer afternoon, after old westall had thrashed him, his heart scorched within him by the sense of wrong and the craving for revenge. on that dim path leading down the slope of the wood, george westall had once knocked him down for disturbing a sitting pheasant. he could see himself falling--the tall, powerful lad standing over him with a grin. then, inconsequently, he began to think of his father's death. he made a good end did the old man. "jim, my lad, the lord's verra merciful," or "jim, you'll look after ann." ann was the only daughter. then a sigh or two, and a bit of sleep, and it was done. and everybody must go the same way, must come to the same stopping of the breath, the same awfulness--in a life of blind habit--of a moment that never had been before and never could be again? he did not put it to these words, but the shudder that is in the thought for all of us, seized him. he was very apt to think of dying, to ponder in his secret heart _how_ it would be, and when. and always it made him very soft towards minta and the children. not only did the _life_ instinct cling to them, to the warm human hands and faces hemming him in and protecting him from that darkness beyond with its shapes of terror. but to think of himself as sick, and gasping to his end, like his father, was to put himself back in his old relation to his wife, when they were first married. he might cross minta now, but if he came to lie sick, he could see himself there, in the future, following her about with his eyes, and thanking her, and doing all she told him, just as he'd used to do. he couldn't die without her to help him through. the very idea of her being taken first, roused in him a kind of spasm--a fierceness, a clenching of the hands. but all the same, in this poaching matter, he must have, his way, and she must just get used to it. ah! a low whistle from the further side of the wood. he replied, and was almost instantly joined by a tall slouching youth, by day a blacksmith's apprentice at gairsley, the maxwells' village, who had often brought him information before. the two sat talking for ten minutes or so on the log. then they parted; hurd went back to the ditch where he had left the game, put two rabbits into his pockets, left the other two to be removed in the morning when he came to look at his snares, and went off home, keeping as much as possible in the shelter of the hedges. on one occasion he braved the moonlight and the open field, rather than pass through a woody corner where an old farmer had been found dead some six years before. then he reached a deep lane leading to the village, and was soon at his own door. as he climbed the wooden ladder leading to the one bedroom where he, his wife, and his four children slept, his wife sprang up in bed. "jim, you must be perished--such a night as 't is. oh, jim--where ha' you bin?" she was a miserable figure in her coarse nightgown, with her grizzling hair wild about her, and her thin arms nervously outstretched along the bed. the room was freezing cold, and the moonlight stealing through the scanty bits of curtains brought into dismal clearness the squalid bed, the stained walls, and bare uneven floor. on an iron bedstead, at the foot of the large bed, lay willie, restless and coughing, with the elder girl beside him fast asleep; the other girl lay beside her mother, and the wooden box with rockers, which held the baby, stood within reach of mrs. hurd's arm. he made her no answer, but went to look at the coughing boy, who had been in bed for a week with bronchitis. "you've never been and got in westall's way again?" she said anxiously. "it's no good my tryin' to get a wink o' sleep when you're out like this." "don't you worrit yourself," he said to her, not roughly, but decidedly. "i'm all right. this boy's bad, minta." "yes, an' i kep' up the fire an' put the spout on the kettle, too." she pointed to the grate and to the thin line of steam, which was doing its powerless best against the arctic cold of the room. hurd bent over the boy and tried to put him comfortable. the child, weak and feverish, only began to cry--a hoarse bronchial crying, which threatened to wake the baby. he could not be stopped, so hurd made haste to take off his own coat and boots, and then lifted the poor soul in his arms. "you'll be quiet, will, and go sleep, won't yer, if daddy takes keer on you?" he wrapped his own coat round the little fellow, and lying down beside his wife, took him on his arm and drew the thin brown blankets over himself and his charge. he himself was warm with exercise, and in a little while the huddling creatures on either side of him were warm too. the quick, panting breath of the boy soon showed that he was asleep. his father, too, sank almost instantly into deep gulfs of sleep. only the wife--nervous, overdone, and possessed by a thousand fears--lay tossing and wakeful hour after hour, while the still glory of the winter night passed by. chapter ii. "well, marcella, have you and lady winterbourne arranged your classes?" mrs. boyce was stooping over a piece of needlework beside a window in the mellor drawing-room, trying to catch the rapidly failing light. it was one of the last days of december. marcella had just come in from the village rather early, for they were expecting a visitor to arrive about tea time, and had thrown herself, tired, into a chair near her mother. "we have got about ten or eleven of the younger women to join; none of the old ones will come," said marcella. "lady winterbourne has heard of a capital teacher from dunstable, and we hope to get started next week. there is money enough to pay wages for three months." in spite of her fatigue, her eye was bright and restless. the energy of thought and action from which she had just emerged still breathed from every limb and feature. "where have you got the money?" "mr. raeburn has managed it," said marcella, briefly. mrs. boyce gave a slight shrug of the shoulders. "and afterwards--what is to become of your product?" "there is a london shop lady winterbourne knows will take what we make if it turns out well. of course, we don't expect to pay our way." marcella gave her explanations with a certain stiffness of self-defence. she and lady winterbourne had evolved a scheme for reviving and improving the local industry of straw-plaiting, which after years of decay seemed now on the brink of final disappearance. the village women who could at present earn a few pence a week by the coarser kinds of work were to be instructed, not only in the finer and better paid sorts, but also in the making up of the plait when done, and the "blocking" of hats and bonnets--processes hitherto carried on exclusively at one or two large local centres. "you don't expect to pay your way?" repeated mrs. boyce. "what, never?" "well, we shall give twelve to fourteen shillings a week wages. we shall find the materials, and the room--and prices are very low, the whole trade depressed." mrs. boyce laughed. "i see. how many workers do you expect to get together?" "oh! eventually, about two hundred in the three villages. it will regenerate the whole life!" said marcella, a sudden ray from the inner warmth escaping her, against her will. mrs. boyce smiled again, and turned her work so as to see it better. "does aldous understand what you are letting him in for?" marcella flushed. "perfectly. it is 'ransom'--that's all." "and he is ready to take your view of it?" "oh, he thinks us economically unsound, of course," said marcella, impatiently. "so we are. all care for the human being under the present state of things is economically unsound. but he likes it no more than i do." "well, lucky for you he has a long purse," said mrs. boyce, lightly. "but i gather, marcella, you don't insist upon his spending it _all_ on straw-plaiting. he told me yesterday he had taken the hertford street house." "we shall live quite simply," said marcella, quickly. "what, no carriage?" marcella hesitated. "a carriage saves time. and if one goes about much, it does not cost so much more than cabs." "so you mean to go about much? lady winterbourne talks to me of presenting you in may." "that's miss raeburn," cried marcella. "she says i must, and all the family would be scandalised if i didn't go. but you can't imagine--" she stopped and took off her hat, pushing the hair back from her forehead. a look of worry and excitement had replaced the radiant glow of her first resting moments. "that you like it?" said mrs. boyce, bluntly. "well, i don't know. most young women like pretty gowns, and great functions, and prominent positions. i don't call you an ascetic, marcella." marcella winced. "one has to fit oneself to circumstances," she said proudly. "one may hate the circumstances, but one can't escape them." "oh, i don't think you will hate your circumstances, my dear! you would be very foolish if you did. have you heard finally how much the settlement is to be?" "no," said marcella, shortly. "i have not asked papa, nor anybody." "it was only settled this morning. your father told me hurriedly as he went out. you are to have two thousand a year of your own." the tone was dry, and the speaker's look as she turned towards her daughter had in it a curious hostility; but marcella did not notice her mother's manner. "it is too much," she said in a low voice. she had thrown back her head against the chair in which she sat, and her half-troubled eyes were wandering over the darkening expanse of lawn and avenue. "he said he wished you to feel perfectly free to live your own life, and to follow out your own projects. oh, for a person of projects, my dear, it is not so much. you will do well to husband it. keep it for yourself. get what _you_ want out of it: not what other people want." again marcella's attention missed the note of agitation in her mother's sharp manner. a soft look--a look of compunction--passed across her face. mrs. boyce began to put her working things away, finding it too dark to do any more. "by the way," said the mother, suddenly, "i suppose you will be going over to help him in his canvassing this next few weeks? your father says the election will be certainly in february." marcella moved uneasily. "he knows," she said at last, "that i don't agree with him in so many things. he is so full of this peasant proprietors bill. and i hate peasant properties. they are nothing but a step backwards." mrs. boyce lifted her eyebrows. "that's unlucky. he tells me it is likely to be his chief work in the new parliament. isn't it, on the whole, probable that he knows more about the country than you do, marcella?" marcella sat up with sudden energy and gathered her walking things together. "it isn't knowledge that's the question, mamma; it's the principle of the thing. i mayn't know anything, but the people whom i follow know. there are the two sides of thought--the two ways of looking at things. i warned aldous when he asked me to marry him which i belonged to. and he accepted it." mrs. boyce's thin fine mouth curled a little. "so you suppose that aldous had his wits about him on that great occasion as much as you had?" marcella first started, then quivered with nervous indignation. "mother," she said, "i can't bear it. it's not the first time that you have talked as though i had taken some unfair advantage--made an unworthy bargain. it is too hard too. other people may think what they like, but that you--" her voice failed her, and the tears came into her eyes. she was tired and over-excited, and the contrast between the atmosphere of flattery and consideration which surrounded her in aldous's company, in the village, or at the winterbournes, and this tone which her mother so often took with her when they were alone, was at the moment hardly to be endured. mrs. boyce looked up more gravely. "you misunderstand me, my dear," she said quietly. "i allow myself to wonder at you a little, but i think no hard things of you ever. i believe you like aldous." "really, mamma!" cried marcella, half hysterically. mrs. boyce had by now rolled up her work and shut her workbasket. "if you are going to take off your things," she said, "please tell william that there will be six or seven at tea. you said, i think, that mr. raeburn was going to bring mr. hallin?" "yes, and frank leven is coming. when will mr. wharton be here?" "oh, in ten minutes or so, if his train is punctual. i hear your father just coming in." marcella went away, and mrs. boyce was left a few minutes alone. her thin hands lay idle a moment on her lap, and leaning towards the window beside her, she looked out an instant into the snowy twilight. her mind was full of its usual calm scorn for those--her daughter included--who supposed that the human lot was to be mended by a rise in weekly wages, or that suffering has any necessary dependence on the amount of commodities of which a man disposes. what hardship is there in starving and scrubbing and toiling? had she ever seen a labourer's wife scrubbing her cottage floor without envy, without moral thirst? is it these things that kill, or any of the great simple griefs and burdens? doth man live by bread alone? the whole language of social and charitable enthusiasm often raised in her a kind of exasperation. so marcella would be rich, excessively rich, even now. outside the amount settled upon her, the figures of aldous raeburn's present income, irrespective of the inheritance which would come to him on his grandfather's death, were a good deal beyond what even mr. boyce--upon whom the daily spectacle of the maxwell wealth exercised a certain angering effect--had supposed. mrs. boyce had received the news of the engagement with astonishment, but her after-acceptance of the situation had been marked by all her usual philosophy. probably behind the philosophy there was much secret relief. marcella was provided for. not the fondest or most contriving mother could have done more for her than she had at one stroke done for herself. during the early autumn mrs. boyce had experienced some moments of sharp prevision as to what her future relations might be towards this strong and restless daughter, so determined to conquer a world her mother had renounced. now all was clear, and a very shrewd observer could allow her mind to play freely with the ironies of the situation. as to aldous raeburn, she had barely spoken to him before the day when marcella announced the engagement, and the lover a few hours later had claimed her daughter at the mother's hands with an emotion to which mrs. boyce found her usual difficulty in responding. she had done her best, however, to be gracious and to mask her surprise that he should have proposed, that lord maxwell should have consented, and that marcella should have so lightly fallen a victim. one surprise, however, had to be confessed, at least to herself. after her interview with her future son-in-law, mrs. boyce realised that for the first time for fifteen years she was likely to admit a new friend. the impression made upon him by her own singular personality had translated itself in feelings and language which, against her will as it were, established an understanding, an affinity. that she had involuntarily aroused in him the profoundest and most chivalrous pity was plain to her. yet for the first time in her life she did not resent it; and marcella watched her mother's attitude with a mixture of curiosity and relief. then followed talk of an early wedding, communications from lord maxwell to mr. boyce of a civil and formal kind, a good deal more notice from the "county," and finally this definite statement from aldous raeburn as to the settlement he proposed to make upon his wife, and the joint income which he and she would have immediately at their disposal. under all these growing and palpable evidences of marcella's future wealth and position, mrs. boyce had shown her usual restless and ironic spirit. but of late, and especially to-day, restlessness had become oppression. while marcella was so speedily to become the rich and independent woman, they themselves, marcella's mother and father, were very poor, in difficulties even, and likely to remain so. she gathered from her husband's grumbling that the provision of a suitable trousseau for marcella would tax his resources to their utmost. how long would it be before they were dipping in marcella's purse? mrs. boyce's self-tormenting soul was possessed by one of those nightmares her pride had brought upon her in grim succession during these fifteen years. and this pride, strong towards all the world, was nowhere so strong or so indomitable, at this moment, as towards her own daughter. they were practically strangers to each other; and they jarred. to inquire where the fault lay would have seemed to mrs. boyce futile. * * * * * darkness had come on fast, and mrs. boyce was in the act of ringing for lights when her husband entered. "where's marcella?" he asked as he threw himself into a chair with the air of irritable fatigue which was now habitual to him. "only gone to take off her things and tell william about tea. she will be down directly." "does she know about that settlement?" "yes, i told her. she thought it generous, but not--i think--unsuitable. the world cannot be reformed on nothing." "reformed!--fiddlesticks!" said mr. boyce, angrily. "i never saw a girl with a head so full of nonsense in my life. where does she get it from? why did you let her go about in london with those people? she may be spoilt for good. ten to one she'll make a laughing stock of herself and everybody belonging to her, before she's done." "well, that is mr. raeburn's affair. i think i should take him into account more than marcella does, if i were she. but probably she knows best." "of course she does. he has lost his head; any one can see that. while she is in the room, he is like a man possessed. it doesn't sit well on that kind of fellow. it makes him ridiculous. i told him half the settlement would be ample. she would only spend the rest on nonsense." "you told him that?" "yes, i did. oh!"--with an angry look at her--"i suppose you thought i should want to sponge upon her? i am as much obliged to you as usual!" a red spot rose in his wife's thin cheek. but she turned and answered him gently, so gently that he had the rare sensation of having triumphed over her. he allowed himself to be mollified, and she stood there over the fire, chatting with him for some time, a friendly natural note in her voice which was rare and, insensibly, soothed him like an opiate. she chatted about marcella's trousseau gowns, detailing her own contrivances for economy; about the probable day of the wedding, the latest gossip of the election, and so on. he sat shading his eyes from the firelight, and now and then throwing in a word or two. the inmost soul of him was very piteous, harrowed often by a new dread--the dread of dying. the woman beside him held him in the hollow of her hand. in the long wrestle between her nature and his, she had conquered. his fear of her and his need of her had even come to supply the place of a dozen ethical instincts he was naturally without. some discomfort, probably physical, seemed at last to break up his moment of rest. "well, i tell you, i often wish it were the other man," he said, with some impatience. "raeburn 's so d----d superior. i suppose i offended him by what i said of marcella's whims, and the risk of letting her control so much money at her age, and with her ideas. you never saw such an air!--all very quiet, of course. he buttoned his coat and got up to go, as though i were no more worth considering than the table. neither he nor his precious grandfather need alarm themselves: i shan't trouble them as a visitor. if i shock them, they bore me--so we're quits. marcella'll have to come here if she wants to see her father. but owing to your charming system of keeping her away from us all her childhood, she's not likely to want." "you mean mr. wharton by the other man?" said mrs. boyce, not defending herself or aldous. "yes, of course. but he came on the scene just too late, worse luck! why wouldn't he have done just as well? he's as mad as she--madder. he believes all the rubbish she does--talks such _rot_, the people tell me, in his meetings. but then he's good company--he amuses you--you don't need to be on your p's and q's with _him_. why wouldn't she have taken up with him? as far as money goes they could have rubbed along. _he's_ not the man to starve when there are game-pies going. it's just bad luck." mrs. boyce smiled a little. "what there is to make you suppose that she would have inclined to him, i don't exactly see. she has been taken up with mr. raeburn, really, from the first week of her arrival here." "well, i dare say--there was no one else," said her husband, testily. "that's natural enough. it's just what i say. all i know is, wharton shall be free to use this house just as he pleases during his canvassing, whatever the raeburns may say." he bent forward and poked the somewhat sluggish fire with a violence which hindered rather than helped it. mrs. boyce's smile had quite vanished. she perfectly understood all that was implied, whether in his instinctive dislike of aldous raeburn, or in his cordiality towards young wharton. after a minute's silence, he got up again and left the room, walking, as she observed, with difficulty. she stopped a minute or so in the same place after he had gone, turning her rings absently on her thin fingers. she was thinking of some remarks which dr. clarke, the excellent and experienced local doctor, had made to her on the occasion of his last visit. with all the force of her strong will she had set herself to disbelieve them. but they had had subtle effects already. finally she too went upstairs, bidding marcella, whom she met coming down, hurry william with the tea, as mr. wharton might arrive any moment. * * * * * marcella saw the room shut up--the large, shabby, beautiful room--the lamps brought in, fresh wood thrown on the fire to make it blaze, and the tea-table set out. then she sat herself down on a low chair by the fire, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and her hands clasped in front of her. her black dress revealed her fine full throat and her white wrists, for she had an impatience of restraint anywhere, and wore frills and falls of black lace where other people would have followed the fashion in high collars and close wristbands. what must have struck any one with an observant eye, as she sat thus, thrown into beautiful light and shade by the blaze of the wood fire, was the massiveness of the head compared with the nervous delicacy of much of the face, the thinness of the wrist, and of the long and slender foot raised on the fender. it was perhaps the great thickness and full wave of the hair which gave the head its breadth; but the effect was singular, and would have been heavy but for the glow of the eyes, which balanced it. she was thinking, as a _fiancée_ should, of aldous and their marriage, which had been fixed for the end of february. yet not apparently with any rapturous absorption. there was a great deal to plan, and her mind was full of business. who was to look after her various village schemes while she and lady winterbourne were away in london? mary harden had hardly brains enough, dear little thing as she was. they must find some capable woman and pay her. the cravens would tell her, of course, that she was on the high road to the most degrading of _rôles_--the _rôle_ of lady bountiful. but there were lady bountifuls and lady bountifuls. and the _rôle_ itself was inevitable. it all depended upon how it was managed--in the interest of what ideas. she must somehow renew her relations with the cravens in town. it would certainly be in her power now to help them and their projects forward a little. of course they would distrust her, but that she would get over. all the time she was listening mechanically for the hall door bell, which, however, across the distances of the great rambling house it was not easy to hear. their coming guest was not much in her mind. she tacitly assumed that her father would look after him. on the two or three occasions when they had met during the last three months, including his luncheon at mellor on the day after her engagement, her thoughts had been too full to allow her to take much notice of him--picturesque and amusing as he seemed to be. of late he had not been much in the neighbourhood. there had been a slack time for both candidates, which was now to give way to a fresh period of hard canvassing in view of the election which everybody expected at the end of february. but aldous was to bring edward hallin! that interested her. she felt an intense curiosity to see and know hallin, coupled with a certain nervousness. the impression she might be able to make on him would be in some sense an earnest of her future. suddenly, something undefinable--a slight sound, a current of air--made her turn her head. to her amazement she saw a young man in the doorway looking at her with smiling eyes, and quietly drawing off his gloves. she sprang up with a feeling of annoyance. "mr. wharton!" "oh!--must you?"--he said, with a movement of one hand, as though to stop her. "couldn't you stay like that? at first i thought there was nobody in the room. your servant is grappling with my bags, which are as the sand of the sea for multitude, so i wandered in by myself. then i saw you--and the fire--and the room. it was like a bit of music. it was mere wanton waste to interrupt it." marcella flushed, as she very stiffly shook hands with him. "i did not hear the front door," she said coldly. "my mother will be here directly. may i give you some tea?" "thanks. no, i knew you did not hear me. that delighted me. it showed what charming things there are in the world that have no spectators! what a _delicious_ place this is!--what a heavenly old place--especially in these half lights! there was a raw sun when i was here before, but now--" he stood in front of the fire, looking round the great room, and at the few small lamps making their scanty light amid the flame-lit darkness. his hands were loosely crossed behind his back, and his boyish face, in its setting of curls, shone with content and self-possession. "well," said marcella, bluntly, "i should prefer a little more light to live by. perhaps, when you have fallen downstairs here in the dark as often as i have, you may too." he laughed. "but how much better, after all--don't you think so?--to have too little of anything than too much!" he flung himself into a chair beside the tea-table, looking up with gay interrogation as marcella handed him his cup. she was a good deal surprised by him. on the few occasions of their previous meetings, these bright eyes, and this pronounced manner, had been--at any rate as towards herself--much less free and evident. she began to recover the start he had given her, and to study him with a half-unwilling curiosity. "then mellor will please you," she said drily, in answer to his remark, carrying her own tea meanwhile to a chair on the other side of the fire. "my father never bought anything--my father can't. i believe we have chairs enough to sit down upon--but we have no curtains to half the windows. can i give you anything?" for he had risen, and was looking over the tea-tray. "oh! but i _must_," he said discontentedly. "i _must_ have enough sugar in my tea!" "i gave you more than the average," she said, with a sudden little leap of laughter, as she came to his aid. "do all your principles break down like this? i was going to suggest that you might like some of that fire taken away?" and she pointed to the pile of blazing logs which now filled up the great chimney. "that fire!" he said, shivering, and moving up to it. "have you any idea what sort of a wind you keep up here on these hills on a night like this? and to think that in this weather, with a barometer that laughs in your face when you try to move it, i have three meetings to-morrow night!" "when one loves the 'people,' with a large p," said marcella, "one mustn't mind winds." he flashed a smile at her, answering to the sparkle of her look, then applied himself to his tea and toasted bun again, with the dainty deliberation of one enjoying every sip and bite. "no; but if only the people didn't live so far apart. some murderous person wanted them to have only one neck. i want them to have only one ear. only then unfortunately everybody would speak well--which would bring things round to dulness again. does mr. raeburn make you think very bad things of me, miss boyce?" he bent forward to her as he spoke, his blue eyes all candour and mirth. marcella started. "how can he?" she said abruptly. "i am not a conservative." "not a conservative?" he said joyously. "oh! but impossible! does that mean that you ever read my poor little speeches?" he pointed to the local newspaper, freshly cut, which lay on a table at marcella's elbow. "sometimes--" said marcella, embarrassed. "there is so little time." in truth she had hardly given his candidature a thought since the day aldous proposed to her. she had been far too much taken up with her own prospects, with lady winterbourne's friendship, and her village schemes. he laughed. "of course there is. when is the great event to be?" "i didn't mean that," said marcella, stiffly. "lady winterbourne and i have been trying to start some village workshops. we have been working and talking, and writing, morning, noon, and night." "oh! i know--yes, i heard of it. and you really think anything is going to come out of finicking little schemes of that sort?" his dry change of tone drew a quick look from her. the fresh-coloured face was transformed. in place of easy mirth and mischief, she read an acute and half contemptuous attention. "i don't know what you mean," she said slowly, after a pause. "or rather--i do know quite well. you told papa--didn't you?--and mr. raeburn says that you are a socialist--not half-and-half, as all the world is, but the real thing? and of course you want great changes: you don't like anything that might strengthen the upper class with the people. but that is nonsense. you can't get the changes for a long _long_ time. and, meanwhile, people must be clothed and fed and kept alive." she lay back in her high-backed chair and looked at him defiantly. his lip twitched, but he kept his gravity. "you would be much better employed in forming a branch of the agricultural union," he said decidedly. "what is the good of playing lady bountiful to a decayed industry? all that is childish; we want _the means of revolution_. the people who are for reform shouldn't waste money and time on fads." "i understand all that," she said scornfully, her quick breath rising and falling. "perhaps you don't know that i was a member of the venturist society in london? what you say doesn't sound very new to me!" his seriousness disappeared in laughter. he hastily put down his cup and, stepping over to her, held out his hand. "you a venturist? so am i. joy! won't you shake hands with me, as comrades should? we are a very mixed set of people, you know, and between ourselves i don't know that we are coming to much. but we can make an alderman dream of the guillotine--that is always something. oh! but now we can talk on quite a new footing!" she had given him her hand for an instant, withdrawing it with shy rapidity, and he had thrown himself into a chair again, with his arms behind his head, and the air of one reflecting happily on a changed situation. "quite a new footing," he repeated thoughtfully. "but it is--a little surprising. what does--what does mr. raeburn say to it?" "nothing! he cares just as much about the poor as you or i, please understand! he doesn't choose my way--but he won't interfere with it." "ah! that is like him--like aldous." marcella started. "you don't mind my calling him by his christian name sometimes? it drops out. we used to meet as boys together at the levens. the levens are my cousins. he was a big boy, and i was a little one. but he didn't like me. you see--i was a little beast!" his air of appealing candour could not have been more engaging. "yes, i fear i was a little beast. and he was, even then, and always, 'the good and beautiful.' you don't understand greek, do you, miss boyce? but he was very good to me. i got into an awful scrape once. i let out a pair of eagle owls that used to be kept in the courtyard--sir charles loved them a great deal more than his babies--i let them out at night for pure wickedness, and they came to fearful ends in the park. i was to have been sent home next day, in the most unnecessary and penal hurry. but aldous interposed--said he would look after me for the rest of the holidays." "and then you tormented him?" "oh no!" he said with gentle complacency. "oh no! i never torment anybody. but one must enjoy oneself you know; what else can one do? then afterwards, when we were older--somehow i don't know--but we didn't get on. it is very sad--i wish he thought better of me." the last words were said with a certain change of tone, and sitting up he laid the tips of his fingers together on his knees with a little plaintive air. marcella's eyes danced with amusement, but she looked away from him to the fire, and would not answer. "you don't help me out. you don't console me. it's unkind of-you. don't you think it a melancholy fate to be always admiring the people who detest you?" "don't admire them!" she said merrily. his eyebrows lifted. "_that_," he said drily, "is disloyal. i call--i call your ancestor over the mantelpiece"--he waved his hand towards a blackened portrait in front of him--"to witness, that i am all for admiring mr. raeburn, and you discourage it. well, but now--_now_"--he drew his chair eagerly towards hers, the pose of a minute before thrown to the winds--"do let us understand each other a little more before people come. you know i have a labour newspaper?" she nodded. "you read it?" "is it the _labour clarion_? i take it in." "capital!" he cried. "then i know now why i found a copy in the village here. you lent it to a man called hurd?" "i did." "whose wife worships you?--whose good angel you have been? do i know something about you, or do i not? well, now, are you satisfied with that paper? can you suggest to me means of improving it? it wants some fresh blood, i think--i must find it? i bought the thing last year, in a moribund condition, with the old staff. oh! we will certainly take counsel together about it--most certainly! but first--i have been boasting of knowing something about you--but i should like to ask--do you know anything about me?" both laughed. then marcella tried to be serious. "well--i--i believe--you have some land?" "eight!" he nodded--"i am a lincolnshire landowner. i have about five thousand acres--enough to be tolerably poor on--and enough to play tricks with. i have a co-operative farm, for instance. at present i have lent them a goodish sum of money--and remitted them their first half-year's rent. not so far a paying speculation. but it will do--some day. meanwhile the estate wants money--and my plans and i want money--badly. i propose to make the _labour clarion_ pay--if i can. that will give me more time for speaking and organising, for what concerns _us_--as venturists--than the bar." "the bar?" she said, a little mystified, but following every word with a fascinated attention. "i made myself a barrister three years ago, to please my mother. she thought i should do better in parliament--if ever i got in. did you ever hear of my mother?" there was no escaping these frank, smiling questions. "no," said marcella, honestly. "well, ask lord maxwell," he said, laughing. "he and she came across each other once or twice, when he was home secretary years ago, and she was wild about some woman's grievance or other. she always maintains that she got the better of him--no doubt he was left with a different impression. well--my mother--most people thought her mad--perhaps she was--but then somehow--i loved her!" he was still smiling, but at the last words a charming vibration crept into the words, and his eyes sought her with a young open demand for sympathy. "is that so rare?" she asked him, half laughing--instinctively defending her own feeling lest it should be snatched from her by any make-believe. "yes--as we loved each other--it is rare. my father died when i was ten. she would not send me to school, and i was always in her pocket--i shared all her interests. she was a wild woman--but she _lived_, as not one person in twenty lives." then he sighed. marcella was too shy to imitate his readiness to ask questions. but she supposed that his mother must be dead--indeed, now vaguely remembered to have heard as much. there was a little silence. "please tell me," she said suddenly, "why do you attack my straw-plaiting? is a co-operative farm any less of a stopgap?" instantly his face changed. he drew up his chair again beside her, as gay and keen-eyed as before. "i can't argue it out now. there is so much to say. but do listen! i have a meeting in the village here next week to preach land nationalisation. we mean to try and form a branch of the labourers' union. will you come?" marcella hesitated. "i think so," she said slowly. there was a pause. then she raised her eyes and found his fixed upon her. a sudden sympathy--of youth, excitement, pleasure--seemed to rise between them. she had a quick impression of lightness, grace; of an open brow set in curls; of a look more intimate, inquisitive, commanding, than any she had yet met. "may i speak to you, miss?" said a voice at the door. marcella rose hastily. her mother's maid was standing there. she hurried across the room. "what is the matter, deacon?" "your mother says, miss," said the maid, retreating into the hall, "i am to tell you she can't come down. your father is ill, and she has sent for dr. clarke. but you are please not to go up. will you give the gentlemen their tea, and she will come down before they go, if she can." marcella had turned pale. "mayn't i go, deacon? what is it?" "it's a bad fit of pain, your mother says, miss. nothing can be done till the doctor comes. she begged _particular_ that you wouldn't go up, miss. she doesn't want any one put out." at the same moment there was a ring at the outer door. "oh, there is aldous," cried marcella, with relief, and she ran out into the hall to meet him. chapter iii. aldous advanced into the inner hall at sight of marcella, leaving his companions behind in the vestibule taking off their coats. marcella ran to him. "papa is ill!" she said to him hastily. "mamma has sent for dr. clarke. she won't let me go up, and wants us to take no notice and have tea without her." "i am so sorry! can we do anything? the dogcart is here with a fast horse. if your messenger went on foot--" "oh, no! they are sure to have sent the boy on the pony. i don't know why, but i have had a presentiment for a long time past that papa was going to be ill." she looked white and excited. she had turned back to the drawing-room, forgetting the other guests, he walking beside her. as they passed along the dim hall, aldous had her hand close in his, and when they passed under an archway at the further end he stooped suddenly in the shadows and kissed the hand. touch--kiss--had the clinging, the intensity of passion. they were the expression of all that had lain vibrating at the man's inmost heart during the dark drive, while he had been chatting with his two companions. "my darling! i hope not. would you rather not see strangers? shall i send hallin and young leven away? they would understand at once." "oh, no! mr. wharton is here anyway--staying. where is mr. hallin? i had forgotten him." aldous turned and called. mr. hallin and young frank leven, divining something unusual, were looking at the pictures in the hall. edward hallin came up and took marcella's offered hand. each looked at the other with a special attention and interest. "she holds my friend's life in her hands--is she worthy of it?" was naturally the question hanging suspended in the man's judgment. the girl's manner was proud and shy, the manner of one anxious to please, yet already, perhaps, on the defensive. aldous explained the position of affairs, and hallin expressed his sympathy. he had a singularly attractive voice, the voice indeed of the orator, which can adapt itself with equal charm and strength to the most various needs and to any pitch. as he spoke, marcella was conscious of a sudden impression that she already knew him and could be herself with him at once. "oh, i say," broke in young leven, who was standing behind; "don't you be bothered with us, miss boyce. just send us back at once. i'm awfully sorry!" "no; you are to come in!" she said, smiling through her pallor, which was beginning to pass away, and putting out her hand to him--the young eton and oxford athlete, just home for his christmas vacation, was a great favourite with her--"you must come and have tea and cheer me up by telling me all the things you have killed this week. is there anything left alive? you had come down to the fieldfares, you know, last tuesday." he followed her, laughing and protesting, and she led the way to the drawing-room. but as her fingers were on the handle she once more caught sight of the maid, deacon, standing on the stairs, and ran to speak to her. "he is better," she said, coming back with a face of glad relief. "the attack seems to be passing off. mamma can't come down, but she begs that we will all enjoy ourselves." "we'll endeavour," said young leven, rubbing his hands, "by the help of tea. miss boyce, will you please tell aldous and mr. hallin not to talk politics when they're taking me out to a party. they should fight a man of their own size. i'm all limp and trampled on, and want you to protect me." the group moved, laughing and talking, into the drawing-room. "jiminy!" said leven, stopping short behind aldous, who was alone conscious of the lad's indignant astonishment; "what the deuce is _he_ doing here?" for there on the rug, with his back to the fire, stood wharton, surveying the party with his usual smiling _aplomb_. "mr. hallin, do you know mr. wharton?" said marcella. "mr. wharton and i have met several times on public platforms," said hallin, holding out his hand, which wharton took with effusion. aldous greeted him with the impassive manner, the "three finger" manner, which was with him an inheritance--though not from his grandfather--and did not contribute to his popularity in the neighbourhood. as for young leven, he barely nodded to the radical candidate, and threw himself into a chair as far from the fire as possible. "frank and i have met before to-day!" said wharton, laughing. "yes, i've been trying to undo some of your mischief," said the boy, bluntly. "i found him, miss boyce, haranguing a lot of men at the dinner-hour at tudley end--one of our villages, you know--cramming them like anything--all about the game laws, and our misdeeds--my father's, of course." wharton raised a protesting hand. "oh--all very well! of course it was us you meant! well, when he'd driven off, i got up on a cart and had _my_ say. i asked them whether they didn't all come out at our big shoots, and whether they didn't have almost as much fun as we did--why! the schoolmaster and the postman come to ask to carry cartridges, and everybody turns out, down to the cripples!--whether they didn't have rabbits given them all the year round; whether half of them hadn't brothers and sons employed somehow about the game, well-paid, and well-treated; whether any man-jack of them would be a ha'porth better off if there were no game; whether many of them wouldn't be worse off; and whether england wouldn't be a beastly dull place to live in, if people like him"--he pointed to wharton--"had the governing of it! and i brought 'em all round too. i got them cheering and laughing. oh! i can tell you old dodgson'll have to take me on. he says he'll ask me to speak for him at several places. i'm not half bad, i declare i'm not." "i thought they gave you a holiday task at eton," observed wharton, blandly. the lad coloured hotly, then bethought himself--radiant:-- "i left eton last half, as of course you know quite well. but if it had only been last christmas instead of this, wouldn't i have scored--by jove! they gave us a beastly _essay_ instead of a book. _demagogues_!' i sat up all night, and screwed out a page and a half. i'd have known something about it _now_." and as he stood beside the tea-table, waiting for marcella to entrust some tea to him for distribution, he turned and made a profound bow to his candidate cousin. everybody joined in the laugh, led by wharton. then there was a general drawing up of chairs, and marcella applied herself to making tea, helped by aldous. wharton alone remained standing before the fire, observant and apart. hallin, whose health at this moment made all exertion, even a drive, something of a burden, sat a little away from the tea-table, resting, and glad to be silent. yet all the time he was observing the girl presiding and the man beside her--his friend, her lover. the moment had a peculiar, perhaps a melancholy interest for him. so close had been the bond between himself and aldous, that the lover's communication of his engagement had evoked in the friend that sense--poignant, inevitable--which in the realm of the affections always waits on something done and finished,--a leaf turned, a chapter closed. "that sad word, joy!" hallin was alone and ill when raeburn's letter reached him, and through the following day and night he was haunted by landor's phrase, long familiar and significant to him. his letter to his friend, and the letter to miss boyce for which raeburn had asked him, had cost him an invalid's contribution of sleep and ease. the girl's answer had seemed to him constrained and young, though touched here and there with a certain fineness and largeness of phrase, which, if it was to be taken as an index of character, no doubt threw light upon the matter so far as aldous was concerned. her beauty, of which he had heard much, now that he was face to face with it, was certainly striking enough--all the more because of its immaturity, the subtlety and uncertainty of its promise. _immaturity_--_uncertainty_--these words returned upon him as he observed her manner with its occasional awkwardness, the awkwardness which goes with power not yet fully explored or mastered by its possessor. how aldous hung upon her, following every movement, anticipating every want! after a while hallin found himself half-inclined to mr. boyce's view, that men of raeburn's type are never seen to advantage in this stage--this queer topsy-turvy stage--of first passion. he felt a certain impatience, a certain jealousy for his friend's dignity. it seemed to him too, every now and then, that she--the girl--was teased by all this absorption, this deference. he was conscious of watching for something in her that did not appear; and a first prescience of things anxious or untoward stirred in his quick sense. "you may all say what you like," said marcella, suddenly, putting down her cup, and letting her hand drop for emphasis on her knee; "but you will never persuade me that game-preserving doesn't make life in the country much more difficult, and the difference between classes much wider and bitterer, than they need be." the remark cut across some rattling talk of frank leven's, who was in the first flush of the sportsman's ardour, and, though by no means without parts, could at the present moment apply his mind to little else than killing of one kind or another, unless it were to the chances of keeping his odious cousin out of parliament. leven stared. miss boyce's speech seemed to him to have no sort of _à propos_. aldous looked down upon her as he stood beside her, smiling. "i wish you didn't trouble yourself so much about it," he said. "how can i help it?" she answered quickly; and then flushed, like one who has drawn attention indiscreetly to their own personal situation. "trouble herself!" echoed young leven. "now, look here miss boyce, will you come for a walk with me? i'll convince you, as i convinced those fellows over there. i know i could, and you won't give me the chance; it's too bad." "oh, you!" she said, with a little shrug; "what do you know about it? one might as well consult a gambler about gambling when he is in the middle of his first rush of luck. i have ten times more right to an opinion than you have. i can keep my head cool, and notice a hundred things that _you_ would never see. i come fresh into your country life, and the first thing that strikes me is that the whole machinery of law and order seems to exist for nothing in the world but to protect your pheasants! there are policemen--to catch poachers; there are magistrates--to try them. to judge from the newspapers, at least, they have nothing else to do. and if _you_ follow your sporting instincts, you are a very fine fellow, and everybody admires you. but if a shoemaker's son in mellor follows his, he is a villain and a thief, and the policeman and the magistrate make for him at once." "but i don't steal his chickens!" cried the lad, choking with arguments and exasperation; "and why should he steal my pheasants? i paid for the eggs, i paid for the hens to sit on 'em, i paid for the coops to rear them in, i paid the men to watch them, i paid for the barley to feed them with: why is he to be allowed to take my property, and i am to be sent to jail if i take his?" "_property_!" said marcella, scornfully. "you can't settle everything nowadays by that big word. we are coming to put the public good before property. if the nation should decide to curtail your 'right,' as you call it, in the general interest, it will do it, and you will be left to scream." she had flung her arm round the back of her chair, and all her lithe young frame was tense with an eagerness, nay, an excitement, which drew hallin's attention. it was more than was warranted by the conversation, he thought. "well, if you think the abolition of game preserving would be popular in the country, miss boyce, i'm certain you make a precious mistake," cried leven. "why, even you don't think it would be, do you, mr. hallin?" he said, appealing at random in his disgust. "i don't know," said hallin, with his quiet smile. "i rather think, on the whole, it would be. the farmers put up with it, but a great many of them don't like it. things are mended since the ground game act, but there are a good many grievances still left." "i should think there are!" said marcella, eagerly, bending forward to him. "i was talking to one of our farmers the other day whose land goes up to the edge of lord winterbourne's woods. '_they_ don't keep their pheasants, miss,' he said. '_i_ do. i and my corn. if i didn't send a man up half-past five in the morning, when the ears begin to fill, there'd be nothing left for _us_.' 'why don't you complain to the agent?' i said. 'complain! lor' bless you, miss, you may complain till you're black in the face. i've allus found--an' i've been here, man and boy, thirty-two year--as how _winterbournes generally best it.'_ there you have the whole thing in a nutshell. it's a tyranny--a tyranny of the rich." flushed and sarcastic, she looked at frank leven; but hallin had an uncomfortable feeling that the sarcasm was not all meant for him. aldous was sitting with his hands on his knees, and his head bent forward a little. once, as the talk ran on, hallin saw him raise his grey eyes to the girl beside him, who certainly did not notice it, and was not thinking of him. there was a curious pain and perplexity in the expression, but something else too--a hunger, a dependence, a yearning, that for an instant gripped the friend's heart. "well, i know aldous doesn't agree with you, miss boyce," cried leven, looking about him in his indignation for some argument that should be final. "you don't, do you, aldous? you don't think the country would be the better, if we could do away with game to-morrow?" "no more than i think it would be the better," said aldous, quietly, "if we could do away with gold-plate and false hair to-morrow. there would be too many hungry goldsmiths and wig-makers on the streets." marcella turned to him, half defiant, half softened. "of course, your point lies in _to-morrow,"_ she said. "i accept that. we can't carry reform by starving innocent people. but the question is, what are we to work towards? mayn't we regard the game laws as one of the obvious crying abuses to be attacked first--in the great campaign!--the campaign which is to bring liberty and self-respect back to the country districts, and make the labourer feel himself as much of a man as the squire?" "what a head! what an attitude!" thought hallin, half repelled, half fascinated. "but a girl that can talk politics--hostile politics--to her lover, and mean them too--or am i inexperienced?--and is it merely that she is so much interested in him that she wants to be quarrelling with him?" aldous looked up. "i am not _sure_," he said, answering her. "that is always my difficulty, you know," and he smiled at her. "game preserving is not to me personally an attractive form of private property, but it seems to me bound up with other forms, and i want to see where the attack is going to lead me. but i would protect your farmer--mind!--as zealously as you." hallin caught the impatient quiver of the girl's lip. the tea had just been taken away, and marcella had gone to sit upon an old sofa near the fire, whither aldous had followed her. wharton, who had so far said nothing, had left his post of observation on the hearth-rug, and was sitting under the lamp balancing a paper-knife with great attention on two fingers. in the half light hallin by chance saw a movement of raeburn's hand towards marcella's, which lay hidden among the folds of her dress--quick resistance on her part, then acquiescence. he felt a sudden pleasure in his friend's small triumph. "aldous and i have worn these things threadbare many a time," he said, addressing his hostess. "you don't know how kind he is to my dreams. i am no sportsman and have no landowning relations, so he ought to bid me hold my tongue. but he lets me rave. to me the simple fact is that _game preserving creates crime_. agricultural life is naturally simpler--might be, it always seems to me, so much more easily moralised and fraternised than the industrial form. and you split it up and poison it all by the emphasis laid on this class pleasure. it is a natural pleasure, you say. perhaps it is--the survival, perhaps, of some primitive instinct in our northern blood--but, if so, why should it be impossible for the rich to share it with the poor? i have little plans--dreams. i throw them out sometimes to catch aldous, but he hardly rises to them!" "oh! i _say_," broke in frank leven, who could really bear it no longer. "now look here, miss boyce,--what do you think mr. hallin wants? it is just sheer lunacy--it really is--though i know i'm impertinent, and he's a great man. but i do declare he wants aldous to give up a big common there is--oh! over beyond girtstone, down in the plain--on lord maxwell's estate, and make a _labourers'_ shoot of it! now, i ask you! and he vows he doesn't see why they shouldn't rear pheasants if they choose to club and pay for it. well, i will say that much for him, aldous didn't see his way to _that_, though he isn't the kind of conservative _i_ want to see in parliament by a long way. besides, it's such stuff! they say sport brutalises _us_, and then they want to go and contaminate the labourer. but we won't take the responsibility. we've got our own vices, and we'll stick to them; we're used to them; but we won't hand them on: we'd scorn the action." the flushed young barbarian, driven to bay, was not to be resisted. marcella laughed heartily, and hallin laid an affectionate hand on the boy's shoulder, patting him as though he were a restive horse. "yes, i remember i was puzzled as to the details of hallin's scheme," said aldous, his mouth twitching. "i wanted to know who was to pay for the licences; how game enough for the number of applicants was to be got without preserving; and how men earning twelve or fourteen shillings a week were to pay a keeper. then i asked a clergyman who has a living near this common what he thought would be the end of it. 'well,' he said, 'the first day they'd shoot every animal on the place; the second day they'd shoot each other. universal carnage--i should say that would be about the end of it.' these were trifles, of course--details." hallin shook his head serenely. "i still maintain," he said, "that a little practical ingenuity might have found a way." "and i will support you," said wharton, laying down the paper-knife and bending over to hallin, "with good reason. for three years and a few months just such an idea as you describe has been carried out on my own estate, and it has not worked badly at all." "there!" cried marcella. "there! i knew something could be done, if there was a will. i have always felt it." she half turned to aldous, then bent forward instead as though listening eagerly for what more wharton might say, her face all alive, and eloquent. "of course, there was nothing to shoot!" exclaimed frank leven. "on the contrary," said wharton, smiling, "we are in the middle of a famous partridge country." "how your neighbours must dote on you!" cried the boy. but wharton took no notice. "and my father preserved strictly," he went on. "it is quite a simple story. when i inherited, three years ago, i thought the whole thing detestable, and determined i wouldn't be responsible for keeping it up. so i called the estate together--farmers and labourers--and we worked out a plan. there are keepers, but they are the estate servants, not mine. everybody has his turn according to the rules--i and my friends along with the rest. not everybody can shoot every year, but everybody gets his chance, and, moreover, a certain percentage of all the game killed is public property, and is distributed every year according to a regular order." "who pays the keepers?" interrupted leven. "i do," said wharton, smiling again. "mayn't i--for the present--do what i will with mine own? i return in their wages some of my ill-gotten gains as a landowner. it is all makeshift, of course." "i understand!" exclaimed marcella, nodding to him--"you could not be a venturist and keep up game-preserving?" wharton met her bright eye with a half deprecating, reserved air. "you are right, of course," he said drily. "for a socialist to be letting his keepers run in a man earning twelve shillings a week for knocking over a rabbit would have been a little strong. no one can be consistent in my position--in any landowner's position--it is impossible; still, thank heaven, one can deal with the most glaring matters. as mr. raeburn said, however, all this game business is, of course, a mere incident of the general land and property system, as you will hear me expound when you come to that meeting you promised me to honour." he stooped forward, scanning her with smiling deference. marcella felt the man's hand that held her own suddenly tighten an instant. then aldous released her, and rising walked towards the fire. "you're _not_ going to one of his meetings, miss boyce!" cried frank, in angry incredulity. marcella hesitated an instant, half angry with wharton. then she reddened and threw back her dark head with the passionate gesture hallin had already noticed as characteristic. "mayn't i go where i belong?" she said--"where my convictions lead me?" there was a moment's awkward silence. then hallin got up. "miss boyce, may we see the house? aldous has told me much of it." * * * * * presently, in the midst of their straggling progress through the half-furnished rooms of the garden front, preceded by the shy footman carrying a lamp, which served for little more than to make darkness visible, marcella found herself left behind with aldous. as soon as she felt that they were alone, she realised a jar between herself and him. his manner was much as usual, but there was an underlying effort and difficulty which her sensitiveness caught at once. a sudden wave of girlish trouble--remorse--swept over her. in her impulsiveness she moved close to him as they were passing through her mother's little sitting-room, and put her hand on his arm. "i don't think i was nice just now," she said, stammering. "i didn't mean it. i seem to be always driven into opposition--into a feeling of war--when you are so good to me--so much too good to me!" aldous had turned at her first word. with a long breath, as it were of unspeakable relief, he caught her in his arms vehemently, passionately. so far she had been very shrinking and maidenly with him in their solitary moments, and he had been all delicate chivalry and respect, tasting to the full the exquisiteness of each fresh advance towards intimacy, towards lover's privilege, adoring her, perhaps, all the more for her reserve, her sudden flights, and stiffenings. but to-night he asked no leave, and in her astonishment she was almost passive. "oh, do let me go!" she cried at last, trying to disengage herself completely. "no!" he said with emphasis, still holding her hand firmly. "come and sit down here. they will look after themselves." he put her, whether she would or no, into an arm-chair and knelt beside her. "did you think it was hardly kind," he said with a quiver of voice he could not repress, "to let me hear for the first time, in public, that you had promised to go to one of that man's meetings after refusing again and again to come to any of mine?" "do you want to forbid me to go?" she said quickly. there was a feeling in her which would have been almost relieved, for the moment, if he had said yes. "by no means," he said steadily. "that was not our compact. but--guess for yourself what i want! do you think"--he paused a moment--"do you think i put nothing of myself into my public life--into these meetings among the people who have known me from a boy? do you think it is all a convention--that my feeling, my conscience, remain outside? you can't think that! but if not, how can i bear to live what is to be so large a part of my life out of your ken and sight? i know--i know--you warned me amply--you can't agree with me. but there is much besides intellectual agreement possible--much that would help and teach us both--if only we are together--not separated--not holding aloof--" he stopped, watching all the changes of her face. she was gulfed in a deep wave of half-repentant feeling, remembering all his generosity, his forbearance, his devotion. "when are you speaking next?" she half whispered. in the dim light her softened pose, the gentle sudden relaxation of every line, were an intoxication. "next week--friday--at gairsly. hallin and aunt neta are coming." "will miss raeburn take me?" his grey eyes shone upon her, and he kissed her hand. "mr. hallin won't speak for you!" she said, after the silence, with a return of mischief. "don't be so sure! he has given me untold help in the drafting of my bill. if i didn't call myself a conservative, he would vote for me to-morrow. that's the absurdity of it. do you know, i hear them coming back?" "one thing," she said hastily, drawing him towards her, and then holding him back, as though shrinking always from the feeling she could so readily evoke. "i must say it; you oughtn't to give me so much money, it is too much. suppose i use it for things you don't like?" "you won't," he said gaily. she tried to push the subject further, but he would not have it. "i am all for free discussion," he said in the same tone; "but sometimes debate must be stifled. i am going to stifle it!" and stooping, he kissed her, lightly, tremulously. his manner showed her once more what she was to him--how sacred, how beloved. first it touched and shook her; then she sprang up with a sudden disagreeable sense of moral disadvantage--inferiority--coming she knew not whence, and undoing for the moment all that buoyant consciousness of playing the magnanimous, disinterested part which had possessed her throughout the talk in the drawing-room. the others reappeared, headed by their lamp: wharton first, scanning the two who had lingered behind, with his curious eyes, so blue and brilliant under the white forehead and the curls. "we have been making the wildest shots at your ancestors, miss boyce," he said. "frank professed to know everything about the pictures, and turned out to know nothing. i shall ask for some special coaching to-morrow morning. may i engage you--ten o'clock?" marcella made some evasive answer, and they all sauntered back to the drawing-room. "shall you be at work to-morrow, raeburn?" said wharton. "probably," said aldous drily. marcella, struck by the tone, looked back, and caught an expression and bearing which were as yet new to her in the speaker. she supposed they represented the haughtiness natural in the man of birth and power towards the intruder, who is also the opponent. instantly the combative critical mood returned upon her, and the impulse to assert herself by protecting wharton. his manner throughout the talk in the drawing-room had been, she declared to herself, excellent--modest, and self-restrained, comparing curiously with the boyish egotism and self-abandonment he had shown in their _tête-à-tête_. * * * * * "why, there is mr. boyce," exclaimed wharton, hurrying forward as they entered the drawing-room. there, indeed, on the sofa was the master of the house, more ghastly black and white than ever, and prepared to claim to the utmost the tragic pre-eminence of illness. he shook hands coldly with aldous, who asked after his health with the kindly brevity natural to the man who wants no effusions for himself in public or personal matters, and concludes therefore that other people desire none. "you _are_ better, papa?" said marcella, taking his hand. "certainly, my dear--better for morphia. don't talk of me. i have got my death warrant, but i hope i can take it quietly. evelyn, i _specially_ asked to have that thin cushion brought down from my dressing-room. it is strange that no one pays any attention to my wants." mrs. boyce, almost as white, marcella now saw, as her husband, moved forward from the fire, where she had been speaking to hallin, took a cushion from a chair near, exactly similar to the one he missed, and changed his position a little. "it is just the feather's weight of change that makes the difference, isn't it?" said wharton, softly, sitting down beside the invalid. mr. boyce turned a mollified countenance upon the speaker, and being now free from pain, gave himself up to the amusement of hearing his guest talk. wharton devoted himself, employing all his best arts. "dr. clarke is not anxious about him," mrs. boyce said in a low voice to marcella as they moved away. "he does not think the attack will return for a long while, and he has given me the means of stopping it if it does come back." "how tired you look!" said aldous, coming up to them, and speaking in the same undertone. "will you not let marcella take you to rest?" he was always deeply, unreasonably touched by any sign of stoicism, of defied suffering in women. mrs. boyce had proved it many times already. on the present occasion she put his sympathy by, but she lingered to talk with him. hallin from a distance noticed first of all her tall thinness and fairness, and her wonderful dignity of carriage; then the cordiality of her manner to her future son-in-law. marcella stood by listening, her young shoulders somewhat stiffly set. her consciousness of her mother's respect and admiration for the man she was to marry was, oddly enough, never altogether pleasant to her. it brought with it a certain discomfort, a certain wish to argue things out. hallin and aldous parted with frank leven at mellor gate, and turned homeward together under a starry heaven already whitening to the coming moon. "do you know that man wharton is getting an extraordinary hold upon the london working men?" said hallin. "i have heard him tell that story of the game-preserving before. he was speaking for one of the radical candidates at hackney, and i happened to be there. it brought down the house. the _rôle_ of your socialist aristocrat, of your land-nationalising landlord, is a very telling one." "and comparatively easy," said aldous, "when you know that neither socialism nor land-nationalisation will come in your time!" "oh! so you think him altogether a windbag?" aldous hesitated and laughed. "i have certainly no reason to suspect him of principles. his conscience as a boy was of pretty elastic stuff." "you may be unfair to him," said hallin, quickly. then, after a pause: "how long is he staying at mellor?" "about a week, i believe," said aldous, shortly. "mr. boyce has taken a fancy to him." they walked on in silence, and then aldous turned to his friend in distress. "you know, hallin, this wind is much too cold for you. you are the most wilful of men. why would you walk?" "hold your tongue, sir, and listen to me. i think your marcella is beautiful, and as interesting as she is beautiful. there!" aldous started, then turned a grateful face upon him. "you must get to know her well," he said, but with some constraint. "of course. i wonder," said hallin, musing, "whom she has got hold of among the venturists. shall you persuade her to come out of that, do you think, aldous?" "no!" said raeburn, cheerfully. "her sympathies and convictions go with them." then, as they passed through the village, he began to talk of quite other things--college friends, a recent volume of philosophical essays, and so on. hallin, accustomed and jealously accustomed as he was to be the one person in the world with whom raeburn talked freely, would not to-night have done or said anything to force a strong man's reserve. but his own mind was full of anxiety. chapter iv. "i _love_ this dilapidation!" said wharton, pausing for a moment with his back against the door he had just shut. "only it makes me long to take off my coat and practise some honest trade or other--plastering, or carpentering, or painting. what useless drones we upper classes are! neither you nor i could mend that ceiling or patch this floor--to save our lives." they were in the disused library. it was now the last room westwards of the garden front, but in reality it was part of the older house, and had been only adapted and re-built by that eighteenth-century marcella whose money had been so gracefully and vainly lavished on giving dignity to her english husband's birthplace. the roof had been raised and domed to match the "chinese room," at the expense of some small rooms on the upper floor; and the windows and doors had been suited to eighteenth-century taste. but the old books in the old latticed shelves which the puritan founder of the family had bought in the days of the long parliament were still there; so were the chairs in which that worthy had sat to read a tract of milton's or of baxter's, or the table at which he had penned his letters to hampden or fairfax, or to his old friend--on the wrong side--edmund verney the standard-bearer. only the worm-eaten shelves were dropping from their supports, and the books lay in mouldy confusion; the roofs had great holes and gaps, whence the laths hung dismally down, and bats came flitting in the dusk; and there were rotten places in the carpetless floor. "i have tried my best," said marcella, dolefully, stooping to look at a hole in the floor. "i got a bit of board and some nails, and tried to mend some of these places myself. but i only broke the rotten wood away; and papa was angry, and said i did more harm than good. i did get a carpenter to mend some of the chairs; but one doesn't know where to begin. i have cleaned and mended some of the books, but--" she looked sadly round the musty, forlorn place. "but not so well, i am afraid, as any second-hand bookseller's apprentice could have done it," said wharton, shaking his head. "it's maddening to think what duffers we gentlefolks are!" "why do you harp on that?" said marcella, quickly. she had been taking him over the house, and was in twenty minds again as to whether and how much she liked him. "because i have been reading some board of trade reports before breakfast," said wharton, "on one or two of the birmingham industries in particular. goodness! what an amount of knowledge and skill and resource these fellows have that i go about calling the 'lower orders.' i wonder how long they are going to let me rule over them!" "i suppose brain-power and education count for something still?" said marcella, half scornfully. "i am greatly obliged to the world for thinking so," said wharton with emphasis, "and for thinking so about the particular kind of brain-power i happen to possess, which is the point. the processes by which a birmingham jeweller makes the wonderful things which we attribute to 'french taste' when we see them in the shops of the rue de la paix are, of course, mere imbecility--compared to my performances in responsions. lucky for _me_, at any rate, that the world has decided it so. i get a good time of it--and the birmingham jeweller calls me 'sir.'" "oh! the skilled labour! that can take care of itself, and won't go on calling you 'sir' much longer. but what about the unskilled--the people here for instance--the villagers? we talk of their governing themselves; we wish it, and work for it. but which of us _really_ believes that they are fit for it, or that they are ever going to get along without _our_ brain-power?" "no--poor souls!" said wharton, with a peculiar vibrating emphasis. "'_by their stripes we are healed, by their death we have lived_.' do you remember your carlyle?" they had entered one of the bays formed by the bookcases which on either side of the room projected from the wall at regular intervals, and were standing by one of the windows which looked out on the great avenue. beside the window on either side hung a small portrait--in the one case of an elderly man in a wig, in the other of a young, dark-haired woman. "plenty in general, but nothing in particular," said marcella, laughing. "quote." he was leaning against the angle formed by the wall and the bookcase. the half-serious, half-provocative intensity of his blue eyes under the brow which drooped forward contrasted with the careless, well-appointed ease of his general attitude and dress. "'_two men i honour, and no third_,'" he said, quoting in a slightly dragging, vibrating voice: "'_first, the toil-worn craftsman that with earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth and makes her man's.--hardly-entreated brother! for us was thy back so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed; thou wert our conscript, on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so marred_.' heavens! how the words swing! but it is great nonsense, you know, for you and me--venturists--to be maundering like this. charity--benevolence--that is all carlyle is leading up to. he merely wants the cash nexus supplemented by a few good offices. but we want something much more unpleasant! 'keep your subscriptions--hand over your dividends--turn out of your land--and go to work!' nowadays society is trying to get out of doing what _we_ want, by doing what carlyle wanted." "_do_ you want it?" said marcella. "i don't know," he said, laughing. "it won't come in our time." her lip showed her scorn. "that's what we all think. meanwhile you will perhaps admit that a little charity greases the wheels." "_you_ must, because you are a woman; and women are made for charity--and aristocracy." "do you suppose you know so much about women?" she asked him, rather hotly. "i notice it is always the assumption of the people who make most mistakes." "oh! i know enough to steer by!" he said, smiling, with a little inclination of his curly head, as though to propitiate her. "how like you are to that portrait!" marcella started, and saw that he was pointing to the woman's portrait beside the window--looking from it to his hostess with a close considering eye. "that was an ancestress of mine," she said coldly, "an italian lady. she was rich and musical. her money built these rooms along the garden, and these are her music books." she showed him that the shelves against which she was leaning were full of old music. "italian!" he said, lifting his eyebrows. "ah, that explains. do you know--that you have all the qualities of a leader!"--and he moved away a yard from her, studying her--"mixed blood--one must always have that to fire and fuse the english paste--and then--but no! that won't do--i should offend you." her first instinct was one of annoyance--a wish to send him about his business, or rather to return him to her mother who would certainly keep him in order. instead, however, she found herself saying, as she looked carelessly out of window-- "oh! go on." "well, then"--he drew himself up suddenly and wheeled round upon her--"you have the gift of compromise. that is invaluable--that will take you far." "thank you!" she said. "thank you! i know what that means--from a venturist. you think me a mean insincere person!" he started, then recovered himself and came to lean against the bookshelves beside her. "i mean nothing of the sort," he said, in quite a different manner, with a sort of gentle and personal emphasis. "but--may i explain myself, miss boyce, in a room with a fire? i can see you shivering under your fur." for the frost still reigned supreme outside, and the white grass and trees threw chill reflected lights into the forsaken library. marcella controlled a pulse of excitement that had begun to beat in her, admitted that it was certainly cold, and led the way through a side door to a little flagged parlour, belonging to the oldest portion of the house, where, however, a great log-fire was burning, and some chairs drawn up round it. she took one and let the fur wrap she had thrown about her for their promenade through the disused rooms drop from her shoulders. it lay about her in full brown folds, giving special dignity to her slim height and proud head. wharton glancing about in his curious inquisitive way, now at the neglected pictures, now on the walls, now at the old oak chairs and chests, now at her, said to himself that she was a splendid and inspiring creature. she seemed to be on the verge of offence with him too, half the time, which was stimulating. she would have liked, he thought, to play the great lady with him already, as aldous raeburn's betrothed. but he had so far managed to keep her off that plane--and intended to go on doing so. "well, i meant this," he said, leaning against the old stone chimney and looking down upon her; "only _don't_ be offended with me, please. you are a socialist, and you are going--some day--to be lady maxwell. those combinations are only possible to women. they can sustain them, because they are imaginative--not logical." she flushed. "and you," she said, breathing quickly, "are a socialist and a landlord. what is the difference?" he laughed. "ah! but i have no gift--i can't ride the two horses, as you will be able to--quite honestly. there's the difference. and the consequence is that with my own class i am an outcast--they all hate me. but you will have power as lady maxwell--and power as a socialist--because you will give and take. half your time you will act as lady maxwell should, the other half like a venturist. and, as i said, it will give you power--a modified power. but men are less clever at that kind of thing." "do you mean to say," she asked him abruptly, "that you have given up the luxuries and opportunities of your class?" he shifted his position a little. "that is a different matter," he said after a moment. "we socialists are all agreed, i think, that no man can be a socialist by himself. luxuries, for the present, are something personal, individual. it is only a man's 'public form' that matters. and there, as i said before, i have no gift!--i have not a relation or an old friend in the world that has not turned his back upon me--as you might see for yourself yesterday! my class has renounced me already--which, after all, is a weakness." "so you pity yourself?" she said. "by no means! we all choose the part in life that amuses us--that brings us most _thrill_. i get most thrill out of throwing myself into the workmen's war--much more than i could ever get, you will admit, out of dancing attendance on my very respectable cousins. my mother taught me to see everything dramatically. we have no drama in england at the present moment worth a cent; so i amuse myself with this great tragi-comedy of the working-class movement. it stirs, pricks, interests me, from morning till night. i feel the great rough elemental passions in it, and it delights me to know that every day brings us nearer to some great outburst, to scenes and struggles at any rate that will make us all look alive. i am like a child with the best of its cake to come, but with plenty in hand already. ah!--stay still a moment, miss boyce!" to her amazement he stooped suddenly towards her; and she, looking down, saw that a corner of her light, black dress, which had been overhanging the low stone fender, was in flames, and that he was putting it out with his hands. she made a movement to rise, alarmed lest the flames should leap to her face--her hair. but he, releasing one hand for an instant from its task of twisting and rolling the skirt upon itself, held her heavily down. "don't move; i will have it out in a moment. you won't be burnt." and in a second more she was looking at a ragged brown hole in her dress; and at him, standing, smiling, before the fire, and wrapping a handkerchief round some of the fingers of his left hand. "you have burnt yourself, mr. wharton?" "a little." "i will go and get something--what would you like?" "a little olive oil if you have some, and a bit of lint--but don't trouble yourself." she flew to find her mother's maid, calling and searching on her way for mrs. boyce herself, but in vain. mrs. boyce had disappeared after breakfast, and was probably helping her husband to dress. in a minute or so marcella ran downstairs again, bearing various medicaments. she sped to the stone parlour, her cheek and eye glowing. "let me do it for you." "if you please," said wharton, meekly. she did her best, but she was not skilful with her fingers, and this close contact with him somehow excited her. "there," she said, laughing and releasing him. "of course, if i were a work-girl i should have done it better. they are not going to be very bad, i think." "what, the burns? oh, no! they will have recovered, i am afraid, long before your dress." "oh, my dress! yes, it is deplorable. i will go and change it." she turned to go, but she lingered instead, and said with an odd, introductory laugh: "i believe you saved my life!" "well, i am glad i was here. you might have lost self-possession--even _you_ might, you know!--and then it would have been serious." "anyway"--her voice was still uncertain--"i might have been disfigured--disfigured for life!" "i don't know why you should dwell upon it now it's done with," he declared, smiling. "it would be strange, wouldn't it, if i took it quite for granted--all in the day's work?" she held out her hand: "i am grateful--please." he bowed over it, laughing, again with that eighteenth-century air which might have become a chevalier des grieux. "may i exact a reward?" "ask it." "will you take me down with you to your village? i know you are going. i must walk on afterwards and catch a midday train to widrington. i have an appointment there at two o'clock. but perhaps you will introduce me to one or two of your poor people first?" marcella assented, went upstairs, changed her dress, and put on her walking things, more than half inclined all the time to press her mother to go with them. she was a little unstrung and tremulous, pursued by a feeling that she was somehow letting herself go, behaving disloyally and indecorously towards whom?--towards aldous? but how, or why? she did not know. but there was a curious sense of lost bloom, lost dignity, combined with an odd wish that mr. wharton were not going away for the day. in the end, however, she left her mother undisturbed. by the time they were half way to the village, marcella's uncomfortable feelings had all passed away. without knowing it, she was becoming too much absorbed in her companion to be self-critical, so long as they were together. it seemed to her, however, before they had gone more than a few hundred yards that he was taking advantage--presuming on what had happened. he offended her taste, her pride, her dignity, in a hundred ways, she discovered. at the same time it was _she_ who was always on the defensive--protecting her dreams, her acts, her opinions, against the constant fire of his half-ironical questions, which seemed to leave her no time at all to carry the war into the enemy's country. he put her through a quick cross-examination about the village, its occupations, the incomes of the people, its local charities and institutions, what she hoped to do for it, what she would do if she could, what she thought it _possible_ to do. she answered first reluctantly, then eagerly, her pride all alive to show that she was not merely ignorant and amateurish. but it was no good. in the end he made her feel as antony craven had constantly done--that she knew nothing exactly, that she had not mastered the conditions of any one of the social problems she was talking about; that not only was her reading of no account, but that she had not even managed to _see_ these people, to interpret their lives under her very eyes, with any large degree of insight. especially was he merciless to all the lady bountiful pose, which meant so much to her imagination--not in words so much as in manner. he let her see that all the doling and shepherding and advising that still pleased her fancy looked to him the merest temporary palliative, and irretrievably tainted, even at that, with some vulgar feeling or other. all that the well-to-do could do for the poor under the present state of society was but a niggardly quit-rent; as for any relation of "superior" and "inferior" in the business, or of any social desert attaching to these precious efforts of the upper class to daub the gaps in the ruinous social edifice for which they were themselves responsible, he did not attempt to conceal his scorn. if you did not do these things, so much the worse for you when the working class came to its own; if you did do them, the burden of debt was hardly diminished, and the rope was still left on your neck. now marcella herself had on one or two occasions taken a malicious pleasure in flaunting these doctrines, or some of them, under miss raeburn's eyes. but somehow, as applied to herself, they were disagreeable. each of us is to himself a "special case"; and she saw the other side. hence a constant soreness of feeling; a constant recalling of the argument to the personal point of view; and through it all a curious growth of intimacy, a rubbing away of barriers. she had felt herself of no account before, intellectually, in aldous's company, as we know. but then how involuntary on his part, and how counter-balanced by that passionate idealism of his love, which glorified every pretty impulse in her to the noblest proportions! under wharton's socratic method, she was conscious at times of the most wild and womanish desires, worthy of her childhood--to cry, to go into a passion!--and when they came to the village, and every human creature, old and young, dropped its obsequious curtsey as they passed, she could first have beaten them for so degrading her, and the next moment felt a feverish pleasure in thus parading her petty power before a man who in his doctrinaire pedantry had no sense of poetry, or of the dear old natural relations of country life. they went first to mrs. jellison's, to whom marcella wished to unfold her workshop scheme. "don't let me keep you," she said to wharton coldly, as they neared the cottage; "i know you have to catch your train." wharton consulted his watch. he had to be at a local station some two miles off within an hour. "oh! i have time," he said. "do take me in, miss boyce. i have made acquaintance with these people so far, as my constituents--now show them to me as your subjects. besides, i am an observer. i 'collect' peasants. they are my study." "they are not my subjects, but my friends," she said with the same stiffness. they found mrs. jellison having her dinner. the lively old woman was sitting close against her bit of fire, on her left a small deal table which held her cold potatoes and cold bacon; on her right a tiny window and window-sill whereon lay her coil of "plait" and the simple straw-splitting machine she had just been working. when marcella had taken the only other chair the hovel contained, nothing else remained for wharton but to flatten himself as closely against the door as he might. "i'm sorry i can't bid yer take a cheer," said mrs. jellison to him, "but what yer han't got yer can't give, so i don't trouble my head about nothink." wharton applauded her with easy politeness, and then gave himself, with folded arms, to examining the cottage while marcella talked. it might be ten feet broad, he thought, by six feet in one part and eight feet in another. the roof was within little more than an inch of his head. the stairway in the corner was falling to pieces; he wondered how the woman got up safely to her bed at night; custom, he supposed, can make even old bones agile. meanwhile marcella was unfolding the project of the straw-plaiting workshop that she and lady winterbourne were about to start. mrs. jellison put on her spectacles apparently that she might hear the better, pushed away her dinner in spite of her visitors' civilities, and listened with a bright and beady eye. "an' yer agoin' to pay me one a sixpence a score, where i now gets ninepence. and i'll not have to tramp it into town no more--you'll send a man round. and who is agoin' to pay me, miss, if you'll excuse me asking?" "lady winterbourne and i," said marcella, smiling. "we're going to employ this village and two others, and make as good business of it as we can. but we're going to begin by giving the workers better wages, and in time we hope to teach them the higher kinds of work." "lor'!" said mrs. jellison. "but i'm not one o' them as kin do with changes." she took up her plait and looked at it thoughtfully. "eighteen-pence a score. it wor that rate when i wor a girl. an' it ha' been dibble--dibble--iver sense; a penny off here, an' a penny off there, an' a hard job to keep a bite ov anythink in your mouth." "then i may put down your name among our workers, mrs. jellison?" said marcella, rising and smiling down upon her. "oh, lor', no; i niver said that," said mrs. jellison, hastily. "i don't hold wi' shilly-shallyin' wi' yer means o' livin'. i've took my plait to jimmy gedge--'im an' 'is son, fust shop on yer right hand when yer git into town--twenty-five year, summer and winter--me an' three other women, as give me a penny a journey for takin' theirs. if i wor to go messin' about wi' jimmy gedge, lor' bless yer, i should 'ear ov it--oh! i shoulden sleep o' nights for thinkin' o' how jimmy ud serve me out when i wor least egspectin' ov it. he's a queer un. no, miss, thank yer kindly; but i think i'll bide." marcella, amazed, began to argue a little, to expound the many attractions of the new scheme. greatly to her annoyance, wharton came forward to her help, guaranteeing the solvency and permanence of her new partnership in glib and pleasant phrase, wherein her angry fancy suspected at once the note of irony. but mrs. jellison held firm, embroidering her negative, indeed, with her usual cheerful chatter, but sticking to it all the same. at last there was no way of saving dignity but to talk of something else and go--above all, to talk of something else before going, lest the would-be benefactor should be thought a petty tyrant. "oh, johnnie?--thank yer, miss--'e's an owdacious young villain as iver i seed--but _clever_--lor', you'd need 'ave eyes in yer back to look after _'im_. an' _coaxin'_! ''aven't yer brought me no sweeties, gran'ma?' 'no, my dear,' says i. 'but if you was to _look_, gran'ma--in both your pockets, gran'ma--iv you was to let _me_ look?' it's a sharp un isabella, she don't 'old wi' sweet-stuff, she says, sich a pack o' nonsense. she'd stuff herself sick when she wor 'is age. why shouldn't _ee_ be happy, same as her? there ain't much to make a child 'appy in _that_ 'ouse. westall, ee's that mad about them poachers over tudley end; ee's like a wild bull at 'ome. i told isabella ee'd come to knockin' ov her about _some_ day, though ee did speak so oily when ee wor a courtin'. now she knows as i kin see a thing or two," said mrs. jellison, significantly. her manner, wharton noticed, kept always the same gay philosophy, whatever subject turned up. "why, that's an old story--that tudley end business--" said marcella, rising. "i should have thought westall might have got over it by now." "but bless yer, ee says it's goin' on as lively as iver. ee says ee knows they're set on grabbin' the birds t'other side the estate, over beyond mellor way--ee's got wind of it--an' ee's watchin' night an' day to see they don't do him no bad turn _this_ month, bekase o' the big shoot they allus has in january. an' lor', ee do speak drefful bad o' _soom_ folks," said mrs. jellison, with an amused expression. "you know some on 'em, miss, don't yer?" and the old woman, who had begun toying with her potatoes, slanted her fork over her shoulder so as to point towards the hurds' cottage, whereof the snow-laden roof could be seen conspicuously through the little lattice beside her, making sly eyes the while at her visitor. "i don't believe a word of it," said marcella, impatiently. "hurd has been in good work since october, and has no need to poach. westall has a down on him. you may tell him i think so, if you like." "that i will," said mrs. jellison, cheerfully, opening the door for them. "there's nobody makes 'im 'ear the trëuth, nobbut me. i _loves_ naggin' ov 'im, ee's that masterful. but ee don't master _me_!" "a gay old thing," said wharton as they shut the gate behind them. "how she does enjoy the human spectacle. and obstinate too. but you will find the younger ones more amenable." "of course," said marcella, with dignity. "i have a great many names already. the old people are always difficult. but mrs. jellison will come round." "are you going in here?" "please." wharton knocked at the hurds' door, and mrs. hurd opened. the cottage was thick with smoke. the chimney only drew when the door was left open. but the wind to-day was so bitter that mother and children preferred the smoke to the draught. marcella soon made out the poor little bronchitic boy, sitting coughing by the fire, and mrs. hurd busied with some washing. she introduced wharton, who, as before, stood for some time, hat in hand, studying the cottage. marcella was perfectly conscious of it, and a blush rose to her cheek while she talked to mrs. hurd. for both this and mrs. jellison's hovel were her father's property and somewhat highly rented. minta hurd said eagerly that she would join the new straw-plaiting, and went on to throw out a number of hurried, half-coherent remarks about the state of the trade past and present, leaning meanwhile against the table and endlessly drying her hands on the towel she had taken up when her visitors came in. her manner was often nervous and flighty in these days. she never looked happy; but marcella put it down to health or natural querulousness of character. yet both she and the children were clearly better nourished, except willie, in whom the tubercular tendency was fast gaining on the child's strength. altogether marcella was proud of her work, and her eager interest in this little knot of people whose lives she had shaped was more possessive than ever. hurd, indeed, was often silent and secretive; but she put down her difficulties with him to our odious system of class differences, against which in her own way she was struggling. one thing delighted her--that he seemed to take more and more interest in the labour questions she discussed with him, and in that fervid, exuberant literature she provided him with. moreover, he now went to all mr. wharton's meetings that were held within reasonable distance of mellor; and, as she said to aldous with a little laugh, which, however, was not unsweet, _he_ had found her man work--_she_ had robbed his candidate of a vote. wharton listened a while to her talk with minta, smiled a little, unperceived of marcella, at the young mother's docilities of manner and phrase; then turned his attention to the little hunched and coughing object by the fire. "are you very bad, little man?" the white-faced child looked up, a dreary look, revealing a patient, melancholy soul. he tried to answer, but coughed instead. wharton, moving towards him, saw a bit of ragged white paper lying on the ground, which had been torn from a grocery parcel. "would you like something to amuse you a bit--ugh! this smoke! come round here, it won't catch us so much. _now_, then, what do you say to a doggie,--two doggies?" the child stared, let himself be lifted on the stranger's knee, and did his very utmost to stop coughing. but when he had succeeded his quick panting breaths still shook his tiny frame and wharton's knee. "hm--give him two months or thereabouts!" thought wharton. "what a beastly hole!--one room up, and one down, like the other, only a shade larger. damp, insanitary, cold--bad water, bad drainage, i'll be bound--bad everything. that girl may well try her little best. and i go making up to that man boyce! what for? old spites?--new spites?--which?--or both!" meanwhile his rapid skilful fingers were tearing, pinching, and shaping; and in a very few minutes there, upon his free knee, stood the most enticing doggie of pinched paper, a hound in full course, with long ears and stretching legs. the child gazed at it with ravishment, put out a weird hand, touched it, stroked it, and then, as he looked back at wharton, the most exquisite smile dawned in his saucer-blue eyes. "what? did you like it, grasshopper?" cried wharton, enchanted by the beauty of the look, his own colour mounting. "then you shall have another." and he twisted and turned his piece of fresh paper, till there, beside the first, stood a second fairy animal--a greyhound this time, with arching neck and sharp long nose. "there's two on 'em at westall's!" cried the child, hoarsely, clutching at his treasures in an ecstasy. mrs. hurd, at the other end of the cottage, started as she heard the name. marcella noticed it; and with her eager sympathetic look began at once to talk of hurd and the works at the court. she understood they were doing grand things, and that the work would last all the winter. minta answered hurriedly and with a curious choice of phrases. "oh! he didn't have nothing to say against it." mr. brown, the steward, seemed satisfied. all that she said was somehow irrelevant; and, to marcella's annoyance, plaintive as usual. wharton, with the boy inside his arm, turned his head an instant to listen. marcella, having thought of repeating, without names, some of mrs. jellison's gossip, then shrank from it. he had promised her, she thought to herself with a proud delicacy; and she was not going to treat the word of a working man as different from anybody else's. so she fastened her cloak again, which she had thrown open in the stifling air of the cottage, and turned both to call her companion and give a smile or two to the sick boy. but, as she did so, she stood amazed at the spectacle of wharton and the child. then, moving up to them, she perceived the menagerie--for it had grown to one--on wharton's knee. "you didn't guess i had such tricks," he said, smiling. "but they are so good--so artistic!" she took up a little galloping horse he had just fashioned and wondered at it. "a great-aunt taught me--she was a genius--i follow her at a long distance. will you let me go, young man? you may keep all of them." but the child, with a sudden contraction of the brow, flung a tiny stick-like arm round his neck, pressing hard, and looking at him. there was a red spot in each wasted cheek, and his eyes were wide and happy. wharton returned the look with one of quiet scrutiny--the scrutiny of the doctor or the philosopher. on marcella's quick sense the contrast of the two heads impressed itself--the delicate youth of wharton's with its clustering curls--the sunken contours and the helpless suffering of the other. then wharton kissed the little fellow, put his animals carefully on to a chair beside him, and set him down. they walked along the snowy street again, in a different relation to each other. marcella had been touched and charmed, and wharton teased her no more. as they reached the door of the almshouse where the old pattons lived, she said to him: "i think i had rather go in here by myself, please. i have some things to give them--old patton has been very ill this last week--but i know what you think of doles--and i know too what you think, what you must think, of my father's cottages. it makes me feel a hypocrite; yet i must do these things; we are different, you and i--i am sure you will miss your train!" but there was no antagonism, only painful feeling in her softened look. wharton put out his hand. "yes, it is time for me to go. you say i make you feel a hypocrite! i wonder whether you have any idea what you make me feel? do you imagine i should dare to say the things i have said except to one of the _élite_? would it be worth my while, as a social reformer? are you not vowed to great destinies? when one comes across one of the tools of the future, must one not try to sharpen it, out of one's poor resources, in spite of manners?" marcella, stirred--abashed--fascinated--let him press her hand. then he walked rapidly away towards the station, a faint smile twitching at his lip. "an inexperienced girl," he said to himself, composedly. chapter v. before she went home, marcella turned into the little rectory garden to see if she could find mary harden for a minute or two. the intimacy between them was such that she generally found entrance to the house by going round to a garden door and knocking or calling. the house was very small, and mary's little sitting-room was close to this door. her knock brought mary instantly. "oh! come in. you won't mind. we were just at dinner. charles is going away directly. do stay and talk to me a bit." marcella hesitated, but at last went in. the meals at the rectory distressed her--the brother and sister showed the marks of them. to-day she found their usual fare carefully and prettily arranged on a spotless table; some bread, cheese, and boiled rice--nothing else. nor did they allow themselves any fire for meals. marcella, sitting beside them in her fur, did not feel the cold, but mary was clearly shivering under her shawl. they eat meat twice a week, and in the afternoon mary lit the sitting-room fire. in the morning she contented herself with the kitchen, where, as she cooked for many sick folk, and had only a girl of fourteen whom she was training to help her with the housework, she had generally much to do. the rector did not stay long after her arrival. he had a distant visit to pay to a dying child, and hurried off so as to be home, if possible, before dark. marcella admired him, but did not feel that she understood him more as they were better acquainted. he was slight and young, and not very clever; but a certain inexpugnable dignity surrounded him, which, real as it was, sometimes irritated marcella. it sat oddly on his round face--boyish still, in spite of its pinched and anxious look--but there it was, not to be ignored. marcella thought him a conservative, and very backward and ignorant in his political and social opinions. but she was perfectly conscious that she must also think him a saint; and that the deepest things in him were probably not for her. mr. harden said a few words to her now as to her straw-plaiting scheme, which had his warmest sympathy--marcella contrasted his tone gratefully with that of wharton, and once more fell happily in love with her own ideas--then he went off, leaving the two girls together. "have you seen mrs. hurd this morning?" said mary. "yes, willie seems very bad." mary assented. "the doctor says he will hardly get through the winter, especially if this weather goes on. but the greatest excitement of the village just now--do you know?--is the quarrel between hurd and westall. somebody told charles yesterday that they never meet without threatening each other. since the covers at tudley end were raided, westall seems to have quite lost his head. he declares hurd knew all about that, and that he is hand and glove with the same gang still. he vows he will catch him out, and hurd told the man who told charles that if westall bullies him any more he will put a knife into him. and charles says that hurd is not a bit like he was. he used to be such a patient, silent creature. now--" "he has woke up to a few more ideas and a little more life than he had, that's all," said marcella, impatiently. "he poached last winter, and small blame to him. but since he got work at the court in november--is it likely? he knows that he was suspected; and what could be his interest now, after a hard day's work, to go out again at night, and run the risk of falling into westall's clutches, when he doesn't want either the food or the money?" "i don't know," said mary, shaking her head. "charles says, if they once do it, they hardly ever leave it off altogether. it's the excitement and amusement of it." "he promised me," said marcella, proudly. "they promise charles all sorts of things," said mary, slyly; "but they don't keep to them." warmly grateful as both she and the rector had been from the beginning to marcella for the passionate interest she took in the place and the people, the sister was sometimes now a trifle jealous--divinely jealous--for her brother. marcella's unbounded confidence in her own power and right over mellor, her growing tendency to ignore anybody else's right or power, sometimes set mary aflame, for charles's sake, heartily and humbly as she admired her beautiful friend. "i shall speak to mr. raeburn about it," said marcella. she never called him "aldous" to anybody--a stiffness which jarred a little upon the gentle, sentimental mary. "i saw you pass," she said, "from one of the top windows. he was with you, wasn't he?" a slight colour sprang to her sallow cheek, a light to her eyes. most wonderful, most interesting was this engagement to mary, who--strange to think!--had almost brought it about. mr. raeburn was to her one of the best and noblest of men, and she felt quite simply, and with a sort of christian trembling for him, the romance of his great position. was marcella happy, was she proud of him, as she ought to be? mary was often puzzled by her. "oh no!" said marcella, with a little laugh. "that wasn't mr. raeburn. i don't know where your eyes were, mary. that was mr. wharton, who is staying with us. he has gone on to a meeting at widrington." mary's face fell. "charles says mr. wharton's influence in the village is very bad," she said quickly. "he makes everybody discontented; sets everybody by the ears; and, after all, what can he do for anybody?" "but that's just what he wants to do--to make them discontented," cried marcella. "then, if they vote for him, that's the first practical step towards improving their life." "but it won't give them more wages or keep them out of the public house," said mary, bewildered. she came of a homely middle-class stock, accustomed to a small range of thinking, and a high standard of doing. marcella's political opinions were an amazement, and on the whole a scandal to her. she preferred generally to give them a wide berth. marcella did not reply. it was not worth while to talk to mary on these topics. but mary stuck to the subject a moment longer. "you can't want him to get in, though?" she said in a puzzled voice, as she led the way to the little sitting-room across the passage, and took her workbasket out of the cupboard. "it was only the week before last mr. raeburn was speaking at the schoolroom for mr. dodgson. you weren't there, marcella?" "no," said marcella, shortly. "i thought you knew perfectly well, mary, that mr. raeburn and i don't agree politically. certainly, i hope mr. wharton will get in!" mary opened her eyes in wonderment. she stared at marcella, forgetting the sock she had just slipped over her left hand, and the darning needle in her right. marcella laughed. "i know you think that two people who are going to be married ought to say ditto to each other in everything. don't you--you dear old goose?" she came and stood beside mary, a stately and beautiful creature in her loosened furs. she stroked mary's straight sandy hair back from her forehead. mary looked up at her with a thrill, nay, a passionate throb of envy--soon suppressed. "i think," she said steadily, "it is very strange--that love should oppose and disagree with what it loves." marcella went restlessly towards the fire and began to examine the things on the mantelpiece. "can't people agree to differ, you sentimentalist? can't they respect each other, without echoing each other on every subject?" "respect!" cried mary, with a sudden scorn, which was startling from a creature so soft. "there, she could tear me in pieces!" said marcella, laughing, though her lip was not steady. "i wonder what you would be like, mary, if you were engaged." mary ran her needle in and out with lightning speed for a second or two, then she said almost under her breath-- "i shouldn't be engaged unless i were in love. and if i were in love, why, i would go anywhere--do anything--believe anything--if _he_ told me!" "believe anything?--mary--you wouldn't!" "i don't mean as to religion," said mary, hastily. "but everything else--i would give it all up!--governing one's self, thinking for one's self. he should do it, and i would _bless_ him!" she looked up crimson, drawing a very long breath, as though from some deep centre of painful, passionate feeling. it was marcella's turn to stare. never had mary so revealed herself before. "did you ever love any one like that, mary?" she asked quickly. mary dropped her head again over her work and did not answer immediately. "do you see--" she said at last, with a change of tone, "do you see that we have got our invitation?" marcella, about to give the rein to an eager curiosity mary's manner had excited in her, felt herself pulled up sharply. when she chose, this little meek creature could put on the same unapproachableness as her brother. marcella submitted. "yes, i see," she said, taking up a card on the mantelpiece. "it will be a great crush. i suppose you know. they have asked the whole county, it seems to me." the card bore an invitation in miss raeburn's name for the rector and his sister to a dance at maxwell court--the date given was the twenty-fifth of january. "what fun!" said mary, her eye sparkling. "you needn't suppose that i know enough of balls to be particular. i have only been to one before in my life--ever. that was at cheltenham. an aunt took me--i didn't dance. there were hardly any men, but i enjoyed it." "well, you shall dance this time," said marcella, "for i will make mr. raeburn introduce you." "nonsense, you won't have any time to think about me. you will be the queen--everybody will want to speak to you. i shall sit in a corner and look at you--that will be enough for me." marcella went up to her quickly and kissed her, then she said, still holding her-- "i know you think i ought to be very happy, mary!" "i should think i do!" said mary, with astonished emphasis, when the voice paused--"i should think i do!" "i _am_ happy--and i want to make him happy. but there are so many things, so many different aims and motives, that complicate life, that puzzle one. one doesn't know how much to give of one's self, to each--" she stood with her hand on mary's shoulder, looking away towards the window and the snowy garden, her brow frowning and distressed. "well, i don't understand," said mary, after a pause. "as i said before, it seems to me so plain and easy--to be in love, and give one's self _all_--to that. but you are so much cleverer than i, marcella, you know so much more. that makes the difference. i can't be like you. perhaps i don't want to be!"--and she laughed. "but i can admire you and love you, and think about you. there, now, tell me what you are going to wear?" "white satin, and mr. raeburn wants me to wear some pearls he is going to give me, some old pearls of his mother's. i believe i shall find them at mellor when i get back." there was little girlish pleasure in the tone. it was as though marcella thought her friend would be more interested in her bit of news than she was herself, and was handing it on to her to please her. "isn't there a superstition against doing that--before you're married?" said mary, doubtfully. "as if i should mind if there was! but i don't believe there is, or miss raeburn would have heard of it. she's a mass of such things. well! i hope i shall behave myself to please her at this function. there are not many things i do to her satisfaction; it's a mercy we're not going to live with her. lord maxwell is a dear; but she and i would never get on. every way of thinking she has, rubs me up the wrong way; and as for her view of me, i am just a tare sown among her wheat. perhaps she is right enough!" marcella leant her cheek pensively on one hand, and with the other played with the things on the mantelpiece. mary looked at her, and then half smiled, half sighed. "i think it is a very good thing you are to be married soon," she said, with her little air of wisdom, which offended nobody. "then you'll know your own mind. when is it to be?" "the end of february--after the election." "two months," mused mary. "time enough to throw it all up in, you think?" said marcella, recklessly, putting on her gloves for departure. "perhaps you'll be pleased to hear that i _am_ going to a meeting of mr. raeburn's next week?" "i _am_ glad. you ought to go to them all." "really, mary! how am i to lift you out of this squaw theory of matrimony? allow me to inform you that the following evening i am going to one of mr. wharton's--here in the schoolroom!" she enjoyed her friend's disapproval. "by yourself, marcella? it isn't seemly!" "i shall take a maid. mr. wharton is going to tell us how the people can--get the land, and how, when they have got it, all the money that used to go in rent will go in taking off taxes and making life comfortable for the poor." she looked at mary with a teasing smile. "oh! i dare say he will make his stealing sound very pretty," said mary, with unwonted scorn, as she opened the front door for her friend. marcella flashed out. "i know you are a saint, mary," she said, turning back on the path outside to deliver her last shaft. "i am often not so sure whether you are a christian!" then she hurried off without another word, leaving the flushed and shaken mary to ponder this strange dictum. * * * * * marcella was just turning into the straight drive which led past the church on the left to mellor house, when she heard footsteps behind her, and, looking round, she saw edward hallin. "will you give me some lunch, miss boyce, in return for a message? i am here instead of aldous, who is very sorry for himself, and will be over later. i am to tell you that he went down to the station to meet a certain box. the box did not come, but will come this afternoon; so he waits for it, and will bring it over." marcella flushed, smiled, and said she understood. hallin moved on beside her, evidently glad of the opportunity of a talk with her. "we are all going together to the gairsley meeting next week, aren't we? i am so glad you are coming. aldous will do his best." there was something very winning in his tone to her. it implied both his old and peculiar friendship for aldous, and his eager wish to find a new friend in her--to adopt her into their comradeship. something very winning, too, in his whole personality--in the loosely knit, nervous figure, the irregular charm of feature, the benignant eyes and brow--even in the suggestions of physical delicacy, cheerfully concealed, yet none the less evident. the whole balance of marcella's temper changed in some sort as she talked to him. she found herself wanting to please, instead of wanting to conquer, to make an effect. "you have just come from the village, i think?" said hallin. "aldous tells me you take a great interest in the people?" he looked at her kindly, the look of one who saw all his fellow-creatures nobly, as it were, and to their best advantage. "one may take an interest," she said, in a dissatisfied voice, poking at the snow crystals on the road before her with the thorn-stick she carried, "but one can do so little. and i don't know anything; not even what i want myself." "no; one can do next to nothing. and systems and theories don't matter, or, at least, very little. yet, when you and aldous are together, there will be more chance of _doing_, for you than for most. you will be two happy and powerful people! his power will be doubled by happiness; i have always known that." marcella was seized with shyness, looked away, and did not know what to answer. at last she said abruptly--her head still turned to the woods on her left-- "are you sure he is going to be happy?" "shall i produce his letter to me?" he said, bantering--"or letters? for i knew a great deal about you before october " (their engagement-day), "and suspected what was going to happen long before aldous did. no; after all, no! those letters are my last bit of the old friendship. but the new began that same day," he hastened to add, smiling: "it may be richer than the old; i don't know. it depends on you." "i don't think--i am a very satisfactory friend," said marcella, still awkward, and speaking with difficulty. "well, let me find out, won't you? i don't think aldous would call me exacting. i believe he would give me a decent character, though i tease him a good deal. you must let me tell you sometime what he did for me--what he was to me--at cambridge? i shall always feel sorry for aldous's wife that she did not know him at college." a shock went through marcella at the word--that tremendous word--wife. as hallin said it, there was something intolerable in the claim it made! "i should like you to tell me," she said faintly. then she added, with more energy and a sudden advance of friendliness, "but you really must come in and rest. aldous told me he thought the walk from the court was too much for you. shall we take this short way?" and she opened a little gate leading to a door at the side of the house through the cedar garden. the narrow path only admitted of single file, and hallin followed her, admiring her tall youth and the fine black and white of her head and cheek as she turned every now and then to speak to him. he realised more vividly than before the rare, exciting elements of her beauty, and the truth in aldous's comparison of her to one of the tall women in a florentine fresco. but he felt himself a good deal baffled by her, all the same. in some ways, so far as any man who is not the lover can understand such things, he understood why aldous had fallen in love with her; in others, she bore no relation whatever to the woman his thoughts had been shaping all these years as his friend's fit and natural wife. luncheon passed as easily as any meal could be expected to do, of which mr. boyce was partial president. during the preceding month or two he had definitely assumed the character of an invalid, although to inexperienced eyes like marcella's there did not seem to be very much the matter. but, whatever the facts might be, mr. boyce's adroit use of them had made a great difference to his position in his own household. his wife's sarcastic freedom of manner was less apparent; and he was obviously less in awe of her. meanwhile he was as sore as ever towards the raeburns, and no more inclined to take any particular pleasure in marcella's prospects, or to make himself agreeable towards his future son-in-law. he and mrs. boyce had been formally asked in miss raeburn's best hand to the court ball, but he had at once snappishly announced his intention of staying at home. marcella sometimes looked back with astonishment to his eagerness for social notice when they first came to mellor. clearly the rising irritability of illness had made it doubly unpleasant to him to owe all that he was likely to get on that score to his own daughter; and, moreover, he had learnt to occupy himself more continuously on his own land and with his own affairs. as to the state of the village, neither marcella's entreaties nor reproaches had any effect upon him. when it appeared certain that he would be summoned for some specially flagrant piece of neglect he would spend a few shillings on repairs; otherwise not a farthing. all that filial softening towards him of which marcella had been conscious in the early autumn had died away in her. she said to herself now plainly and bitterly that it was a misfortune to belong to him; and she would have pitied her mother most heartily if her mother had ever allowed her the smallest expression of such a feeling. as it was, she was left to wonder and chafe at her mother's new-born mildness. in the drawing-room, after luncheon, hallin came up to marcella in a corner, and, smiling, drew from his pocket a folded sheet of foolscap. "i made aldous give me his speech to show you, before to-morrow night," he said. "he would hardly let me take it, said it was stupid, and that you would not agree with it. but i wanted you to see how he does these things. he speaks now, on an average, two or three times a week. each time, even for an audience of a score or two of village folk, he writes out what he has to say. then he speaks it entirely without notes. in this way, though he has not much natural gift, he is making himself gradually an effective and practical speaker. the danger with him, of course, is lest he should be over-subtle and over-critical--not simple and popular enough." marcella took the paper half unwillingly and glanced over it in silence. "you are sorry he is a tory, is that it?" he said to her, but in a lower voice, and sitting down beside her. mrs. boyce, just catching the words from where she sat with her work, at the further side of the room, looked up with a double wonder--wonder at marcella's folly, wonder still more at the deference with which men like aldous raeburn and hallin treated her. it was inevitable, of course--youth and beauty rule the world. but the mother, under no spell herself, and of keen, cool wit, resented the intellectual confusion, the lowering of standards involved. "i suppose so," said marcella, stupidly, in answer to hallin's question, fidgeting the papers under her hand. then his curious confessor's gift, his quiet questioning look with its sensitive human interest to all before him, told upon her. "i am sorry he does not look further ahead, to the great changes that must come," she added hurriedly. "this is all about details, palliatives. i want him to be more impatient." "great political changes you mean?" she nodded; then added-- "but only for the sake, of course, of great social changes to come after." he pondered a moment. "aldous has never believed in _great_ changes coming suddenly. he constantly looks upon me as rash in the things _i_ adopt and believe in. but for the contriving, unceasing effort of every day to make that part of the social machine in which a man finds himself work better and more equitably, i have never seen aldous's equal--for the steady passion, the persistence, of it." she looked up. his pale face had taken to itself glow and fire; his eyes were full of strenuous, nay, severe expression. her foolish pride rebelled a little. "of course, i haven't seen much of that yet," she said slowly. his look for a moment was indignant, incredulous, then melted into a charming eagerness. "but you will! naturally you will!--see everything. i hug myself sometimes now for pure pleasure that some one besides his grandfather and i will know what aldous is and does. oh! the people on the estate know; his neighbours are beginning to know; and now that he is going into parliament, the country will know some day, if work and high intelligence have the power i believe. but i am impatient! in the first place--i may say it to you, miss boyce!--i want aldous to come out of that _manner_ of his to strangers, which is the only bit of the true tory in him; _you_ can get rid of it, no one else can--how long shall i give you?--and in the next, i want the world not to be wasting itself on baser stuff when it might be praising aldous!" "does he mean mr. wharton?" thought marcella, quickly. "but this world--our world--hates him and runs him down." but she had no time to answer, for the door opened to admit aldous, flushed and bright-eyed, looking round the room immediately for her, and bearing a parcel in his left hand. "does she love him at all?" thought hallin, with a nervous stiffening of all his lithe frame, as he walked away to talk to mrs. boyce, "or, in spite of all her fine talk, is she just marrying him for his money and position!" meanwhile, aldous had drawn marcella into the stone parlour and was standing by the fire with his arm covetously round her. "i have lost two hours with you i might have had, just because a tiresome man missed his train. make up for it by liking these pretty things a little, for my sake and my mother's." he opened the jeweller's case, took out the fine old pearls--necklace and bracelets--it contained, and put them into her hand. they were his first considerable gift to her, and had been chosen for association's sake, seeing that his mother had also worn them before her marriage. she flushed first of all with a natural pleasure, the girl delighting in her gaud. then she allowed herself to be kissed, which was, indeed, inevitable. finally she turned them over and over in her hands; and he began to be puzzled by her. "they are much too good for me. i don't know whether you ought to give me such precious things. i am dreadfully careless and forgetful. mamma always says so." "i shall want you to wear them so often that you won't have a chance of forgetting them," he said gaily. "will you? will you want me to wear them so often?" she asked, in an odd voice. "anyway, i should like to have just these, and nothing else. i am glad that we know nobody, and have no friends, and that i shall have so few presents. you won't give me many jewels, will you?" she said suddenly, insistently, turning to him. "i shouldn't know what to do with them. i used to have a magpie's wish for them; and now--i don't know, but they don't give me pleasure. not these, of course--not these!" she added hurriedly, taking them up and beginning to fasten the bracelets on her wrists. aldous looked perplexed. "my darling!" he said, half laughing, and in the tone of the apologist, "you know we _have_ such a lot of things. and i am afraid my grandfather will want to give them all to you. need one think so much about it? it isn't as though they had to be bought fresh. they go with pretty gowns, don't they, and other people like to see them?" "no, but it's what they imply--the wealth--the _having_ so much while other people want so much. things begin to oppress me so!" she broke out, instinctively moving away from him that she might express herself with more energy. "i like luxuries so desperately, and when i get them i seem to myself now the vulgarest creature alive, who has no right to an opinion or an enthusiasm, or anything else worth having. you must not let me like them--you must help me not to care about them!" raeburn's eye as he looked at her was tenderness itself. he could of course neither mock her, nor put what she said aside. this question she had raised, this most thorny of all the personal questions of the present--the ethical relation of the individual to the world's fair and its vanities--was, as it happened, a question far more sternly and robustly real to him than it was to her. every word in his few sentences, as they stood talking by the fire, bore on it for a practised ear the signs of a long wrestle of the heart. but to marcella it sounded tame; her ear was haunted by the fragments of another tune which she seemed to be perpetually trying to recall and piece together. aldous's slow minor made her impatient. he turned presently to ask her what she had been doing with her morning--asking her with a certain precision, and observing her attentively. she replied that she had been showing mr. wharton the house, that he had walked down with her to the village, and was gone to a meeting at widrington. then she remarked that he was very good company, and very clever, but dreadfully sure of his own opinion. finally she laughed, and said drily: "there will be no putting him down all the same. i haven't told anybody yet, but he saved my life this morning." aldous caught her wrists. "saved your life! dear--what do you mean?" she explained, giving the little incident all--perhaps more than--its dramatic due. he listened with evident annoyance, and stood pondering when she came to an end. "so i shall be expected to take quite a different view of him henceforward?" he inquired at last, looking round at her, with a very forced smile. "i am sure i don't know that it matters to him what view anybody takes of him," she cried, flushing. "he certainly takes the frankest views of other people, and expresses them." and while she played with the pearls in their box she gave a vivid account of her morning's talk with the radical candidate for west brookshire, and of their village expedition. there was a certain relief in describing the scorn with which her acts and ideals had been treated; and, underneath, a woman's curiosity as to how aldous would take it. "i don't know what business he had to express himself so frankly," said aldous, turning to the fire and carefully putting it together. "he hardly knows you--it was, i think, an impertinence." he stood upright, with his back to the hearth, a strong, capable, frowning englishman, very much on his dignity. such a moment must surely have become him in the eyes of a girl that loved him. marcella proved restive under it. "no; it's very natural," she protested quickly. "when people are so much in earnest they don't stop to think about impertinence! i never met any one who dug up one's thoughts by the roots as he does." aldous was startled by her flush, her sudden attitude of opposition. his intermittent lack of readiness overtook him, and there was an awkward silence. then, pulling himself together with a strong hand, he left the subject and began to talk of her straw-plaiting scheme, of the gairsley meeting, and of hallin. but in the middle marcella unexpectedly said: "i wish you would tell me, seriously, what reasons you have for not liking mr. wharton?--other than politics, i mean?" her black eyes fixed him with a keen insistence. he was silent a moment with surprise; then he said: "i had rather not rake up old scores." she shrugged her shoulders, and he was roused to come and put his arm round her again, she shrinking and turning her reddened face away. "dearest," he said, "you shall put me in charity with all the world. but the worst of it is," he added, half laughing, "that i don't see how i am to help disliking him doubly henceforward for having had the luck to put that fire out instead of me!" chapter vi. a few busy and eventful weeks, days never forgotten by marcella in after years, passed quickly by. parliament met in the third week of january. ministers, according to universal expectation, found themselves confronted by a damaging amendment on the address, and were defeated by a small majority. a dissolution and appeal to the country followed immediately, and the meetings and speech-makings, already active throughout the constituencies, were carried forward with redoubled energy. in the tudley end division, aldous raeburn was fighting a somewhat younger opponent of the same country-gentleman stock--a former fag indeed of his at eton--whose zeal and fluency gave him plenty to do. under ordinary circumstances aldous would have thrown himself with all his heart and mind into a contest which involved for him the most stimulating of possibilities, personal and public. but, as these days went over, he found his appetite for the struggle flagging, and was harassed rather than spurred by his adversary's activity. the real truth was that he could not see enough of marcella! a curious uncertainty and unreality, moreover, seemed to have crept into some of their relations; and it had begun to gall and fever him that wharton should be staying there, week after week, beside her, in her father's house, able to spend all the free intervals of the fight in her society, strengthening an influence which raeburn's pride and delicacy had hardly allowed him as yet, in spite of his instinctive jealousy from the beginning, to take into his thoughts at all, but which was now apparent, not only to himself but to others. in vain did he spend every possible hour at mellor he could snatch from a conflict in which his party, his grandfather, and his own personal fortunes were all deeply interested. in vain--with a tardy instinct that it was to mr. boyce's dislike of himself, and to the wilful fancy for wharton's society which this dislike had promoted, that wharton's long stay at mellor was largely owing--did aldous subdue himself to propitiations and amenities wholly foreign to a strong character long accustomed to rule without thinking about it. mr. boyce showed himself not a whit less partial to wharton than before; pressed him at least twice in raeburn's hearing to make mellor his head-quarters so long as it suited him, and behaved with an irritable malice with regard to some of the details of the wedding arrangements, which neither mrs. boyce's indignation nor marcella's discomfort and annoyance could restrain. clearly there was in him a strong consciousness that by his attentions to the radical candidate he was asserting his independence of the raeburns, and nothing for the moment seemed to be more of an object with him, even though his daughter was going to marry the raeburns' heir. meanwhile, wharton was always ready to walk or chat or play billiards with his host in the intervals of his own campaign; and his society had thus come to count considerably among the scanty daily pleasures of a sickly and disappointed man. mrs. boyce did not like her guest, and took no pains to disguise it, least of all from wharton. but it seemed to be no longer possible for her to take the vigorous measures she would once have taken to get rid of him. in vain, too, did miss raeburn do her best for the nephew to whom she was still devoted, in spite of his deplorable choice of a wife. she took in the situation as a whole probably sooner than anybody else, and she instantly made heroic efforts to see more of marcella, to get her to come oftener to the court, and in many various ways to procure the poor deluded aldous more of his betrothed's society. she paid many chattering and fussy visits to mellor--visits which chafed marcella--and before long, indeed, roused a certain suspicion in the girl's wilful mind. between miss raeburn and mrs. boyce there was a curious understanding. it was always tacit, and never amounted to friendship, still less to intimacy. but it often yielded a certain melancholy consolation to aldous raeburn's great-aunt. it was clear to her that this strange mother was just as much convinced as she was that aldous was making a great mistake, and that marcella was not worthy of him. but the engagement being there--a fact not apparently to be undone--both ladies showed themselves disposed to take pains with it, to protect it against aggression. mrs. boyce found herself becoming more of a _chaperon_ than she had ever yet professed to be; and miss raeburn, as we have said, made repeated efforts to capture marcella and hold her for aldous, her lawful master. but marcella proved extremely difficult to manage. in the first place she was a young person of many engagements. her village scheme absorbed a great deal of time. she was deep in a varied correspondence, in the engagement of teachers, the provision of work-rooms, the collecting and registering of workers, the organisation of local committees and so forth. new sides of the girl's character, new capacities and capabilities were coming out; new forms of her natural power over her fellows were developing every day; she was beginning, under the incessant stimulus of wharton's talk, to read and think on social and economic subjects, with some system and coherence, and it was evident that she took a passionate mental pleasure in it all. and the more pleasure these activities gave her, the less she had to spare for those accompaniments of her engagement and her position that was to be, which once, as mrs. boyce's sharp eyes perceived, had been quite normally attractive to her. "why do you take up her time so, with all these things?" said miss raeburn impatiently to lady winterbourne, who was now marcella's obedient helper in everything she chose to initiate. "she doesn't care for anything she _ought_ to care about at this time, and aldous sees nothing of her. as for her trousseau, mrs. boyce declares she has had to do it all. marcella won't even go up to london to have her wedding-dress fitted!" lady winterbourne looked up bewildered. "but i can't make her go and have her wedding-dress fitted, agneta! and i always feel you don't know what a fine creature she is. you don't really appreciate her. it's splendid the ideas she has about this work, and the way she throws herself into it." "i dare say!" said miss raeburn, indignantly. "that's just what i object to. why can't she throw herself into being in love with aldous! that's her business, i imagine, just now--if she were a young woman like anybody else one had ever seen--instead of holding aloof from everything he does, and never being there when he wants her. oh! i have no patience with her. but, of course, i must--" said miss raeburn, hastily correcting herself--"of course, i must have patience." "it will all come right, i am sure, when they are married," said lady winterbourne, rather helplessly. "that's just what my brother says," cried miss raeburn, exasperated. "he won't hear a word--declares she is odd and original, and that aldous will soon know how to manage her. it's all very well; nowadays men _don't_ manage their wives; that's all gone with the rest. and i am sure, my dear, if she behaves after she is married as she is doing now, with that most objectionable person mr. wharton--walking, and talking, and taking up his ideas, and going to his meetings--she'll be a handful for any husband." "mr. wharton!" said lady winterbourne, astonished. her absent black eyes, the eyes of the dreamer, of the person who lives by a few intense affections, saw little or nothing of what was going on immediately under them. "oh! but that is because he is staying in the house, and he is a socialist; she calls herself one--" "my _dear_," said miss raeburn, interrupting emphatically; "if--you--had--now--an unmarried daughter at home--engaged or not--would you care to have harry wharton hanging about after her?" "harry wharton?" said the other, pondering; "he is the levens' cousin, isn't he? he used to stay with them. i don't think i have seen him since then. but yes, i do remember; there was something--something disagreeable?" she stopped with a hesitating, interrogative air. no one talked less scandal, no one put the uglinesses of life away from her with a hastier hand than lady winterbourne. she was one of the most consistent of moral epicures. "yes, _extremely_ disagreeable," said miss raeburn, sitting bolt upright. "the man has no principles--never had any, since he was a child in petticoats. i know aldous thinks him unscrupulous in politics and everything else. and then, just when you are worked to death, and have hardly a moment for your own affairs, to have a man of that type always at hand to spend odd times with your lady love--flattering her, engaging her in his ridiculous schemes, encouraging her in all the extravagances she has got her head twice too full of already, setting her against your own ideas and the life she will have to live--you will admit that it is not exactly soothing!" "poor aldous!" said lady winterbourne, thoughtfully, looking far ahead with her odd look of absent rigidity, which had in reality so little to do with a character essentially soft; "but you see he _did_ know all about her opinions. and i don't think--no, i really don't think--i could speak to her." in truth, this woman of nearly seventy--old in years, but wholly young in temperament--was altogether under marcella's spell--more at ease with her already than with most of her own children, finding in her satisfaction for a hundred instincts, suppressed or starved by her own environment, fascinated by the girl's friendship, and eagerly grateful for her visits. miss raeburn thought it all both incomprehensible and silly. "apparently no one can!" cried that lady in answer to her friend's demurrer; "is all the world afraid of her?" and she departed in wrath. but she knew, nevertheless, that she was just as much afraid of marcella as anybody else. in her own sphere at the court, or in points connected with what was due to the family, or to lord maxwell especially, as the head of it, this short, capable old lady could hold her own amply with aldous's betrothed, could maintain, indeed, a sharp and caustic dignity, which kept marcella very much in order. miss raeburn, on the defensive, was strong; but when it came to attacking marcella's own ideas and proceedings, lord maxwell's sister became shrewdly conscious of her own weaknesses. she had no wish to measure her wits on any general field with marcella's. she said to herself that the girl was too clever and would talk you down. meanwhile, things went untowardly in various ways. marcella disciplined herself before the gairsley meeting, and went thither resolved to give aldous as much sympathy as she could. but the performance only repelled a mind over which wharton was every day gaining more influence. there was a portly baronet in the chair; there were various primrose dames on the platform and among the audience; there was a considerable representation of clergy; and the labourers present seemed to marcella the most obsequious of their kind. aldous spoke well--or so the audience seemed to think; but she could feel no enthusiasm for anything that he said. she gathered that he advocated a government inspection of cottages, more stringent precautions against cattle disease, better technical instruction, a more abundant provision of allotments and small freeholds, &c.; and he said many cordial and wise-sounding things in praise of a progress which should go safely and wisely from step to step, and run no risks of dangerous reaction. but the assumptions on which, as she told herself rebelliously, it all went--that the rich and the educated must rule, and the poor obey; that existing classes and rights, the forces of individualism and competition, must and would go on pretty much as they were; that great houses and great people, the english land and game system, and all the rest of our odious class paraphernalia were in the order of the universe; these ideas, conceived as the furniture of aldous's mind, threw her again into a ferment of passionate opposition. and when the noble baronet in the chair--to her eye, a pompous, frock-coated stick, sacrificing his after-dinner sleep for once, that he might the more effectually secure it in the future--proposed a vote of confidence in the conservative candidate; when the vote was carried with much cheering and rattling of feet; when the primrose dames on the platform smiled graciously down upon the meeting as one smiles at good children in their moments of pretty behaviour; and when, finally, scores of toil-stained labourers, young and old, went up to have a word and a hand-shake with "muster raeburn," marcella held herself aloof and cold, with a look that threatened sarcasm should she be spoken to. miss raeburn, glancing furtively round at her, was outraged anew by her expression. "she will be a thorn in all our sides," thought that lady. "aldous is a fool!--a poor dear noble misguided fool!" then on the way home, she and aldous drove together. marcella tried to argue, grew vehement, and said bitter things for the sake of victory, till at last aldous, tired, worried, and deeply wounded, could bear it no longer. "let it be, dear, let it be!" he entreated, snatching at her hand as they rolled along through a stormy night. "we grope in a dark world--you see some points of light in it, i see others--won't you give me credit for doing what i can--seeing what i can? i am sure--_sure_--you will find it easier to bear with differences when we are quite together--when there are no longer all these hateful duties and engagements--and persons--between us." "persons! i don't know what you mean!" said marcella. aldous only just restrained himself in time. out of sheer fatigue and slackness of nerve he had been all but betrayed into some angry speech on the subject of wharton, the echoes of whose fantastic talk, as it seemed to him, were always hanging about mellor when he went there. but he did refrain, and was thankful. that he was indeed jealous and disturbed, that he had been jealous and disturbed from the moment harry wharton had set foot in mellor, he himself knew quite well. but to play the jealous part in public was more than the raeburn pride could bear. there was the dread, too, of defining the situation--of striking some vulgar irrevocable note. so he parried marcella's exclamation by asking her whether she had any idea how many human hands a parliamentary candidate had to shake between breakfast and bed; and then, having so slipped into another tone, he tried to amuse himself and her by some of the daily humours of the contest. she lent herself to it and laughed, her look mostly turned away from him, as though she were following the light of the carriage lamps as it slipped along the snow-laden hedges, her hand lying limply in his. but neither were really gay. his soreness of mind grew as in the pauses of talk he came to realise more exactly the failure of the evening--of his very successful and encouraging meeting--from his own private point of view. "didn't you like that last speech?" he broke out suddenly--"that labourer's speech? i thought you would. it was entirely his own idea--nobody asked him to do it." in reality gairsley represented a corner of the estate which aldous had specially made his own. he had spent much labour and thought on the improvement of what had been a backward district, and in particular he had tried a small profit-sharing experiment upon a farm there which he had taken into his own hands for the purpose. the experiment had met with fair success, and the labourer in question, who was one of the workers in it, had volunteered some approving remarks upon it at the meeting. "oh! it was very proper and respectful!" said marcella, hastily. the carriage rolled on some yards before aldous replied. then he spoke in a drier tone than he had ever yet used to her. "you do it injustice, i think. the man is perfectly independent, and an honest fellow. i was grateful to him for what he said." "of course, i am no judge!" cried marcella, quickly--repentantly. "why did you ask me? i saw everything crooked, i suppose--it was your primrose dames--they got upon my nerves. why did you have them? i didn't mean to vex and hurt you--i didn't indeed--it was all the other way--and now i have." she turned upon him laughing, but also half crying, as he could tell by the flutter of her breath. he vowed he was not hurt, and once more changed both talk and tone. they reached the drive's end without a word of wharton. but marcella went to bed hating herself, and aldous, after his solitary drive home, sat up long and late, feverishly pacing and thinking. * * * * * then next evening how differently things fell! marcella, having spent the afternoon at the court, hearing all the final arrangements for the ball, and bearing with miss raeburn in a way which astonished herself, came home full of a sense of duty done, and announced to her mother that she was going to mr. wharton's meeting in the baptist chapel that evening. "unnecessary, don't you think?" said mrs. boyce, lifting her eyebrows. "however, if you go, i shall go with you." most mothers, dealing with a girl of twenty-one, under the circumstances, would have said, "i had rather you stayed at home." mrs. boyce never employed locutions of this kind. she recognised with perfect calmness that marcella's bringing up, and especially her independent years in london, had made it impossible. marcella fidgeted. "i don't know why you should, mamma. papa will be sure to want you. of course, i shall take deacon." "please order dinner a quarter of an hour earlier, and tell deacon to bring down my walking things to the hall," was all mrs. boyce said in answer. marcella walked upstairs with her head very stiff. so her mother, and miss raeburn too, thought it necessary to keep watch on her. how preposterous! she thought of her free and easy relations with her kensington student-friends, and wondered when a more reasonable idea of the relations between men and women would begin to penetrate english country society. mr. boyce talked recklessly of going too. "of course, i know he will spout seditious nonsense," he said irritably to his wife, "but it's the fellow's power of talk that is so astonishing. _he_ isn't troubled with your raeburn heaviness." marcella came into the room as the discussion was going on. "if papa goes," she said in an undertone to her mother as she passed her, "it will spoil the meeting. the labourers will turn sulky. i shouldn't wonder if they did or said something unpleasant. as it is, _you_ had much better not come, mamma. they are sure to attack the cottages--and other things." mrs. boyce took no notice as far as she herself was concerned, but her quiet decision at last succeeded in leaving mr. boyce safely settled by the fire, provided as usual with a cigarette and a french novel. the meeting was held in a little iron baptist chapel, erected some few years before on the outskirts of the village, to the grief and scandal of mr. harden. there were about a hundred and twenty labourers present, and at the back some boys and girls, come to giggle and make a noise--nobody else. the baptist minister, a smooth-faced young man, possessed, as it turned out, of opinions little short of wharton's own in point of vigour and rigour, was already in command. a few late comers, as they slouched in, stole side looks at marcella and the veiled lady in black beside her, sitting in the corner of the last bench; and marcella nodded to one or two of the audience, jim hurd amongst them. otherwise no one took any notice of them. it was the first time that mrs. boyce had been inside any building belonging to the village. wharton arrived late. he had been canvassing at a distance, and neither of the mellor ladies had seen him all day. he slipped up the bench with a bow and a smile to greet them. "i am done!" he said to marcella, as he took off his hat. "my voice is gone, my mind ditto. i shall drivel for half an hour and let them go. did you ever see such a stolid set?" "you will rouse them," said marcella. her eyes were animated, her colour high, and she took no account at all of his plea of weariness. "you challenge me? i must rouse them--that was what you came to see? is that it?" she laughed and made no answer. he left her and went up to the minister's desk, the men shuffling their feet a little, and rattling a stick here and there as he did so. the young minister took the chair and introduced the speaker. he had a strong yorkshire accent, and his speech was divided between the most vehement attacks, couched in the most scriptural language, upon capital and privilege--that is to say, on landlords and the land system, on state churches and the "idle rich," interspersed with quavering returns upon himself, as though he were scared by his own invective. "my brothers, let us be _calm_!" he would say after every burst of passion, with a long deep-voiced emphasis on the last word; "let us, above all things, be _calm_!"--and then bit by bit voice and denunciation would begin to mount again towards a fresh climax of loud-voiced attack, only to sink again to the same lamb-like refrain. mrs. boyce's thin lip twitched, and marcella bore the good gentleman a grudge for providing her mother with so much unnecessary amusement. as for wharton, at the opening of his speech he spoke both awkwardly and flatly; and marcella had a momentary shock. he was, as he said, tired, and his wits were not at command. he began with the general political programme of the party to which--on its extreme left wing--he proclaimed himself to belong. this programme was, of course, by now a newspaper commonplace of the stalest sort. he himself recited it without enthusiasm, and it was received without a spark, so far as appeared, of interest or agreement. the minister gave an "hear, hear," of a loud official sort; the men made no sign. "they might be a set of dutch cheeses!" thought marcella, indignantly, after a while. "but, after all, why should they care for all this? i shall have to get up in a minute and stop those children romping." but through all this, as it were, wharton was only waiting for his second wind. there came a moment when, dropping his quasi-official and high political tone, he said suddenly with another voice and emphasis: "well now, my men, i'll be bound you're thinking, 'that's all pretty enough!--we haven't got anything against it--we dare say it's all right; but we don't care a brass ha'porth about any of it! if that's all you'd got to say to us, you might have let us bide at home. we don't have none too much time to rest our bones a bit by the fire, and talk to the missus and the kids. why didn't you let us alone, instead of bringing us out in the cold?' "well, but it _isn't_ all i've got to say--and you know it--because i've spoken to you before. what i've been talking about is all true, and all important, and you'll see it some day when you're fit. but what can men in your position know about it, or care about it? what do any of you want, but _bread_--" --he thundered on the desk-- "--a bit of decent _comfort_--a bit of _freedom_--freedom from tyrants who call themselves your betters!--a bit of rest in your old age, a home that's something better than a dog-hole, a wage that's something better than starvation, an honest share in the wealth you are making every day and every hour for other people to gorge and plunder!" he stopped a moment to see how _that_ took. a knot of young men in a corner rattled their sticks vigorously. the older men had begun at any rate to look at the speaker. the boys on the back benches instinctively stopped scuffling. then he threw himself into a sort of rapid question-and-answer. what were their wages?--eleven shillings a week? "not they!" cried a man from the middle of the chapel. "yer mus' reckon it wet an' dry. i wor turned back two days las' week, an' two days this, _fower_ shillin' lost each week--that's what i call skinnin' ov yer." wharton nodded at him approvingly. by now he knew the majority of the men in each village by name, and never forgot a face or a biography. "you're right there, watkins. eleven shillings, then, when it isn't less, never more, and precious often less; and harvest money--the people that are kind enough to come round and ask you to vote tory for them make a deal of that, don't they?--and a few odds and ends here and there--precious few of them! there! that's about it for wages, isn't it? thirty pounds a year, somewhere about, to keep a wife and children on--and for ten hours a day work, not counting meal times--that's it, i think. oh, you _are_ well off!--aren't you?" he dropped his arms, folded, on the desk in front of him, and paused to look at them, his bright kindling eye running over rank after rank. a chuckle of rough laughter, bitter and jeering, ran through the benches. then they broke out and applauded him. well, and about their cottages? his glance caught marcella, passed to her mother sitting stiffly motionless under her veil. he drew himself up, thought a moment, then threw himself far forward again over the desk as though the better to launch what he had to say, his voice taking a grinding determined note. he had been in all parts of the division, he said; seen everything, inquired into everything. no doubt, on the great properties there had been a good deal done of late years--public opinion had effected something, the landlords had been forced to disgorge some of the gains wrested from labour, to pay for the decent housing of the labourer. but did anybody suppose that _enough_ had been done? why, he had seen _dens_--aye, on the best properties--not fit for the pigs that the farmers wouldn't let the labourers keep, lest they should steal their straw for the littering of them!--where a man was bound to live the life of a beast, and his children after him-- a tall thin man of about sixty rose in his place, and pointed a long quavering finger at the speaker. "what is it, darwin? speak up!" said wharton, dropping at once into the colloquial tone, and stooping forward to listen. "my sleepin' room's six foot nine by seven foot six. we have to shift our bed for the rain's comin' in, an' yer may see for yoursels ther ain't much room to shift it in. an' beyont us ther's a room for the chillen, same size as ourn, an' no window, nothin' but the door into us. ov a summer night the chillen, three on 'em, is all of a sweat afore they're asleep. an' no garden, an' no chance o' decent ways nohow. an' if yer ask for a bit o' repairs yer get sworn at. an' that's all that most on us can get out of squire boyce!" there was a hasty whisper among some of the men round him, as they glanced over their shoulders at the two ladies on the back bench. one or two of them half rose, and tried to pull him down. wharton looked at marcella; it seemed to him he saw a sort of passionate satisfaction on her pale face, and in the erect carriage of her head. then she stooped to the side and whispered to her mother. mrs. boyce shook her head and sat on, immovable. all this took but a second or two. "ah, well," said wharton, "we won't have names; that'll do us no good. it's not the _men_ you've got to go for so much--though we shall go for them too before long when we've got the law more on our side. it's the system. it's the whole way of dividing the wealth that _you_ made, you and your children--by your work, your hard, slavish, incessant work--between you and those who _don't_ work, who live on your labour and grow fat on your poverty! what we want is _a fair division_. there _ought_ to be wealth enough--there _is_ wealth enough for all in this blessed country. the earth gives it; the sun gives it: labour extracts and piles it up. why should one class take three-fourths of it and leave you and your fellow-workers in the cities the miserable pittance which is all you have to starve and breed on? why?--_why_? i say. why!--because you are a set of dull, jealous, poor-spirited _cowards_, unable to pull together, to trust each other, to give up so much as a pot of beer a week for the sake of your children and your liberties and your class--there, _that's_ why it is, and i tell it you straight out!" he drew himself up, folded his arms across his chest, and looked at them--scorn and denunciation in every line of his young frame, and the blaze of his blue eye. a murmur ran through the room. some of the men laughed excitedly. darwin sprang up again. "you keep the perlice off us, an' gie us the cuttin' up o' their bloomin' parks an' we'll do it fast enough," he cried. "much good that'll do you, just at present," said wharton, contemptuously. "now, you just listen to me." and, leaning forward over the desk again, his finger pointed at the room, he went through the regular socialist programme as it affects the country districts--the transference of authority within the villages from the few to the many, the landlords taxed more and more heavily during the transition time for the provision of house room, water, light, education and amusement for the labourer; and ultimately land and capital at the free disposal of the state, to be supplied to the worker on demand at the most moderate terms, while the annexed rent and interest of the capitalist class relieves him of taxes, and the disappearance of squire, state parson, and plutocrat leaves him master in his own house, the slave of no man, the equal of all. and, as a first step to this new jerusalem--_organisation_!--self-sacrifice enough to form and maintain a union, to vote for radical and socialist candidates in the teeth of the people who have coals and blankets to give away. "then i suppose you think you'd be turned out of your cottages, dismissed your work, made to smart for it somehow. just you try! there are people all over the country ready to back you, if you'd only back yourselves. but you _won't_. you won't fight--that's the worst of you; that's what makes all of us _sick_ when we come down to talk to you. you won't spare twopence halfpenny a week from boozing--not you!--to subscribe to a union, and take the first little step towards filling your stomachs and holding your heads up as free men. what's the good of your grumbling? i suppose you'll go on like that--grumbling and starving and cringing--and talking big of the things you could do if you would:--and all the time not one honest effort--not one!--to better yourselves, to pull the yoke off your necks! by the lord! i tell you it's a _damned_ sort of business talking to fellows like you!" marcella started as he flung the words out with a bitter, nay, a brutal, emphasis. the smooth-faced minister coughed loudly with a sudden movement, half got up to remonstrate, and then thought better of it. mrs. boyce for the first time showed some animation under her veil. her eyes followed the speaker with a quick attention. as for the men, as they turned clumsily to stare at, to laugh, or talk to each other, marcella could hardly make out whether they were angered or fascinated. whichever it was, wharton cared for none of them. his blood was up; his fatigue thrown off. standing there in front of them, his hands in his pockets, pale with the excitement of speaking, his curly head thrown out against the whitened wall of the chapel, he lashed into the men before him, talking their language, their dialect even; laying bare their weaknesses, sensualities, indecisions; painting in the sombrest colours the grim truths of their melancholy lives. marcella could hardly breathe. it seemed to her that, among these cottagers, she had never lived till now--under the blaze of these eyes--within the vibration of this voice. never had she so realised the power of this singular being. he was scourging, dissecting, the weather-beaten men before him, as, with a difference, he had scourged, dissected her. she found herself exulting in his powers of tyranny, in the naked thrust of his words, so nervous, so pitiless. and then by a sudden flash she thought of him by mrs. hurd's fire, the dying child on his knee, against his breast. "here," she thought, while her pulses leapt, "is the leader for me--for these. let him call, i will follow." it was as though he followed the ranging of her thought, for suddenly, when she and his hearers least expected it, his tone changed, his storm of speech sank. he fell into a strain of quiet sympathy, encouragement, hope; dwelt with a good deal of homely iteration on the immediate practical steps which each man before him could, if he would, take towards the common end; spoke of the help and support lying ready for the country labourers throughout democratic england if they would but put forward their own energies and quit themselves like men; pointed forward to a time of plenty, education, social peace; and so--with some good-tempered banter of his opponent, old dodgson, and some precise instructions as to how and where they were to record their votes on the day of election--came to an end. two or three other speeches followed, and among them a few stumbling words from hurd. marcella approved herself and applauded him, as she recognised a sentence or two taken bodily from the _labour clarion_ of the preceding week. then a resolution pledging the meeting to support the liberal candidate was passed unanimously amid evident excitement. it was the first time that such a thing had ever happened in mellor. * * * * * mrs. boyce treated her visitor on their way home with a new respect, mixed, however, as usual, with her prevailing irony. for one who knew her, her manner implied, not that she liked him any more, but that a man so well trained to his own profession must always hold his own. as for marcella, she said little or nothing. but wharton, in the dark of the carriage, had a strange sense that her eye was often on him, that her mood marched with his, and that if he could have spoken her response would have been electric. when he had helped her out of the carriage, and they stood in the vestibule--mrs. boyce having walked on into the hall--he said to her, his voice hoarse with fatigue: "did i do your bidding, did i rouse them?" marcella was seized with sudden shyness. "you rated them enough." "well, did you disapprove?" "oh, no! it seems to be your way." "my proof of friendship? well, can there be a greater? will you show me some to-morrow?" "how can i?" "will you criticise?--tell me where you thought i was a fool to-night, or a hypocrite? your mother would." "i dare say!" said marcella, her breath quickening; "but don't expect it from me." "why?" "because--because i don't pretend. i don't know whether you roused them, but you roused _me_." she swept on before him into the dark hall, without giving him a moment for reply, took her candle, and disappeared. wharton found his own staircase, and went up to bed. the light he carried showed his smiling eyes bent on the ground, his mouth still moving as though with some pleasant desire of speech. chapter vii. wharton was sitting alone in the big mellor drawing-room, after dinner. he had drawn one of the few easy chairs the room possessed to the fire, and with his feet on the fender, and one of mr. boyce's french novels on his knee, he was intensely enjoying a moment of physical ease. the work of these weeks of canvassing and speaking had been arduous, and he was naturally indolent. now, beside this fire and at a distance, it amazed him that any motive whatever, public or private, should ever have been strong enough to take him out through the mire on these winter nights to spout himself hoarse to a parcel of rustics. "what did i do it for?" he asked himself; "what am i going to do it for again to-morrow?" ten o'clock. mr. boyce was gone to bed. no more entertaining of _him_ to be done; one might be thankful for that mercy. miss boyce and her mother would, he supposed, be down directly. they had gone up to dress at nine. it was the night of the maxwell court ball, and the carriage had been ordered for half-past ten. in a few minutes he would see miss boyce in her new dress, wearing raeburn's pearls. he was extraordinarily observant, and a number of little incidents and domestic arrangements bearing on the feminine side of marcella's life had been apparent to him from the beginning. he knew, for instance, that the trousseau was being made at home, and that during the last few weeks the lady for whom it was destined had shown an indifference to the progress of it which seemed to excite a dumb annoyance in her mother. curious woman, mrs. boyce! he found himself listening to every opening door, and already, as it were, gazing at marcella in her white array. he was not asked to this ball. as he had early explained to miss boyce, he and miss raeburn had been "cuts" for years, for what reason he had of course left marcella to guess. as if marcella found any difficulty in guessing--as if the preposterous bigotries and intolerances of the ladies' league were not enough to account for any similar behaviour on the part of any similar high-bred spinster! as for this occasion, she was far too proud both on her own behalf and wharton's to say anything either to lord maxwell or his sister on the subject of an invitation for her father's guest. it so happened, however, that wharton was aware of certain other reasons for his social exclusion from maxwell court. there was no necessity, of course, for enlightening miss boyce on the point. but as he sat waiting for her, wharton's mind went back to the past connected with those reasons. in that past raeburn had had the whip-hand of him; raeburn had been the moral superior dictating indignant terms to a young fellow detected in flagrant misconduct. wharton did not know that he bore him any particular grudge. but he had never liked aldous, as a boy, that he could remember; naturally he had liked him less since that old affair. the remembrance of it had made his position at mellor particularly sweet to him from the beginning; he was not sure that it had not determined his original acceptance of the offer made to him by the liberal committee to contest old dodgson's seat. and during the past few weeks the exhilaration and interest of the general position--considering all things--had been very great. not only was he on the point of ousting the maxwell candidate from a seat which he had held securely for years--wharton was perfectly well aware by now that he was trespassing on aldous raeburn's preserves in ways far more important, and infinitely more irritating! he and raeburn had not met often at mellor during these weeks of fight. each had been too busy. but whenever they had come across each other wharton had clearly perceived that his presence in the house, his growing intimacy with marcella boyce, the free-masonry of opinion between them, the interest she took in his contest, the village friendships they had in common, were all intensely galling to aldous raeburn. the course of events, indeed, had lately produced in wharton a certain excitement--recklessness even. he had come down into these parts to court "the joy of eventful living"--politically and personally. but the situation had proved to be actually far more poignant and personal than he had expected. this proud, crude, handsome girl--to her certainly it was largely due that the days had flown as they had. he was perfectly, one might almost say gleefully, aware that at the present moment it was he and not aldous raeburn who was intellectually her master. his mind flew back at first with amusement, then with a thrill of something else, over their talks and quarrels. he smiled gaily as he recalled her fits of anger with him, her remonstrances, appeals--and then her awkward inevitable submissions when he had crushed her with sarcasm or with facts. ah! she would go to this ball to-night; aldous raeburn would parade her as his possession; but she would go with thoughts, ambitions, ideals, which, as they developed, would make her more and more difficult for a raeburn to deal with. and in those thoughts and ambitions the man who had been her tormentor, teacher, and companion during six rushing weeks knew well that he already counted for much. he had cherished in her all those "divine discontents" which were already there when he first knew her; taught her to formulate them, given her better reasons for them; so that by now she was a person with a far more defined and stormy will than she had been to begin with. wharton did not particularly know why he should exult; but he did exult. at any rate, he was prodigiously tickled--by the whole position. a step, a rustle outside--he hastily shut his book and listened. the door opened, and marcella came in--a white vision against the heavy blue of the walls. with her came, too, a sudden strong scent of flowers, for she carried a marvellous bunch of hot-house roses, aldous's gift, which had just arrived by special messenger. wharton sprang up and placed a chair for her. "i had begun to believe the ball only existed in my own imagination!" he said gaily. "surely you are very late." then he saw that she looked disturbed. "it was papa," she said, coming to the fire, and looking down into it. "it has been another attack of pain--not serious, mamma says; she is coming down directly. but i wonder why they come, and why he thinks himself so ill--do you know?" she added abruptly, turning to her companion. wharton hesitated, taken by surprise. during the past weeks, what with mr. boyce's confidence and his own acuteness, he had arrived at a very shrewd notion of what was wrong with his host. but he was not going to enlighten the daughter. "i should say your father wants a great deal of care--and is nervous about himself," he said quietly. "but he will get the care--and your mother knows the whole state of the case." "yes, she knows," said marcella. "i wish i did." and a sudden painful expression--of moral worry, remorse--passed across the girl's face. wharton knew that she had often been impatient of late with her father, and incredulous of his complaints. he thought he understood. "one can often be of more use to a sick person if one is not too well acquainted with what ails them," he said. "hope and cheerfulness are everything in a case like your father's. he will do well." "if he does he won't owe any of it--" she stopped as impulsively as she had begun. "to me," she meant to have said; then had retreated hastily, before her own sense of something unduly intimate and personal. wharton stood quietly beside her, saying nothing, but receiving and soothing her self-reproach just as surely as though she had put it into words. "you are crushing your flowers, i think," he said suddenly. and indeed her roses were dangling against her dress, as if she had forgotten all about them. she raised them carelessly, but he bent to smell them, and she held them out. "summer!" he said, plunging his face into them with a long breath of sensuous enjoyment. "how the year sweeps round in an instant! and all the effect of a little heat and a little money. will you allow me a philosopher's remark?" he drew back from her. his quick inquisitive but still respectful eye took in every delightful detail. "if i don't give you leave, my experience is that you will take it!" she said, half laughing, half resentful, as though she had old aggressions in mind. "you admit the strength of the temptation? it is very simple, no one could help making it. to be spectator of the _height_ of anything--the best, the climax--makes any mortal's pulses run. beauty, success, happiness, for instance?" he paused smiling. she leant a thin hand on the mantelpiece and looked away; aldous's pearls slipped backwards along her white arm. "do you suppose to-night will be the height of happiness?" she said at last with a little scorn. "these functions don't present themselves to _me_ in such a light." wharton could have laughed out--her pedantry was so young and unconscious. but he restrained himself. "i shall be with the majority to-night," he said demurely. "i may as well warn you." her colour rose. no other man had ever dared to speak to her with this assurance, this cool scrutinising air. she told herself to be indignant; the next moment she _was_ indignant, but with herself for remembering conventionalities. "tell me one thing," said wharton, changing his tone wholly. "i know you went down hurriedly to the village before dinner. was anything wrong?" "old patton is very ill," she said, sighing. "i went to ask after him; he may die any moment. and the hurds' boy too." he leant against the mantelpiece, talking to her about both cases with a quick incisive common-sense--not unkind, but without a touch of unnecessary sentiment, still less of the superior person--which represented one of the moods she liked best in him. in speaking of the poor he always took the tone of comradeship, of a plain equality, and the tone was, in fact, genuine. "do you know," he said presently, "i did not tell you before, but i am certain that hurd's wife is afraid of you, that she has a secret from you?" "from me! how could she? i know every detail of their affairs." "no matter. i listened to what she said that day in the cottage when i had the boy on my knee. i noticed her face, and i am quite certain. she has a secret, and above all a secret from you." marcella looked disturbed for a moment, then she laughed. "oh, no!" she said, with a little superior air. "i assure you i know her better than you." wharton said no more. "marcella!" called a distant voice from the hall. the girl gathered up her white skirts and her flowers in haste. "good-night!" "good-night! i shall hear you come home and wonder how you have sped. one word, if i may! take your _rôle_ and play it. there is nothing subjects dislike so much as to see royalty decline its part." she laughed, blushed, a little proudly and uncertainly, and went without reply. as she shut the door behind her, a sudden flatness fell upon her. she walked through the dark stone parlour outside, seeing still the firmly-knit lightly-made figure--boyish, middle-sized, yet never insignificant--the tumbled waves of fair hair, the eyes so keenly blue, the face with its sharp mocking lines, its powers of sudden charm. then self-reproach leapt, and possessed her. she quickened her pace, hurrying into the hall, as though from something she was ashamed or afraid of. in the hall a new sensation awaited her. her mother, fully dressed, stood waiting by the old billiard-table for her maid, who had gone to fetch her a cloak. marcella stopped an instant in surprise and delight, then ran up to her. "mamma, how _lovely_ you look! i haven't seen you like that, not since i was a child. i remember you then once, in a low dress, a white dress, with flowers, coming into the nursery. but that black becomes you so well, and deacon has done your hair beautifully!" she took her mother's hand and kissed her cheek, touched by an emotion which had many roots. there was infinite relief in this tender natural outlet; she seemed to recover possession of herself. mrs. boyce bore the kiss quietly. her face was a little pinched and white. but the unusual display deacon had been allowed to make of her pale golden hair, still long and abundant; the unveiling of the shapely shoulders and neck, little less beautiful than her daughter's; the elegant lines of the velvet dress, all these things, had very nobly transformed her. marcella could not restrain her admiration and delight. mrs. boyce winced, and, looking upward to the gallery, which ran round the hall, called deacon impatiently. "only, mamma," said marcella, discontentedly, "i don't like that little chain round your neck. it is not equal to the rest, not worthy of it." "i have nothing else, my dear," said mrs. boyce, drily. "now, deacon, don't be all night!" nothing else? yet, if she shut her eyes, marcella could perfectly recall the diamonds on the neck and arms of that white figure of her childhood--could see herself as a baby playing with the treasures of her mother's jewel-box. nowadays, mrs. boyce was very secretive and reserved about her personal possessions. marcella never went into her room unless she was asked, and would never have thought of treating it or its contents with any freedom. the mean chain which went so ill with the costly hoarded dress--it recalled to marcella all the inexorable silent miseries of her mother's past life, and all the sordid disadvantages and troubles of her own youth. she followed mrs. boyce out to the carriage in silence--once more in a tumult of sore pride and doubtful feeling. * * * * * four weeks to her wedding-day! the words dinned in her ears as they drove along. yet they sounded strange to her, incredible almost. how much did she know of aldous, of her life that was to be--above all, how much of herself? she was not happy--had not been happy or at ease for many days. yet in her restlessness she could think nothing out. moreover, the chain that galled and curbed her was a chain of character. in spite of her modernness, and the complexity of many of her motives, there was certain inherited simplicities of nature at the bottom of her. in her wild demonic childhood you could always trust marcie boyce, if she had given you her word--her schoolfellows knew that. if her passions were half-civilised and southern, her way of understanding the point of honour was curiously english, sober, tenacious. so now. her sense of bond to aldous had never been in the least touched by any of her dissatisfactions and revolts. yet it rushed upon her to-night with amazement, and that in four weeks she was going to marry him! why? how?--what would it really _mean_ for him and for her? it was as though in mid-stream, she were trying to pit herself for an instant against the current which had so far carried them all on, to see what it might be like to retrace a step, and could only realise with dismay the force and rapidity of the water. yet all the time another side of her was well aware that she was at that moment the envy of half a county, that in another ten minutes hundreds of eager and critical eyes would be upon her; and her pride was rising to her part. the little incident of the chain had somehow for the moment made the ball and her place in it more attractive to her. * * * * * they had no sooner stepped from their carriage than aldous, who was waiting in the outer hall, joyously discovered them. till then he had been walking aimlessly amid the crowd of his own guests, wondering when she would come, how she would like it. this splendid function had been his grandfather's idea; it would never have entered his own head for a moment. yet he understood his grandfather's wish to present his heir's promised bride in this public ceremonious way to the society of which she would some day be the natural leader. he understood, too, that there was more in the wish than met the ear; that the occasion meant to lord maxwell, whether dick boyce were there or no, the final condoning of things past and done with, a final throwing of the maxwell shield over the boyce weakness, and full adoption of marcella into her new family. all this he understood and was grateful for. but how would _she_ respond? how would she like it--this parade that was to be made of her--these people that must be introduced to her? he was full of anxieties. yet in many ways his mind had been easier of late. during the last week she had been very gentle and good to him--even miss raeburn had been pleased with her. there had been no quoting of wharton when they met; and he had done his philosopher's best to forget him. he trusted her proudly, intensely; and in four weeks she would be his wife. "can you bear it?" he said to her in a laughing whisper as she and her mother emerged from the cloak-room. "tell me what to do," she said, flushing. "i will do my best. what a crowd! must we stay very long?" "ah, my dear mrs. boyce," cried lord maxwell, meeting them on the steps of the inner quadrangular corridor--"welcome indeed! let me take you in. marcella! with aldous's permission!" he stooped his white head gallantly and kissed her on the cheek--"remember i am an old man; if i choose to pay you compliments, you will have to put up with them!" then he offered mrs. boyce his arm, a stately figure in his ribbon and cross of the bath. a delicate red had risen to that lady's thin cheek in spite of her self-possession. "poor thing," said lord maxwell to himself as he led her along--"poor thing!--how distinguished and charming still! one sees to-night what she was like as a girl." aldous and marcella followed. they had to pass along the great corridor which ran round the quadrangle of the house. the antique marbles which lined it were to-night masked in flowers, and seats covered in red had been fitted in wherever it was possible, and were now crowded with dancers "sitting out." from the ball-room ahead came waves of waltz-music; the ancient house was alive with colour and perfume, with the sounds of laughter and talk, lightly fretting, and breaking the swaying rhythms of the band. beyond the windows of the corridor, which had been left uncurtained because of the beauty of the night, the stiff tudor garden with its fountains, which filled up the quadrangle, was gaily illuminated under a bright moon; and amid all the varied colour of lamps, drapery, dresses, faces, the antique heads ranged along the walls of the corridor--here marcus aurelius, there trajan, there seneca--and the marble sarcophagi which broke the line at intervals, stood in cold, whitish relief. marcella passed along on aldous's arm, conscious that people were streaming into the corridor from all the rooms opening upon it, and that every eye was fixed upon her and her mother. "look, there she is," she heard in an excited girl's voice as they passed lord maxwell's library, now abandoned to the crowd like all the rest. "come, quick! there--i told you she was lovely!" every now and then some old friend, man or woman, rose smiling from the seats along the side, and aldous introduced his bride. "on her dignity!" said an old hunting squire to his daughter when they had passed. "shy, no doubt--very natural! but nowadays girls, when they're shy, don't giggle and blush as they used to in _my_ young days; they look as if you meant to insult them, and they weren't going to allow it! oh, very handsome--very handsome--of course. but you can see she's advanced--peculiar--or what d'ye call it?--woman's rights, i suppose, and all that kind of thing? like to see you go in for it, nettie, eh!" "she's _awfully_ handsome," sighed his pink-cheeked, insignificant little daughter, still craning her neck to look--"very simply dressed too, except for those lovely pearls. she does her hair very oddly, so low down--in those plaits. nobody does it like that nowadays." "that's because nobody has such a head," said her brother, a young hussar lieutenant, beside her, in the tone of connoisseurship. "by george, she's ripping--she's the best-looking girl i've seen for a good long time. but she's a tartar, i'll swear--looks it, anyway." "every one says she has the most extraordinary opinions," said the girl, eagerly. "she'll manage him, don't you think? i'm sure he's very meek and mild." "don't know that," said the young man, twisting his moustache with the air of exhaustive information. "raeburn's a very good fellow--excellent fellow--see him shooting, you know--that kind of thing. i expect he's got a will when he wants it. the mother's handsome, too, and looks a lady. the father's kept out of the way, i see. rather a blessing for the raeburns. can't be pleasant, you know, to get a man like that in the family. look after your spoons--that kind of thing." meanwhile marcella was standing beside miss raeburn, at the head of the long ball-room, and doing her best to behave prettily. one after another she bowed to, or shook hands with, half the magnates of the county--the men in pink, the women in the new london dresses, for which this brilliant and long-expected ball had given so welcome an excuse. they knew little or nothing of her, except that she was clearly good-looking, that she was that fellow dick boyce's daughter and was reported to be "odd." some, mostly men, who said their conventional few words to her, felt an amused admiration for the skill and rapidity with which she had captured the _parti_ of the county; some, mostly women, were already jealous of her. a few of the older people here and there, both men and women--but after all they shook hands like the rest!--knew perfectly well that the girl must be going through an ordeal, were touched by the signs of thought and storm in the face, and looked back at her with kind eyes. but of these last marcella realised nothing. what she was saying to herself was that, if they knew little of her, she knew a great deal of many of them. in their talks over the stone parlour fire she and wharton had gone through most of the properties, large and small, of his division, and indeed of the divisions round, by the help of the knowledge he had gained in his canvass, together with a blue-book--one of the numberless!--recently issued, on the state of the midland labourer. he had abounded in anecdote, sarcasm, reflection, based partly on his own experiences, partly on his endless talks with the working-folk, now in the public-house, now at their own chimney-corner. marcella, indeed, had a large unsuspected acquaintance with the county before she met it in the flesh. she knew that a great many of these men who came and spoke to her were doing their best according to their lights, that improvements were going on, that times were mending. but there were abuses enough still, and the abuses were far more vividly present to her than the improvements. in general, the people who thronged these splendid rooms were to her merely the incompetent members of a useless class. the nation would do away with them in time! meanwhile it might at least be asked of them that they should practise their profession of landowning, such as it was, with greater conscience and intelligence--that they should not shirk its opportunities or idle them away. and she could point out those who did both--scandalously, intolerably. once or twice she thought passionately of minta hurd, washing and mending all day, in her damp cottage; or of the pattons in "the parish house," thankful after sixty years of toil for a hovel where the rain came through the thatch, and where the smoke choked you, unless, with the thermometer below freezing-point, you opened the door to the blast. why should _these_ people have all the gay clothes, the flowers, the jewels, the delicate food--all the delight and all the leisure? and those, nothing! her soul rose against what she saw as she stood there, going through her part. wharton's very words, every inflection of his voice was in her ears, playing chorus to the scene. but when these first introductions, these little empty talks of three or four phrases apiece, and all of them alike, were nearly done with, marcella looked eagerly round for mary harden. there she was, sitting quietly against the wall in a remote corner, her plain face all smiles, her little feet dancing under the white muslin frock which she had fashioned for herself with so much pain under marcella's directions. miss raeburn was called away to find an arm-chair for some dowager of importance; marcella took advantage of the break and of the end of a dance to hurry down the room to mary. aldous, who was talking to old sir charles leven, frank's father, a few steps off, nodded and smiled to her as he saw her move. "have you been dancing, mary?" she said severely. "i wouldn't for worlds! i never was so much amused in my life. look at those girls--those sisters--in the huge velvet sleeves, like coloured balloons!--and that old lady in the pink tulle and diamonds.--i do so want to get her her cloak! _and_ those lancers!--i never could have imagined people danced like that. they didn't dance them--they romped them! it wasn't beautiful--was it?" "why do you expect an english crowd to do anything beautiful? if we could do it, we should be too ashamed." "but it _is_ beautiful, all the same, you scornful person!" cried mary, dragging her friend down beside her. "how pretty the girls are! and as for the diamonds, i never saw anything so wonderful. i wish i could have made charles come!" "wouldn't he?" "no"--she looked a little troubled--"he couldn't think it would be quite right. but i don't know--a sight like this takes me off my feet, shakes me up, and does _me_ a world of good!" "you dear, simple thing!" said marcella, slipping her hand into mary's as it lay on the bench. "oh, you needn't be so superior!" cried mary,--"not for another year at least. i don't believe you are much more used to it than i am!" "if you mean," said marcella, "that i was never at anything so big and splendid as this before, you are quite right." and she looked round the room with that curious, cold air of personal detachment from all she saw, which had often struck mary, and to-night made her indignant. "then enjoy it!" she said, laughing and frowning at the same time. "that's a much more plain duty for _you_ than it was for charles to stay at home--there! haven't you been dancing?" "no, mr. raeburn doesn't dance. but he thinks he can get through the next lancers if i will steer him." "then i shall find a seat where i can look at you," said mary, decidedly. "ah, there is mr. raeburn coming to introduce somebody to you. i knew they wouldn't let you sit here long." aldous brought up a young guardsman, who boldly asked miss boyce for the pleasure of a dance. marcella consented; and off they swept into a room which was only just beginning to fill for the new dance, and where, therefore, for the moment the young grace of both had free play. marcella had been an indefatigable dancer in the old london days at those students' parties, with their dyed gloves and lemonade suppers, which were running in her head now, as she swayed to the rhythm of this perfect band. the mere delight in movement came back to her; and while they danced, she danced with all her heart. then in the pauses she would lean against the wall beside her partner, and rack her brain to find a word to say to him. as for anything that _he_ said, every word--whether of ascot, or the last academy, or the new plays, or the hunting and the elections--sounded to her more vapid than the last. meanwhile aldous stood near mary harden and watched the dancing figure. he had never seen her dance before. mary shyly stole a look at him from time to time. "well," he said at last, stooping to his neighbour, "what are you thinking of?" "i think she is a dream!" said mary, flushing with the pleasure of being able to say it. they were great friends, he and she, and to-night somehow she was not a bit afraid of him. aldous's eye sparkled a moment; then he looked down at her with a kind smile. "if you suppose i am going to let you sit here all night, you are very much mistaken. marcella gave me precise instructions. i am going off this moment to find somebody." "mr. raeburn--don't!" cried mary, catching at him. but he was gone, and she was left in trepidation, imagining the sort of formidable young man who was soon to be presented to her, and shaking at the thought of him. when the dance was over marcella returned to miss raeburn, who was standing at the door into the corridor and had beckoned to her. she went through a number of new introductions, and declared to herself that she was doing all she could. miss raeburn was not so well satisfied. "why can't she smile and chatter like other girls?" thought aunt neta, impatiently. "it's her 'ideas,' i suppose. what rubbish! there, now--just see the difference!" for at the moment lady winterbourne came up, and instantly marcella was all smiles and talk, holding her friend by both hands, clinging to her almost. "oh, do come here!" she said, leading her into a corner. "there's such a crowd, and i say all the wrong things. there!" with a sigh of relief. "now i feel myself protected." "i mustn't keep you," said lady winterbourne, a little taken aback by her effusion. "everybody is wanting to talk to you." "oh, i know! there is miss raeburn looking at me severely already. but i must do as i like a little." "you ought to do as aldous likes," said lady winterbourne, suddenly, in her deepest and most tragic voice. it seemed to her a moment had come for admonition, and she seized it hastily. marcella stared at her in surprise. she knew by now that when lady winterbourne looked most forbidding she was in reality most shy. but still she was taken aback. "why do you say that, i wonder?" she asked, half reproachfully. "i have been behaving myself quite nicely--i have indeed; at least, as nicely as i knew how." lady winterbourne's tragic air yielded to a slow smile. "you look very well, my dear. that white becomes you charmingly; so do the pearls. i don't wonder that aldous always knows where you are." marcella raised her eyes and caught those of aldous fixed upon her from the other side of the room. she blushed, smiled slightly, and looked away. "who is that tall man just gone up to speak to him?" she asked of her companion. "that is lord wandle," said lady winterbourne, "and his plain second wife behind him. edward always scolds me for not admiring him. he says women know nothing at all about men's looks, and that lard wandle was the most splendid man of his time. but i always think it an unpleasant face." "lord wandle!" exclaimed marcella, frowning. "oh, _please_ come with me, dear lady winterbourne! i know he is asking aldous to introduce him, and i won't--no i will _not_--be introduced to him." and laying hold of her astonished companion, she drew her hastily through a doorway near, walked quickly, still gripping her, through two connected rooms beyond, and finally landed her and herself on a sofa in lord maxwell's library, pursued meanwhile through all her hurried course by the curious looks of an observant throng. "that man!--no, that would really have been _too_ much!" said marcella, using her large feather fan with stormy energy. "what _is_ the matter with you, my dear?" said lady winterbourne in her amazement; "and what is the matter with lord wandle?" "you must know!" said marcella, indignantly. "oh, you _must_ have seen that case in the paper last week--that _shocking_ case! a woman and two children died in one of his cottages of blood-poisoning--nothing in the world but his neglect--his _brutal_ neglect!" her breast heaved; she seemed almost on the point of weeping. "the agent was appealed to--did nothing. then the clergyman wrote to him direct, and got an answer. the answer was published. for cruel insolence i never saw anything like it! he ought to be in prison for manslaughter--and he comes _here_! and people laugh and talk with him!" she stopped, almost choked by her own passion. but the incident, after all, was only the spark to the mine. lady winterbourne stared at her helplessly. "perhaps it isn't true," she suggested. "the newspapers put in so many lies, especially about _us_--the landlords. edward says one ought never to believe them. ah, here comes aldous." aldous, indeed, with some perplexity on his brow, was to be seen approaching, looking for his betrothed. marcella dropped her fan and sat erect, her angry colour fading into whiteness. "my darling! i couldn't think what had become of you. may i bring lord wandle and introduce him to you? he is an old friend here, and my godfather. not that i am particularly proud of the relationship," he said, dropping his voice as he stooped over her. "he is a soured, disagreeable fellow, and i hate many of the things he does. but it is an old tie, and my grandfather is tender of such things. only a word or two; then i will get rid of him." "aldous, i _can't_," said marcella, looking up at him. "how could i? i saw that case. i must be rude to him." aldous looked considerably disturbed. "it was very bad," he said slowly. "i didn't know you had seen it. what shall i do? i promised to go back for him." "lord wandle--miss boyce!" said miss raeburn's sharp little voice behind aldous. aldous, moving aside in hasty dismay, saw his aunt, looking very determined, presenting her tall neighbour, who bowed with old-fashioned deference to the girl on the sofa. lady winterbourne looked with trepidation at marcella. but the social instinct held, to some extent. ninety-nine women can threaten a scene of the kind lady winterbourne dreaded, for one that can carry it through. marcella wavered; then, with her most forbidding air, she made a scarcely perceptible return of lord wandle's bow. "did you escape in here out of the heat?" he asked her. "but i am afraid no one lets you escape to-night. the occasion is too interesting." marcella made no reply. lady winterbourne threw in a nervous remark on the crowd. "oh, yes, a great crush," said lord wandle. "of course, we all come to see aldous happy. how long is it, miss boyce, since you settled at mellor?" "six months." she looked straight before her and not at him as she answered, and her tone made miss raeburn's blood boil. lord wandle--a battered, coarsened, but still magnificent-looking man of sixty--examined the speaker an instant from half-shut eyes, then put up his hand to his moustache with a half-smile. "you like the country?" "yes." as she spoke her reluctant monosyllable, the girl had really no conception of the degree of hostility expressed in her manner. instead she was hating herself for her own pusillanimity. "and the people?" "some of them." and straightway she raised her fierce black eyes to his, and the man before her understood, as plainly as any one need understand, that, whoever else miss boyce might like, she did not like lord wandle, and wished for no more conversation with him. her interrogator turned to aldous with smiling _aplomb_. "thank you, my dear aldous. now let me retire. no one must _monopolise_ your charming lady." and again he bowed low to her, this time with an ironical emphasis not to be mistaken, and walked away. lady winterbourne saw him go up to his wife, who had followed him at a distance, and speak to her roughly with a frown. they left the room, and presently, through the other door of the library which opened on the corridor, she saw them pass, as though they were going to their carriage. marcella rose. she looked first at miss raeburn--then at aldous. "will you take me away?" she said, going up to him; "i am tired--take me to your room." he put her hand inside his arm, and they pushed their way through the crowd. outside in the passage they met hallin. he had not seen her before, and he put out his hand. but there was something distant in his gentle greeting which struck at this moment like a bruise on marcella's quivering nerves. it came across her that for some time past he had made no further advances to her; that his first eager talk of friendship between himself and her had dropped; that his _acceptance_ of her into his world and aldous's was somehow suspended--in abeyance. she bit her lip tightly and hurried aldous along. again the same lines of gay, chatting people along the corridor, and on either side of the wide staircase--greetings, introduction--a nightmare of publicity. "rather pronounced--to carry him off like that," said a clergyman to his wife with a kindly smile, as the two tall figures disappeared along the upper gallery. "she will have him all to herself before long." * * * * * aldous shut the door of his sitting-room behind them. marcella quickly drew her hand out of his arm, and going forward to the mantelpiece rested both elbows upon it and hid her face. he looked at her a moment in distress and astonishment, standing a little apart. then he saw that she was crying. the colour flooded into his face, and going up to her he took her hand, which was all she would yield him, and, holding it to his lips, said in her ear every soothing tender word that love's tutoring could bring to mind. in his emotion he told himself and her that he admired and loved her the more for the incident downstairs, for the temper she had shown! she alone among them all had had the courage to strike the true stern christian note. as to the annoyance such courage might bring upon him and her in the future--even as to the trouble it might cause his own dear folk--what real matter? in these things she should lead. what could love have asked better than such a moment? yet marcella's weeping was in truth the weeping of despair. this man's very sweetness to her, his very assumption of the right to comfort and approve her, roused in her a desperate stifled sense of bonds that should never have been made, and that now could not be broken. it was all plain to her at last. his touch had no thrill for her; his frown no terror. she had accepted him without loving him, coveting what he could give her. and now it seemed to her that she cared nothing for anything he could give!--that the life before her was to be one series of petty conflicts between her and a surrounding circumstance which must inevitably in the end be too strong for her, conflicts from which neither heart nor ambition could gain anything. she had desired a great position for what she might do with it. but could she do with it! she would be subdued--oh! very quickly!--to great houses and great people, and all the vapid pomp and idle toil of wealth. all that picture of herself, stooping from place and power, to bind up the wounds of the people, in which she had once delighted, was to her now a mere flimsy vulgarity. she had been shown other ideals--other ways--and her pulses were still swaying under the audacity--the virile inventive force of the showman. everything she had once desired looked flat to her; everything she was not to have, glowed and shone. poverty, adventure, passion, the joys of self-realisation--these she gave up. she would become lady maxwell, make friends with miss raeburn, and wear the family diamonds! then, in the midst of her rage with herself and fate, she drew herself away, looked up, and caught full the eyes of aldous raeburn. conscience stung and burned. what was this life she had dared to trifle with--this man she had dared to treat as a mere pawn in her own game? she gave way utterly, appalled at her own misdoing, and behaved like a penitent child. aldous, astonished and alarmed by her emotions and by the wild incoherent things she said, won his way at last to some moments of divine happiness, when, leaving her trembling hand in his, she sat submissively beside him, gradually quieting down, summoning back her smiles and her beauty, and letting him call her all the fond names he would. chapter viii. scarcely a word was exchanged between marcella and her mother on the drive home. yet under ordinary circumstances marcella's imagination would have found some painful exercise in the effort to find out in what spirit her mother had taken the evening--the first social festivity in which richard boyce's wife had taken part for sixteen years. in fact, mrs. boyce had gone through it very quietly. after her first public entry on lord maxwell's arm she had sat in her corner, taking keen note of everything, enjoying probably the humours of her kind. several old acquaintances who had seen her at mellor as a young wife in her first married years had come up with some trepidation to speak to her. she had received them with her usual well-bred indifference, and they had gone away under the impression that she regarded herself as restored to society by this great match that her daughter was making. lady winterbourne had been shyly and therefore formidably kind to her; and both lord maxwell and miss raeburn had been genuinely interested in smoothing the effort to her as much as they could. she meanwhile watched marcella--except through the encounter with lord wandle, which she did not see--and found some real pleasure in talking both to aldous and to hallin. yet all through she was preoccupied, and towards the end very anxious to get home, a state of mind which prevented her from noticing marcella's changed looks after her reappearance with aldous in the ball-room, as closely as she otherwise might have done. yet the mother _had_ observed that the end of marcella's progress had been somewhat different from the beginning; that the girl's greetings had been gentler, her smiles softer; and that in particular she had taken some pains, some wistful pains, to make hallin talk to her. lord maxwell--ignorant of the wandle incident--was charmed with her, and openly said so, both to the mother and lady winterbourne, in his hearty old man's way. only miss raeburn held indignantly aloof, and would not pretend, even to mrs. boyce. and now marcella was tired--dead tired, she said to herself, both in mind and body. she lay back in the carriage, trying to sink herself in her own fatigue, to forget everything, to think of nothing. outside the night was mild, and the moon clear. for some days past, after the break up of the long frost, there had been heavy rain. now the rain had cleared away, and in the air there was already an early promise of spring. as she walked home from the village that afternoon she had felt the buds and the fields stirring. when they got home, mrs. boyce turned to her daughter at the head of the stairs, "shall i unlace your dress, marcella?" "oh no, thank you. can i help you?" "no. good-night." "mamma!" marcella turned and ran after her. "i should like to know how papa is. i will wait here if you will tell me." mrs. boyce looked surprised. then she went into her room and shut the door. marcella waited outside, leaning against the old oak gallery which ran round the hall, her candle the one spot of light and life in the great dark house. "he seems to have slept well," said mrs. boyce, reappearing, and speaking under her breath. "he has not taken the opiate i left for him, so he cannot have been in pain. good-night." marcella kissed her and went. somehow, in her depression of nerve and will, she was loth to go away by herself. the loneliness of the night, and of her wing of the house, weighed upon her; the noises made by the old boards under her steps, the rustling draughts from the dark passages to right and left startled and troubled her; she found herself childishly fearing lest her candle should go out. yet, as she descended the two steps to the passage outside her door, she could have felt little practical need of it, for the moonlight was streaming in through its uncovered windows, not directly, but reflected from the tudor front of the house which ran at right angles to this passage, and was to-night a shining silver palace, every battlement, window, and moulding in sharpest light and shade under the radiance of the night. beneath her feet, as she looked out into the cedar garden, was a deep triangle of shadow, thrown by that part of the building in which she stood; and beyond the garden the barred black masses of the cedars closing up the view lent additional magic to the glittering unsubstantial fabric of the moonlit house, which was, as it were, embosomed and framed among them. she paused a moment, struck by the strangeness and beauty of the spectacle. the tudor front had the air of some fairy banqueting-hall lit by unearthly hands for some weird gathering of ghostly knights. then she turned to her room, impatiently longing in her sick fatigue to be quit of her dress and ornaments and tumble into sleep. yet she made no hurry. she fell on the first chair that offered. her candle behind her had little power over the glooms of the dark tapestried room, but it did serve to illuminate the lines of her own form, as she saw it reflected in the big glass of her wardrobe, straight in front of her. she sat with her hands round her knees, absently looking at herself, a white long-limbed apparition struck out of the darkness. but she was conscious of nothing save one mounting overwhelming passionate desire, almost a cry. mr. wharton must go away--he _must_--or she could not bear it. quick alternations of insight, memory, self-recognition, self-surrender, rose and broke upon her. at last, physical weariness recalled her. she put up her hands to take off her pearls. as she did so, she started, hearing a noise that made her turn her head. just outside her door a little spiral staircase led down from her corridor to the one below, which ran at the back of the old library, and opened into the cedar garden at its further end. steps surely--light steps--along the corridor outside, and on the staircase. nor did they die away. she could still hear them,--as she sat, arrested, straining her ears,--pacing slowly along the lower passage. her heart, after its pause, leapt into fluttering life. this room of hers, the two passages, the library, and the staircase, represented that part of the house to which the ghost stories of mellor clung most persistently. substantially the block of building was of early tudor date, but the passages and the staircase had been alterations made with some clumsiness at the time of the erection of the eighteenth-century front, with a view to bringing these older rooms into the general plan. marcella, however, might demonstrate as she pleased that the boyce who was supposed to have stabbed himself on the staircase died at least forty years before the staircase was made. none the less, no servant would go alone, if she could help it, into either passage after dark; and there was much excited marvelling how miss boyce could sleep where she did. deacon abounded in stories of things spiritual and peripatetic, of steps, groans, lights in the library, and the rest. marcella had consistently laughed at her. yet all the same she had made in secret a very diligent pursuit of this ghost, settling in the end to a certain pique with him that he would not show himself to so ardent a daughter of the house. she had sat up waiting for him; she had lingered in the corridor outside, and on the stairs, expecting him. by the help of a favourite carpenter she had made researches into roofs, water-pipes, panelling, and old cupboards, in the hope of finding a practical clue to him. in vain. yet here were the steps--regular, soft, unmistakable. the colour rushed back into her cheeks! her eager healthy youth forgot its woes, flung off its weariness, and panted for an adventure, a discovery. springing up, she threw her fur wrap round her again, and gently opened the door, listening. for a minute, nothing--then a few vague sounds as of something living and moving down below--surely in the library? then the steps again. impossible that it should be any one breaking in. no burglar would walk so leisurely. she closed her door behind her, and, gathering her white satin skirts about her, she descended the staircase. the corridor below was in radiant moonlight, chequered by the few pieces of old furniture it contained, and the black and white of the old portrait prints hanging on the walls. at first her seeking, excited eyes could make out nothing. then in a flash they perceived the figure of wharton at the further end near the garden door, leaning against one of the windows. he was apparently looking out at the moonlit house, and she caught the faint odour of a cigarette. her first instinct was to turn and fly. but wharton had seen her. as he looked about him at the sound of her approach, the moon, which was just rounding the corner of the house, struck on her full, amid the shadows of the staircase, and she heard his exclamation. dignity--a natural pride--made her pause. she came forward slowly--he eagerly. "i heard footsteps," she said, with a coldness under which he plainly saw her embarrassment. "i could not suppose that anybody was still up, so i came down to see." he was silent a moment, scanning her with laughing eyes. then he shook his head. "confess you took me for the ghost?" he said. she hesitated; then must laugh too. she herself had told him the stories, so that his guess was natural. "perhaps i did," she said. "one more disappointment! good-night." he looked after her a quick undecided moment as she made a step in front of him, then at the half-burnt cigarette he held in his hand, threw the end away with a hasty gesture, overtook her and walked beside her along the corridor. "i heard you and your mother come in," he said, as though explaining himself. "then i waited till i thought you must both be asleep, and came down here to look at that wonderful effect on the old house." he pointed to the silver palace outside. "i have a trick of being sleepless--a trick, too, of wandering at night. my own people know it, and bear with me, but i am abashed that you should have found me out. just tell me--in one word--how the ball went?" he paused at the foot of the stairs, his hands on his sides, as keenly wide-awake as though it were three o'clock in the afternoon instead of three in the morning. womanlike, her mood instantly shaped itself to his. "it went very well," she said perversely, putting her satin-slippered foot on the first step. "there were six hundred people upstairs, and four hundred coachmen and footmen downstairs, according to our man. everybody said it was splendid." his piercing enigmatic gaze could not leave her. as he had often frankly warned her, he was a man in quest of sensations. certainly, in this strange meeting with aldous raeburn's betrothed, in the midst of the sleep-bound house, he had found one. her eyes were heavy, her cheek pale. but in this soft vague light--white arms and neck now hidden, now revealed by the cloak she had thrown about her glistening satin--she was more enchanting than he had ever seen her. his breath quickened. he said to himself that he would make miss boyce stay and talk to him. what harm--to her or to raeburn? raeburn would have chances enough before long. why admit his monopoly before the time? she was not in love with him! as to mrs. grundy--absurd! what in the true reasonableness of things was to prevent human beings from conversing by night as well as by day? "one moment"--he said, delaying her. "you must be dead tired--too tired for romance. else i should say to you, turn aside an instant and look at the library. it is a sight to remember." inevitably she glanced behind her, and saw that the library door was ajar. he flung it open, and the great room showed wide, its high domed roof lost in shadow, while along the bare floor and up the latticed books crept, here streaks and fingers, and there wide breadths of light from the unshuttered and curtainless windows. "isn't it the very poetry of night and solitude?" he said, looking in with her. "you love the place; but did you ever see it so lovable? the dead are here; you did right to come and seek them! look at your namesake, in that ray. to-night she lives! she knows that is her husband opposite--those are her books beside her. and the rebel!"--he pointed smiling to the portrait of john boyce. "when you are gone i shall shut myself up here--sit in his chair, invoke him--and put my speech together. i am nervous about to-morrow" (he was bound, as she knew, to a large labour congress in the midlands, where he was to preside), "and sleep will make no terms with me. ah!--how strange! who can that be passing the avenue?" he made a step or two into the room, and put up his hand to his brow, looking intently. involuntarily, yet with a thrill, marcella followed. they walked to the window. "it is _hurd_!" she cried in a tone of distress, pressing her face against the glass. "out at this time, and with a gun! oh, dear, dear!" there could be no question that it was hurd. wharton had seen him linger in the shadowy edge of the avenue, as though reconnoitring, and now, as he stealthily crossed the moonlit grass, his slouching dwarf's figure, his large head, and the short gun under his arm, were all plainly visible. "what do you suppose he is after?" said wharton, still gazing, his hands in his pockets. "i don't know; he wouldn't poach on _our_ land; i'm sure he wouldn't! besides, there is nothing to poach."--wharton smiled.--"he must be going, after all, to lord maxwell's coverts! they are just beyond the avenue, on the side of the hill. oh! it is too disappointing! can we do anything?" she looked at her companion with troubled eyes. this incursion of something sadly and humanly real seemed suddenly to have made it natural to be standing beside him there at that strange hour. her conscience was soothed. wharton shook his head. "i don't see what we could do. how strong the instinct is! i told you that woman had a secret. well, it is only one form--the squalid peasant's form--of the same instinct which sends the young fellows of our class ruffling it and chancing it all over the world. it is the instinct to take one's fling, to get out of the rut, to claim one's innings against the powers that be--nature, or the law, or convention." "i know all that--i never blame them!"--cried marcella--"but just now it is so monstrous--so dangerous! westall specially alert--and this gang about! besides, i got him work from lord maxwell, and made him promise me--for the wife and children's sake." wharton shrugged his shoulders. "i should think westall is right, and that the gang have got hold of him. it is what always happens. the local man is the catspaw.--so you are sorry for him--this man?" he said in another tone, facing round upon her. she looked astonished, and drew herself up nervously, turning at the same time to leave the room. but before she could reply he hurried on: "he--may escape his risk. give your pity, miss boyce, rather to one--who has not escaped!" "i don't know what you mean," she said, unconsciously laying a hand on one of the old chairs beside her to steady herself. "but it is too late to talk. good-night, mr. wharton." "good-bye," he said quietly, yet with a low emphasis, at the same time moving out of her path. she stopped, hesitating. beneath the lace and faded flowers on her breast he could see how her heart beat. "not good-bye? you are coming back after the meeting?" "i think not. i must not inflict myself--on mrs. boyce--any more. you will all be very busy during the next three weeks. it would be an intrusion if i were to come back at such a time--especially--considering the fact"--he spoke slowly--"that i am as distasteful as i now know myself to be, to your future husband. since you all left to-night the house has been very quiet. i sat over the fire thinking. it grew clear to me. i must go, and go at once. besides--a lonely man as i am must not risk his nerve. his task is set him, and there are none to stand by him if he fails." she trembled all over. weariness and excitement made normal self-control almost impossible. "well, then, i must say thank you," she said indistinctly, "for you have taught me a great deal." "you will unlearn it!" he said gaily, recovering his self-possession, so it seemed, as she lost hers. "besides, before many weeks are over you will have heard hard things of me. i know that very well. i can say nothing to meet them. nor should i attempt anything. it may sound brazen, but that past of mine, which i can see perpetually present in aldous raeburn's mind, for instance, and which means so much to his good aunt, means to me just nothing at all! the doctrine of identity must be true--i must be the same person i was then. but, all the same, what i did then does not matter a straw to me now. to all practical purposes i am another man. i was then a youth, idle, _désoeuvré_, playing with all the keys of life in turn. i have now unlocked the path that suits me. its quest has transformed me--as i believe, ennobled me. i do not ask raeburn or any one else to believe it. it is my own affair. only, if we ever meet again in life, you and i, and you think you have reason to ask humiliation of me, do not ask it, do not expect it. the man you will have in your mind has nothing to do with me. i will not be answerable for his sins." as he said these things he was leaning lightly forward, looking up at her, his arms resting on the back of one of the old chairs, one foot crossed over the other. the attitude was easy calm itself. the tone--indomitable, analytic, reflective--matched it. yet, all the same, her woman's instinct divined a hidden agitation, and, woman-like, responded to that and that only. "mr. raeburn will never tell me old stories about anybody," she said proudly. "i asked him once, out--out of curiosity--about you, and he would tell me nothing." "generous!" said wharton, drily. "i am grateful." "no!" cried marcella, indignantly, rushing blindly at the outlet for emotion. "no!--you are not grateful; you are always judging him harshly--criticising, despising what he does." wharton was silent a moment. even in the moonlight she could see the reddening of his cheek. "so be it," he said at last. "i submit. you must know best. but you? are you always content? does this _milieu_ into which you are passing always satisfy you? to-night, did your royalty please you? will it soon be enough for you?" "you know it is not enough," she broke out, hotly; "it is insulting that you should ask in that tone. it means that you think me a hypocrite!--and i have given you no cause--" "good heavens, no!" he exclaimed, interrupting her, and speaking in a low, hurried voice. "i had no motive, no reason for what i said--none--but this, that you are going--that we are parting. i spoke in gibes to make you speak--somehow to strike--to reach you. to-morrow it will be too late!" and before, almost, she knew that he had moved, he had stooped forward, caught a fold of her dress, pressed it to his lips, and dropped it. "don't speak," he said brokenly, springing up, and standing before her in her path. "you shall forgive me--i will compel it! see! here we are on this moonlit space of floor, alone, in the night. very probably we shall never meet again, except as strangers. put off convention, and speak to me, soul to soul! you are not happy altogether in this marriage. i know it. you have as good as confessed it. yet you will go through with it. you have given your word--your honour holds you. i recognise that it holds you. i say nothing, not a syllable, against your bond! but here, to-night, tell me, promise me that you will make this marriage of yours serve _our_ hopes and ends, the ends that you and i have foreseen together--that it shall be your instrument, not your chain. we have been six weeks together. you say you have learnt from me; you have! you have given me your mind, your heart to write on, and i have written. henceforward you will never look at life as you might have done if i had not been here. do you think i triumph, that i boast? ah!" he drew in his breath--"what if in helping you, and teaching you--for i have helped and taught you!--i have undone myself? what if i came here the slave of impersonal causes, of ends not my own? what if i leave--maimed--in face of the battle? not your fault? no, perhaps not! but, at least, you owe me some gentleness now, in these last words--some kindness in farewell." he came closer, held out his hands. with one of her own she put his back, and lifted the other dizzily to her forehead. "don't come near me!" she said, tottering. "what is it? i cannot see. go!" and guiding herself, as though blindfold, to a chair, she sank upon it, and her head dropped. it was the natural result of a moment of intense excitement coming upon nerves already strained and tried to their utmost. she fought desperately against her weakness; but there was a moment when all around her swam, and she knew nothing. then came a strange awakening. what was this room, this weird light, these unfamiliar forms of things, this warm support against which her cheek lay? she opened her eyes languidly. they met wharton's half in wonder. he was kneeling beside her, holding her. but for an instant she realised nothing except his look, to which her own helplessly replied. "once!" she heard him whisper. "once! then nothing more--for ever." and stooping, slowly, deliberately, he kissed her. in a stinging flow, life, shame, returned upon her. she struggled to her feet, pushing him from her. "you dared," she said, "_dared_ such a thing!" she could say no more; but her attitude, fiercely instinct, through all her physical weakness, with her roused best self, was speech enough. he did not venture to approach her. she walked away. he heard the door close, hurrying steps on the little stairs, then silence. he remained where she had left him, leaning against the latticed wall for some time. when he moved it was to pick up a piece of maidenhair which had dropped from her dress. "that was a scene!" he said, looking at it, and at the trembling of his own hand. "it carries one back to the days of the romantics. was i alfred de musset?--and she george sand? did any of them ever taste a more poignant moment than i--when she--lay upon my breast? to be helpless--yet yield nothing--it challenged me! yet i took no advantage--none. when she _looked_--when her eye, her _soul_, was, for that instant, mine, then!--well!--the world has rushed with me since i saw her on the stairs; life can bring me nothing of such a quality again. what did i say?--how much did i mean? my god! how can i tell? i began as an actor, did i finish as a man?" he paced up and down, thinking; gradually, by the help of an iron will quieting down each rebellious pulse. "that poacher fellow did me a good turn. _dare_! the word galled. but, after all, what woman could say less? and what matter? i have held her in my arms, in a setting--under a moon--worthy of her. is not life enriched thereby beyond robbery? and what harm? raeburn is not injured. _she_ will never tell--and neither of us will ever forget. ah!--what was that?" he walked quickly to the window. what he had heard had been a dull report coming apparently from the woods beyond the eastern side of the avenue. as he reached the window it was followed by a second. "that poacher's gun?--no doubt!"--he strained his eyes in vain--"collision perhaps--and mischief? no matter! i have nothing to do with it. the world is all lyric for me to-night. i can hear in it no other rhythm." * * * * * the night passed away. when the winter morning broke, marcella was lying with wide sleepless eyes, waiting and pining for it. her candle still burnt beside her; she had had no courage for darkness, nor the smallest desire for sleep. she had gone through shame and anguish. but she would have scorned to pity herself. was it not her natural, inevitable portion? "i will tell aldous everything--_everything_," she said to herself for the hundredth time, as the light penetrated. "was _that_ only seven striking--_seven_--impossible!" she sat up haggard and restless, hardly able to bear the thought of the hours that must pass before she could see aldous--put all to the touch. suddenly she remembered hurd--then old patton. "he was dying last night," she thought, in her moral torment--her passion to get away from herself. "is he gone? this is the hour when old people die--the dawn. i will go and see--go at once." she sprang up. to baffle this ache within her by some act of repentance, of social amends, however small, however futile--to propitiate herself, if but by a hairbreadth--this, no doubt, was the instinct at work. she dressed hastily, glad of the cold, glad of the effort she had to make against the stiffness of her own young bones--glad of her hunger and faintness, of everything physically hard that had to be fought and conquered. in a very short time she had passed quietly downstairs and through the hall, greatly to the amazement of william, who opened the front door for her. once in the village road the damp raw air revived her greatly. she lifted her hot temples to it, welcoming the waves of wet mist that swept along the road, feeling her youth come back to her. suddenly as she was nearing the end of a narrow bit of lane between high hedges, and the first houses of the village were in sight, she was stopped by a noise behind her--a strange unaccountable noise as of women's voices, calling and wailing. it startled and frightened her, and she stood in the middle of the road waiting. then she saw coming towards her two women running at full speed, crying and shouting, their aprons up to their faces. "what is it? what is the matter?" she asked, going to meet them, and recognising two labourers' wives she knew. "oh! miss--oh! miss!" said the foremost, too wrapt up in her news to be surprised at the sight of her. "they've just found him--they're bringin' ov 'im home; they've got a shutter from muster wellin! 'im at disley farm. it wor close by disley wood they found 'em. and there's one ov 'is men they've sent off ridin' for the inspector--here he come, miss! come out o' th' way!" they dragged her back, and a young labourer galloped past them on a farm colt, urging it on to its full pace, his face red and set. "who is found?" cried marcella--"what is it?" "westall, miss--lor' bless you--shot him in the head they did--blowed his brains right out--and charlie dynes--oh! he's knocked about shamful--the doctor don't give no hopes of him. oh deary--deary me! and we're goin' for muster harden--ee must tell the widder--or miss mary--none on us can!" "and who did it?" said marcella, pale with horror, holding her. "why the poachers, miss. them as they've bin waitin' for all along--and they do say as jim hurd's in it. oh lord, oh lord!" marcella stood petrified, and let them hurry on. chapter ix. the lane was still again, save for the unwonted sounds coming from the groups which had gathered round the two women, and were now moving beside them along the village street a hundred yards ahead. marcella stood in a horror of memory--seeing hurd's figure cross the moonlit avenue from dark to dark. where was he? had he escaped? suddenly she set off running, stung by the thought of what might have already happened under the eyes of that unhappy wife, those wretched children. as she entered the village, a young fellow ran up to her in breathless excitement. "they've got 'im, miss. he'd come straight home--'adn't made no attempt to run. as soon as jenkins" (jenkins was the policeman) "heared of it, ee went straight across to 'is house, an' caught 'im. ee wor goin' to make off--'is wife 'ad been persuadin' ov 'im all night. but they've got him, miss, sure enough!" the lad's exultation was horrible. marcella waved him aside and ran on. a man on horseback appeared on the road in front of her leading from widrington to the village. she recognised aldous raeburn, who had checked his horse in sudden amazement as he saw her talking to the boy. "my darling! what are you here for? oh! go home--go _home_!--out of this horrible business. they have sent for me as a magistrate. dynes is alive--i _beg_ you!--go home!" she shook her head, out of breath and speechless with running. at the same moment she and he, looking to the right, caught sight of the crowd standing in front of hurd's cottage. a man ran out from it, seeing the horse and its rider. "muster raeburn! muster raeburn! they've cotched 'im; jenkins has got 'im." "ah!" said aldous, drawing a long, stern breath; "he didn't try to get off then? marcella!--you are not going there--to that house!" he spoke in a tone of the strongest remonstrance. her soul rose in anger against it. "i am going to _her_" she said panting;--"don't wait." and she left him and hurried on. as soon as the crowd round the cottage saw her coming, they divided to let her pass. "she's quiet now, miss," said a woman to her significantly, nodding towards the hovel. "just after jenkins got in you could hear her crying out pitiful." "that was when they wor a-handcuffin' him," said a man beside her. marcella shuddered. "will they let me in?" she asked. "they won't let none ov _us_ in," said the man. "there's hurd's sister," and he pointed to a weeping woman supported by two others. "they've kep' her out. but here's the inspector, miss; you ask him." the inspector, a shrewd officer of long experience, fetched in haste from a mile's distance, galloped up, and gave his horse to a boy. marcella went up to him. he looked at her with sharp interrogation. "you are miss boyce? miss boyce of mellor?" "yes, i want to go to the wife; i will promise not to get in your way." he nodded. the crowd let them pass. the inspector knocked at the door, which was cautiously unlocked by jenkins, and the two went in together. "she's a queer one," said a thin, weasel-eyed man in the crowd to his neighbour. "to think o' her bein' in it--at this time o' day. you could see muster raeburn was a tellin' of her to go 'ome. but she's allus pampered them hurds." the speaker was ned patton, old patton's son, and hurd's companion on many a profitable night-walk. it was barely a week since he had been out with hurd on another ferreting expedition, some of the proceeds of which were still hidden in patton's outhouse. but at the present moment he was one of the keenest of the crowd, watching eagerly for the moment when he should see his old comrade come out, trapped and checkmated, bound safely and surely to the gallows. the natural love of incident and change which keeps life healthy had been starved in him by his labourer's condition. this sudden excitement had made a brute of him. the man next him grimaced, and took his pipe out of his mouth a moment. "_she_ won't be able to do nothin' for 'im! there isn't a man nor boy in this 'ere place as didn't know as ee hated westall like pison, and would be as like as not to do for 'im some day. that'll count agen 'im now terrible strong! ee wor allus one to blab, ee wor." "well, an' westall said jus' as much!" struck in another voice; "theer wor sure to be a fight iv ever westall got at 'im--on the job. you see--they may bring it in manslarter after all." "'ow does any one know ee wor there at all? who seed him?" inquired a white-haired elderly man, raising a loud quavering voice from the middle of the crowd. "charlie dynes seed 'im," cried several together. "how do yer know ee seed 'im?" from the babel of voices which followed the white-haired man slowly gathered the beginnings of the matter. charlie dynes, westall's assistant, had been first discovered by a horsekeeper in farmer wellin's employment as he was going to his work. the lad had been found under a hedge, bleeding and frightfully injured, but still alive. close beside him was the dead body of westall with shot-wounds in the head. on being taken to the farm and given brandy, dynes was asked if he had recognised anybody. he had said there were five of them, "town chaps"; and then he had named hurd quite plainly--whether anybody else, nobody knew. it was said he would die, and that mr. raeburn had gone to take his deposition. "an' them town chaps got off, eh?" said the elderly man. "clean!" said patton, refilling his pipe. "trust them!" meanwhile, inside this poor cottage marcella was putting out all the powers of the soul. as the door closed behind her and the inspector, she saw hurd sitting handcuffed in the middle of the kitchen, watched by a man whom jenkins, the local policeman, had got in to help him, till some more police should arrive. jenkins was now upstairs searching the bedroom. the little bronchitic boy sat on the fender, in front of the untidy fireless grate, shivering, his emaciated face like a yellowish white mask, his eyes fixed immovably on his father. every now and then he was shaken with coughing, but still he looked--with the dumb devoted attention of some watching animal. hurd, too, was sitting silent. his eyes, which seemed wider open and more brilliant than usual, wandered restlessly from thing to thing about the room; his great earth-stained hands in their fetters twitched every now and then on his knee. haggard and dirty as he was, there was a certain aloofness, a dignity even, about the misshapen figure which struck marcella strangely. both criminal and victim may have it--this dignity. it means that a man feels himself set apart from his kind. hurd started at sight of marcella. "i want to speak to her," he said hoarsely, as the inspector approached him--"to that lady"--nodding towards her. "very well," said the inspector; "only it is my duty to warn you that anything you say now will be taken down and used as evidence at the inquest." marcella came near. as she stood in front of him, one trembling ungloved hand crossed over the other, the diamond in her engagement ring catching the light from the window sparkled brightly, diverting even for the moment the eyes of the little fellow against whom her skirts were brushing. "ee might ha' killed me just as well as i killed 'im," said hurd, bending over to her and speaking with difficulty from the dryness of his mouth. "i didn't mean nothink o' what happened. he and charlie came on us round disley wood. he didn't take no notice o' them. it was they as beat charlie. but he came straight on at me--all in a fury--a blackguardin' ov me, with his stick up. i thought he was for beatin' my brains out, an' i up with my gun and fired. he was so close--that was how he got it all in the head. but ee might 'a' killed me just as well." he paused, staring at her with a certain anguished intensity, as though he were watching to see how she took it--nay, trying its effect both on her and himself. he did not look afraid or cast down--nay, there was a curious buoyancy and steadiness about his manner for the moment which astonished her. she could almost have fancied that he was more alive, more of a _man_ than she had ever seen him--mind and body better fused, more at command. "is there anything more you wish to say to me?" she asked him, after waiting. then suddenly his manner changed. their eyes met. hers, with all their subtle inheritance of various expression, their realised character, as it were, searched his, tried to understand them--those peasant eyes, so piercing to her strained sense in their animal urgency and shame. _why_ had he done this awful thing?--deceived her--wrecked his wife?--that was what her look asked. it seemed to her too _childish_--too _stupid_ to be believed. "i haven't made nobbut a poor return to _you_, miss," he said in a shambling way, as though the words were dragged out of him. then he threw up his head again. "but i didn't mean nothink o' what happened," he repeated, doggedly going off again into a rapid yet, on the whole, vivid and consecutive account of westall's attack, to which marcella listened, trying to remember every word. "keep that for your solicitor," the inspector said at last, interrupting him; "you are only giving pain to miss boyce. you had better let her go to your wife." hurd looked steadily once more at marcella. "it be a bad end i'm come to," he said, after a moment. "but i thank you kindly all the same. _they'll_ want seein' after." he jerked his head towards the boy, then towards the outhouse or scullery where his wife was. "she takes it terr'ble hard. she wanted me to run. but i said, 'no, i'll stan' it out.' mr. brown at the court'll give you the bit wages he owes me. but they'll have to go on the union. everybody'll turn their backs on them now." "i will look after them," said marcella, "and i will do the best i can for you. now i will go to mrs. hurd." minta hurd was sitting in a corner of the outhouse on the clay floor, her head leaning against the wall. the face was turned upward, the eyes shut, the mouth helplessly open. when marcella saw her, she knew that the unhappy woman had already wept so much in the hours since her husband came back to her that she could weep no more. the two little girls in the scantiest of clothing, half-fastened, sat on the floor beside her, shivering and begrimed--watching her. they had been crying at the tops of their voices, but were now only whimpering miserably, and trying at intervals to dry their tear-stained cheeks with the skirts of their frocks. the baby, wrapped in an old shawl, lay on its mother's knee, asleep and unheeded. the little lean-to place, full of odds and ends of rubbish, and darkened overhead by a string of damp clothes--was intolerably cold in the damp february dawn. the children were blue; the mother felt like ice as marcella stooped to touch her. outcast misery could go no further. the mother moaned as she felt marcella's hand, then started wildly forward, straining her thin neck and swollen eyes that she might see through the two open doors of the kitchen and the outhouse. "they're not taking him away?" she said fiercely. "jenkins swore to me they'd give me notice." "no, he's still there," said marcella, her voice shaking. "the inspector's come. you shall have notice." mrs. hurd recognised her voice, and looked up at her in amazement. "you must put this on," said marcella, taking off the short fur cape she wore. "you are perished. give me the baby, and wrap yourself in it." but mrs. hurd put it away from her with a vehement hand. "i'm not cold, miss--i'm burning hot. he made me come in here. he said he'd do better if the children and i ud go away a bit. an' i couldn't go upstairs, because--because--" she hid her face on her knees. marcella had a sudden sick vision of the horrors this poor creature must have gone through since her husband had appeared to her, splashed with the blood of his enemy, under that same marvellous moon which-- her mind repelled its own memories with haste. moreover, she was aware of the inspector standing at the kitchen door and beckoning to her. she stole across to him so softly that mrs. hurd did not hear her. "we have found all we want," he said in his official tone, but under his breath--"the clothes anyway. we must now look for the gun. jenkins is first going to take him off to widrington. the inquest will be held to-morrow here, at 'the green man.' we shall bring him over." then he added in another voice, touching his hat, "i don't like leaving you, miss, in this place. shall jenkins go and fetch somebody to look after that poor thing? they'll be all swarming in here as soon as we've gone." "no, i'll stay for a while. i'll look after her. they won't come in if i'm here. except his sister--mrs. mullins--she may come in, of course, if she wants." the inspector hesitated. "i'm going now to meet mr. raeburn, miss. i'll tell him that you're here." "he knows," said marcella, briefly. "now are you ready?" he signed assent, and marcella went back to the wife. "mrs. hurd," she said, kneeling on the ground beside her, "they're going." the wife sprang up with a cry and ran into the kitchen, where hurd was already on his feet between jenkins and another policeman, who were to convey him to the gaol at widrington. but when she came face to face with her husband something--perhaps the nervous appeal in his strained eyes--checked her, and she controlled herself piteously. she did not even attempt to kiss him. with her eyes on the ground, she put her hand on his arm. "they'll let me come and see you, jim?" she said, trembling. "yes; you can find out the rules," he said shortly. "don't let them children cry. they want their breakfast to warm them. there's plenty of coal. i brought a sack home from jellaby's last night myself. good-bye." "now, march," said the inspector, sternly, pushing the wife back. marcella put her arm round the shaking woman. the door opened; and beyond the three figures as they passed out, her eye passed to the waiting crowd, then to the misty expanse of common and the dark woods behind, still wrapped in fog. when mrs. hurd saw the rows of people waiting within a stone's throw of the door she shrank back. perhaps it struck her, as it struck marcella, that every face was the face of a foe. marcella ran to the door as the inspector stepped out, and locked it after him. mrs. hurd, hiding herself behind a bit of baize curtain, watched the two policemen mount with hurd into the fly that was waiting, and then followed it with her eyes along the bit of straight road, uttering sounds the while of low anguish, which wrung the heart in marcella's breast. looking back in after days it always seemed to her that for this poor soul the true parting, the true wrench between life and life, came at this moment. she went up to her, her own tears running over. "you must come and lie down," she said, recovering herself as quickly as possible. "you and the children are both starved, and you will want your strength if you are to help him. i will see to things." she put the helpless woman on the wooden settle by the fireplace, rolling up her cloak to make a pillow. "now, willie, you sit by your mother. daisy, where's the cradle? put the baby down and come and help me make the fire." the dazed children did exactly as they were told, and the mother lay like a log on the settle. marcella found coal and wood under daisy's guidance, and soon lit the fire, piling on the fuel with a lavish hand. daisy brought her water, and she filled the kettle and set it on to boil, while the little girl, still sobbing at intervals like some little weeping automaton, laid the breakfast. then the children all crouched round the warmth, while marcella rubbed their cold hands and feet, and "mothered" them. shaken as she was with emotion and horror, she was yet full of a passionate joy that this pity, this tendance was allowed to her. the crushing weight of self-contempt had lifted. she felt morally free and at ease. already she was revolving what she could do for hurd. it was as clear as daylight to her that there had been no murder but a free fight--an even chance between him and westall. the violence of a hard and tyrannous man had provoked his own destruction--so it stood, for her passionate protesting sense. that at any rate must be the defence, and some able man must be found to press it. she thought she would write to the cravens and consult them. her thoughts carefully avoided the names both of aldous raeburn and of wharton. she was about to make the tea when some one knocked at the door. it proved to be hurd's sister, a helpless woman, with a face swollen by crying, who seemed to be afraid to come into the cottage, and afraid to go near her sister-in-law. marcella gave her money, and sent her for some eggs to the neighbouring shop, then told her to come back in half an hour and take charge. she was an incapable, but there was nothing better to be done. "where is miss harden?" she asked the woman. the answer was that ever since the news came to the village the rector and his sister had been with mrs. westall and charlie dyne's mother. mrs. westall had gone into fit after fit; it had taken two to hold her, and charlie's mother, who was in bed recovering from pneumonia, had also been very bad. again marcella's heart contracted with rage rather than pity. such wrack and waste of human life, moral and physical! for what? for the protection of a hateful sport which demoralised the rich and their agents, no less than it tempted and provoked the poor! when she had fed and physically comforted the children, she went and knelt down beside mrs. hurd, who still lay with closed eyes in heavy-breathing stupor. "dear mrs. hurd," she said, "i want you to drink this tea and eat something." the half-stupefied woman signed refusal. but marcella insisted. "you have got to fight for your husband's life," she said firmly, "and to look after your children. i must go in a very short time, and before i go you must tell me all that you can of this business. hurd would tell you to do it. he knows and you know that i am to be trusted. i want to save him. i shall get a good lawyer to help him. but first you must take this--and then you must talk to me." the habit of obedience to a "lady," established long ago in years of domestic service, held. the miserable wife submitted to be fed, looked with forlorn wonder at the children round the fire, and then sank back with a groan. in her tension of feeling marcella for an impatient moment thought her a poor creature. then with quick remorse she put her arms tenderly round her, raised the dishevelled grey-streaked head on her shoulder, and stooping, kissed the marred face, her own lips quivering. "you are not alone," said the girl with her whole soul. "you shall never be alone while i live. now tell me." she made the white and gasping woman sit up in a corner of the settle, and she herself got a stool and established herself a little way off, frowning, self-contained, and determined to make out the truth. "shall i send the children upstairs?" she asked. "no!" said the boy, suddenly, in his husky voice, shaking his head with energy, "i'm not a-going." "oh! he's safe--is willie," said mrs. hurd, looking at him, but strangely, and as it were from a long distance, "and the others is too little." then gradually marcella got the story out of her--first, the misery of alarm and anxiety in which she had lived ever since the tudley end raid, owing first to her knowledge of hurd's connection with it, and with the gang that had carried it out; then to her appreciation of the quick and ghastly growth of the hatred between him and westall; lastly, to her sense of ingratitude towards those who had been kind to them. "i knew we was acting bad towards you. i told jim so. i couldn't hardly bear to see you come in. but there, miss,--i couldn't do anything. i tried, oh! the lord knows i tried! there was never no happiness between us at last, i talked so. but i don't believe he could help himself--he's not made like other folks, isn't jim--" her features became convulsed again with the struggle for speech. marcella reached out for the toil-disfigured hand that was fingering and clutching at the edge of the settle, and held it close. gradually she made out that although hurd had not been able of course to conceal his night absences from his wife, he had kept his connection with the oxford gang absolutely dark from her, till, in his wild exultation over westall's discomfiture in the tudley end raid, he had said things in his restless snatches of sleep which had enabled her to get the whole truth out of him by degrees. her reproaches, her fears, had merely angered and estranged him; her nature had had somehow to accommodate itself to his, lest affection should lose its miserable all. as to this last fatal attack on the maxwell coverts, it was clear to marcella, as she questioned and listened, that the wife had long foreseen it, and that she now knew much more about it than--suddenly--she would allow herself to say. for in the midst of her out-pourings she drew herself together, tried to collect and calm herself, looked at marcella with an agonised, suspicious eye, and fell silent. "i don't know nothing about it, miss," she stubbornly declared at last, with an inconsequent absurdity which smote marcella's pity afresh. "how am i to know? there was seven o' them oxford fellows at tudley end--that i know. who's to say as jim was with 'em at all last night? who's to say as it wasn't them as--" she stopped, shivering. marcella held her reluctant hand. "you don't know," she said quietly, "that i saw your husband in here for a minute before i came in to you, and that he told me, as he had already told jenkins, that it was in a struggle with him that westall was shot, but that he had fired in self-defence because westall was attacking him. you don't know, too, that charlie dynes is alive, and says he saw hurd--" "charlie dynes!" mrs. hurd gave a shriek, and then fell to weeping and trembling again, so that marcella had need of patience. "if you can't help me more," she said at last in despair, "i don't know what we shall do. listen to me. your husband will be charged with westall's murder. that i am sure of. he says it was not murder--that it happened in a fight. i believe it. i want to get a lawyer to prove it. i am your friend--you know i am. but if you are not going to help me by telling me what you know of last night i may as well go home--and get your sister-in-law to look after you and the children." she rose as she spoke. mrs. hurd clutched at her. "oh, my god!" she said, looking straight before her vacantly at the children, who at once began to cry again. "_oh, my god_! look here, miss"--her voice dropped, her swollen eyes fixed themselves on marcella--the words came out in a low, hurried stream--"it was just after four o'clock i heard that door turn; i got up in my nightgown and ran down, and there was jim. 'put that light out,' he says to me, sharp like. 'oh, jim,' says i, 'wherever have you been? you'll be the death o' me and them poor children!' 'you go to bed,' says he to me, 'and i'll come presently.' but i could see him, 'cos of the moon, almost as plain as day, an' i couldn't take my eyes off him. and he went about the kitchen so strange like, puttin' down his hat and takin' it up again, an' i saw he hadn't got his gun. so i went up and caught holt on him. an' he gave me a push back. 'can't you let me alone?' he says; 'you'll know soon enough.' an' then i looked at my sleeve where i'd touched him--oh, my god! my god!" marcella, white to the lips and shuddering too, held her tight. she had the _seeing_ faculty which goes with such quick, nervous natures, and she saw the scene as though she had been there--the moonlit cottage, the miserable husband and wife, the life-blood on the woman's sleeve. mrs. hurd went on in a torrent of half-finished sentences and fragments of remembered talk. she told her husband's story of the encounter with the keepers as he had told it to her, of course with additions and modifications already struck out by the agony of inventive pain; she described how she had made him take his blood-stained clothes and hide them in a hole in the roof; then how she had urged him to strike across country at once and get a few hours start before the ghastly business was known. but the more he talked to her the more confident he became of his own story, and the more determined to stay and brave it out. besides, he was shrewd enough to see that escape for a man of his deformity was impossible, and he tried to make her understand it so. but she was mad and blind with fear, and at last, just as the light was coming in, he told her roughly, to end their long wrestle, that he should go to bed and get some sleep. she would make a fool of him, and he should want all his wits. she followed him up the steep ladder to their room, weeping. and there was little willie sitting up in bed, choking with the phlegm in his throat, and half dead of fright because of the voices below. "and when hurd see him, he went and cuddled him up, and rubbed his legs and feet to warm them, an' i could hear him groanin'. and i says to him, 'jim, if you won't go for my sake, will you go for the boy's?' for you see, miss, there was a bit of money in the house, an' i thought he'd hide himself by day and walk by night, and so get to liverpool perhaps, and off to the states. an' it seemed as though my head would burst with listening for people comin', and him taken up there like a rat in a trap, an' no way of provin' the truth, and everybody agen him, because of the things he'd said. and he burst out a-cryin', an' willie cried. an' i came an' entreated of him. an' he kissed me; an' at last he said he'd go. an' i made haste, the light was getting so terrible strong; an' just as he'd got to the foot of the stairs, an' i was holding little willie in my arms an' saying good-bye to him--" she let her head sink against the settle. there was no more to say, and marcella asked no more questions--she sat thinking. willie stood, a wasted, worn figure, by his mother, stroking her face; his hoarse breathing was for the time the only sound in the cottage. then marcella heard a loud knock at the door. she got up and looked through the casement window. the crowd had mostly dispersed, but a few people stood about on the green, and a policeman was stationed outside the cottage. on the steps stood aldous raeburn, his horse held behind him by a boy. she went and opened the door. "i will come," she said at once. "there--i see mrs. mullins crossing the common. now i can leave her." aldous, taking off his hat, closed the door behind him and stood with his hand on marcella's arm, looking at the huddled woman on the settle, at the pale children. there was a solemnity in his expression, a mixture of judgment and pity which showed that the emotion of other scenes also--scenes through which he had just passed--was entering into it. "poor unhappy souls," he said slowly, under his breath. "you say that you have got some one to see after her. she looks as though it might kill her, too." marcella nodded. now that her task, for the moment, was nearly over, she could hardly restrain herself nervously or keep herself from crying. aldous observed her with disquiet as she put on her hat. his heart was deeply stirred. she had chosen more nobly for herself than he would have chosen for her, in thus daring an awful experience for the sake of mercy. his moral sense, exalted and awed by the sight of death, approved, worshipped her. his man's impatience pined to get her away, to cherish and comfort hen why, she could hardly have slept three hours since they parted on the steps of the court, amidst the crowd of carriages! mrs. mullins came in still scared and weeping, and dropping frightened curtseys to "muster raeburn." marcella spoke to her a little in a whisper, gave some counsels which filled aldous with admiration for the girl's practical sense and thoughtfulness, and promised to come again later. mrs. hurd neither moved nor opened her eyes. "can you walk?" said aldous, bending over her, as they stood outside the cottage. "i can see that you are worn out. could you sit my horse if i led him?" "no, let us walk." they went on together, followed by the eyes of the village, the boy leading the horse some distance behind. "where have you been?" said marcella, when they had passed the village. "oh, _please_ don't think of my being tired! i had so much rather know it all. i must know it all." she was deathly pale, but her black eyes flashed impatience and excitement. she even drew her hand out of the arm where aldous was tenderly holding it, and walked on erect by herself. "i have been with poor dynes," said aldous, sadly; "we had to take his deposition. he died while i was there." "he died?" "yes. the fiends who killed him had left small doubt of that. but he lived long enough, thank god, to give the information which will, i think, bring them to justice!" the tone of the magistrate and the magnate goaded marcella's quivering nerves. "what is justice?" she cried; "the system that wastes human lives in protecting your tame pheasants?" a cloud came over the stern clearness of his look. he gave a bitter sigh--the sigh of the man to whom his own position in life had been, as it were, one long scruple. "you may well ask that!" he said. "you cannot imagine that i did not ask it of myself a hundred times as i stood by that poor fellow's bedside." they walked on in silence. she was hardly appeased. there was a deep, inner excitement in her urging her towards difference, towards attack. at last he resumed: "but whatever the merits of our present game system may be, the present case is surely clear--horribly clear. six men, with at least three guns among them, probably more, go out on a pheasant-stealing expedition. they come across two keepers, one a lad of seventeen, who have nothing but a light stick apiece. the boy is beaten to death, the keeper shot dead at the first brush by a man who has been his life-long enemy, and threatened several times in public to 'do for him.' if that is not brutal and deliberate murder, it is difficult to say what is!" marcella stood still in the misty road trying to command herself. "it was _not_ deliberate," she said at last with difficulty; "not in hurd's case. i have heard it all from his own mouth. it was a _struggle_--he might have been killed instead of westall--westall attacked, hurd defended himself." aldous shook his head. "of course hurd would tell you so," he said sadly, "and his poor wife. he is not a bad or vicious fellow, like the rest of the rascally pack. probably when he came to himself, after the moment of rage, he could not simply believe what he had done. but that makes no difference. it was murder; no judge or jury could possibly take any other view. dynes's evidence is clear, and the proof of motive is overwhelming." then, as he saw her pallor and trembling, he broke off in deep distress. "my dear one, if i could but have kept you out of this!" they were alone in the misty road. the boy with the horse was out of sight. he would fain have put his arm round her, have consoled and supported her. but she would not let him. "please understand," she said in a sort of gasp, as she drew herself away, "that i do _not_ believe hurd is guilty--that i shall do my very utmost to defend him. he is to me the victim of unjust, abominable laws! if _you_ will not help me to protect him--then i must look to some one else." aldous felt a sudden stab of suspicion--presentiment. "of course he will be well defended; he will have every chance; that you may be sure of," he said slowly. marcella controlled herself, and they walked on. as they entered the drive of mellor, aldous thought passionately of those divine moments in his sitting-room, hardly yet nine hours old. and now--_now_!--she walked beside him as an enemy. the sound of a step on the gravel in front of them made them look up. past, present, and future met in the girl's bewildered and stormy sense as she recognised wharton. chapter x. the first sitting of the birmingham labour congress was just over, and the streets about the hall in which it had been held were beginning to fill with the issuing delegates. rain was pouring down and umbrellas were plentiful. harry wharton, accompanied by a group of men, left the main entrance of the hall,--releasing himself with difficulty from the friendly crowd about the doors--and crossed the street to his hotel. "well, i'm glad you think i did decently," he said, as they mounted the hotel stairs. "what a beastly day, and how stuffy that hall was! come in and have something to drink." he threw open the door of his sitting-room as he spoke. the four men with him followed him in. "i must go back to the hall to see two or three men before everybody disperses," said the one in front. "no refreshment for me, thank you, mr. wharton. but i want to ask a question--what arrangements have you made for the reporting of your speech?" the man who spoke was thin and dark, with a modest kindly eye. he wore a black frock coat, and had the air of a minister. "oh, thank you, bennett, it's all right. the _post_, the _chronicle_, and the _northern guardian_ will have full copies. i sent them off before the meeting. and my own paper, of course. as to the rest they may report it as they like. i don't care." "they'll all have it," said another man, bluntly. "it's the best speech you've ever made--the best president's speech we've had yet, i say,--don't you think so?" the speaker, a man called casey, turned to the two men behind him. both nodded. "hallin's speech last year was first-rate," he continued, "but somehow hallin damps you down, at least he did me last year; what you want just now is _fight_--and, my word! mr. wharton let 'em have it!" and standing with his hands on his sides, he glanced round from one to another. his own face was flushed, partly from the effects of a crowded hall and bad air, but mostly with excitement. all the men present indeed--though it was less evident in bennett and wharton than in the rest--had the bright nervous look which belongs to leaders keenly conscious of standing well with the led, and of having just emerged successfully from an agitating ordeal. as they stood together they went over the speech to which they had been listening, and the scene which had followed it, in a running stream of talk, laughter, and gossip. wharton took little part, except to make a joke occasionally at his own expense, but the pleasure on his smiling lip, and in his roving, contented eye was not to be mistaken. the speech he had just delivered had been first thought out as he paced the moonlit library and corridor at mellor. after marcella had left him, and he was once more in his own room, he had had the extraordinary self-control to write it out, and make two or three machine-copies of it for the press. neither its range nor its logical order had suffered for that intervening experience. the programme of labour for the next five years had never been better presented, more boldly planned, more eloquently justified. hallin's presidential speech of the year before, as casey said, rang flat in the memory when compared with it. wharton knew that he had made a mark, and knew also that his speech had given him the whip-hand of some fellows who would otherwise have stood in his way. casey was the first man to cease talking about the speech. he had already betrayed himself about it more than he meant. he belonged to the new unionism, and affected a costume in character--fustian trousers, flannel shirt, a full red tie and work-man's coat, all well calculated to set off a fine lion-like head and broad shoulders. he had begun life as a bricklayer's labourer, and was now the secretary of a recently formed union. his influence had been considerable, but was said to be already on the wane; though it was thought likely that he would win a seat in the coming parliament. the other two men were molloy, secretary to the congress, short, smooth-faced, and wiry, a man whose pleasant eye and manner were often misleading, since he was in truth one of the hottest fighting men of a fighting movement; and wilkins, a friend of casey's--ex-iron worker, union official, and labour candidate for a yorkshire division--an uneducated, passionate fellow, speaking with a broad, yorkshire accent, a bad man of affairs, but honest, and endowed with the influence which comes of sincerity, together with a gift for speaking and superhuman powers of physical endurance. "well, i'm glad it's over," said wharton, throwing himself into a chair with a long breath, and at the same time stretching out his hand to ring the bell. "casey, some whisky? no? nor you, wilkins? nor molloy? as for you, bennett, i know it's no good asking you. by george! our grandfathers would have thought us a poor lot! well, some coffee at any rate you must all of you have before you go back. waiter! coffee. by the way, i have been seeing something of hallin, bennett, down in the country." he took out his cigarette case as he spoke, and offered it to the others. all refused except molloy. casey took his half-smoked pipe out of his pocket and lit up. he was not a teetotaler as the others were, but he would have scorned to drink his whisky and water at the expense of a "gentleman" like wharton, or to smoke the "gentleman's" cigarettes. his class-pride was irritably strong. molloy, who was by nature anybody's equal, took the cigarette with an easy good manners, which made casey look at him askance. mr. bennett drew his chair close to wharton's. the mention of hallin had roused a look of anxiety in his quick dark eyes. "how is he, mr. wharton? the last letter i had from him he made light of his health. but you know he only just avoided a breakdown in that strike business. we only pulled him through by the skin of his teeth--mr. raeburn and i." "oh, he's no constitution; never had, i suppose. but he seemed much as usual. he's staying with raeburn, you know, and i've been staying with the father of the young lady whom raeburn 's going to marry." "ah! i've heard of that," said bennett, with a look of interest. "well, mr. raeburn isn't on our side, but for judgment and fair dealing there are very few men of his class and circumstances i would trust as i would him. the lady should be happy." "of course," said wharton, drily. "however, neither she nor raeburn are very happy just at this moment. a horrible affair happened down there last night. one of lord maxwell's gamekeepers and a 'helper,' a lad of seventeen, were killed last night in a fight with poachers. i only just heard the outlines of it before i came away, but i got a telegram just before going into congress, asking me to defend the man charged with the murder." a quick expression of repulsion and disgust crossed bennett's face. "there have been a whole crop of such cases lately," he said. "how shall we ever escape from the _curse_ of this game system?" "we shan't escape it," said wharton, quietly, knocking the end off his cigarette, "not in your lifetime or mine. when we get more radicals on the bench we shall lighten the sentences; but that will only exasperate the sporting class into finding new ways of protecting themselves. oh! the man will be hung--that's quite clear to me. but it will be a good case--from the public point of view--will work up well--" he ran his hand through his curls, considering. "will work up admirably," he added in a lower tone of voice, as though to himself, his eyes keen and brilliant as ever, in spite of the marks of sleeplessness and fatigue visible in the rest of the face, though only visible there since he had allowed himself the repose of his cigarette and arm-chair. "are yo' comin' to dine at the 'peterloo' to-night, mr. wharton?" said wilkins, as wharton handed him a cup of coffee; "but of coorse you are--part of yower duties, i suppose?" while molloy and casey were deep in animated discussion of the great meeting of the afternoon he had been sitting silent against the edge of the table--a short-bearded sombre figure, ready at any moment to make a grievance, to suspect a slight. "i'm afraid i can't," said wharton, bending forward and speaking in a tone of concern; "that was just what i was going to ask you all--if you would make my excuses to-night? i have been explaining to bennett. i have an important piece of business in the country--a labourer has been getting into trouble for shooting a keeper; they have asked me to defend him. the assizes come on in little more than a fortnight, worse luck! so that the time is short--" and he went on to explain that, by taking an evening train back to widrington, he could get the following (saturday) morning with the solicitor in charge of the case, and be back in birmingham, thanks to the convenience of a new line lately opened, in time for the second meeting of the congress, which was fixed for the early afternoon. he spoke with great cordiality and persuasiveness. among the men who surrounded him, his youth, good looks, and easy breeding shone out conspicuous. in the opinion of wilkins, indeed, who followed his every word and gesture, he was far too well dressed and too well educated. a day would soon come when the labour movement would be able to show these young aristocrats the door. not yet, however. "well, i thowt you wouldn't dine with us," he said, turning away with a blunt laugh. bennett's mild eye showed annoyance. "mr. wharton has explained himself very fully, i think," he said, turning to the others. "we shall miss him at dinner--but this matter seems to be one of life and death. and we mustn't forget anyway that mr. wharton is fulfilling this engagement at great inconvenience to himself. we none of us knew when we elected him last year that he would have to be fighting his election at the same time. next saturday, isn't it?" bennett rose as he spoke and carefully buttoned his coat. it was curious to contrast his position among his fellows--one of marked ascendency and authority--with his small insignificant physique. he had a gentle deprecating eye, and the heart of a poet. he played the flute and possessed the gift of repeating verse--especially ebenezer eliot's corn law rhymes--so as to stir a great audience to enthusiasm or tears. the wesleyan community of his native cheshire village owned no more successful class-leader, and no humbler christian. at the same time he could hold a large business meeting sternly in check, was the secretary of one of the largest and oldest unions in the country, had been in parliament for years, and was generally looked upon even by the men who hated his "moderate" policy, as a power not to be ignored. "next saturday. yes!" said wharton, nodding in answer to his inquiry. "well, are you going to do it?" said casey, looking round at him. "oh, yes!" said wharton, cheerfully; "oh, yes! we shall do it. we shall settle old dodgson, i think." "are the raeburns as strong as they were?" asked molloy, who knew brookshire. "what landlord is? since ' the ground is mined for them all--good and bad--and they know it." "the mine takes a long time blowing up--too long for my patience," said wilkins, gruffly. "how the country can go on year after year paying its tribute to these plunderers passes my comprehension. but you may attack them as you please. you will never get any forrarder so long as parliament and the cabinet is made up of them and their hangers on." wharton looked at him brightly, but silently, making a little assenting inclination of the head. he was not surprised that anything should pass wilkins's comprehension, and he was determined to give him no opening for holding forth. "well, we'll let you alone," said bennett. "you'll have very little time to get off in. we'll make your excuses, mr. wharton. you may be sure everybody is so pleased with your speech we shall find them all in a good temper. it was grand!--let me congratulate you again. good-night--i hope you'll get your poacher off!" the others followed suit, and they all took leave in character;--molloy, with an eager business reference to the order of the day for saturday,--"give me your address at widrington; i'll post you everything to-night, so that you may have it all under your eye"--casey, with the off-hand patronage of the man who would not for the world have his benevolence mistaken for servility,--and wilkins with as gruff a nod and as limp a shake of the hand as possible. it might perhaps have been read in the manner of the last two, that although this young man had just made a most remarkable impression, and was clearly destined to go far, they were determined not to yield themselves to him a moment before they must. in truth, both were already jealous of him; whereas molloy, absorbed in the business of the congress, cared for nothing except to know whether in the next two days' debates wharton would show himself as good a chairman as he was an orator; and bennett, while saying no word that he did not mean, was fully conscious of an inner judgment, which pronounced five minutes of edward hallin's company to be worth more to him than anything which this brilliant young fellow could do or say. * * * * * wharton saw them out, then came back and threw himself again into his chair by the window. the venetian blinds were not closed, and he looked out on a wide and handsome street of tall red-brick houses and shops, crowded with people and carriages, and lit with a lavishness of gas which overcame even the february dark and damp. but he noticed nothing, and even the sensation of his triumph was passing off. he was once more in the mellor drive; aldous raeburn and marcella stood in front of him; the thrill of the moment beat once more in his pulse. he buried his head in his hands and thought. the news of the murder had reached him from mr. boyce. the master of mellor had heard the news from william, the man-servant, at half-past seven, and had instantly knocked up his guest, by way of sharing the excitement with which his own feeble frame was throbbing. "by gad! i never heard such an _atrocious_ business," said the invalid, his thin hand shaking against his dressing-gown. "that's what your radical notions bring us to! we shall have them plundering and burning the country houses next." "i don't think my radical notions have much to do with it," said wharton, composedly. but there was a red spot in his cheeks which belied his manner. so when he--_they_--saw hurd cross the avenue he was on his way to this deed of blood. the shot that he, wharton, had heard had been the shot which slew westall? probably. well, what was the bearing of it? could she keep her own counsel or would they find themselves in the witness box? the idea quickened his pulse amazingly. "any clue? any arrests?" he asked of his host. "why, i told you," said boyce, testily, though as a matter of fact he had said nothing. "they have got that man hurd. the ruffian has been a marked man by the keepers and police, they tell me, for the last year or more. and there's my daughter has been pampering him and his wife all the time, and _preaching_ to me about them! she got raeburn even to take him on at the court. i trust it will be a lesson to her." wharton drew a breath of relief. so the man was in custody, and there was other evidence. good! there was no saying what a woman's conscience might be capable of, even against her friends and herself. when mr. boyce at last left him free to dress and make his preparations for the early train, by which the night before, after the ladies' departure for the ball, he had suddenly made up his mind to leave mellor, it was some time before wharton could rouse himself to action. the situation absorbed him. miss boyce's friend was now in imminent danger of his neck, and miss boyce's thoughts must be of necessity concentrated upon his plight and that of his family. he foresaw the passion, the _saeva indignatio_, that she must ultimately throw--the general situation being what it was--into the struggle for hurd's life. whatever the evidence might be, he would be to her either victim or champion--and westall, of course, merely the holofernes of the piece. how would raeburn take it? ah, well! the situation must develop. it occurred to him, however, that he would catch an earlier train to widrington than the one he had fixed on, and have half an hour's talk with a solicitor who was a good friend of his before going on to birmingham. accordingly, he rang for william--who came, all staring and dishevelled, fresh from the agitation of the servants' hall--gave orders for his luggage to be sent after him, got as much fresh information as he could from the excited lad, plunged into his bath, and finally emerged, fresh and vigorous in every nerve, showing no trace whatever of the fact that two hours of broken sleep had been his sole portion for a night, in which he had gone through emotions and sustained a travail of brain either of which would have left their mark on most men. * * * * * then the meeting in the drive! how plainly he saw them both--raeburn grave and pale, marcella in her dark serge skirt and cap, with an eye all passion and a cheek white as her hand. "a tragic splendour enwrapped her!--a fierce heroic air. she was the embodiment of the moment--of the melancholy morning with its rain and leafless woods--of the human anguish throbbing in the little village. and i, who had seen her last in her festal dress, who had held her warm perfumed youth in my arms, who had watched in her white breast the heaving of the heart that i--_i_ had troubled!--how did i find it possible to stand and face her? but i did. it rushed through me at once _how_ i would make her forgive me--how i would regain possession of her. i had thought the play was closed: it was suddenly plain to me that the second act was but just beginning. she and raeburn had already come to words--i knew it directly i saw them. this business will divide them more and more. his _conscience_ will come in--and a raeburn's conscience is the devil! "by now he hates me; every word i speak to him--still more every word to her--galls him. but he controlled himself when i made him tell me the story--i had no reason to complain--though every now and then i could see him wince under the knowledge i must needs show of the persons and places concerned--a knowledge i could only have got from _her_. and she stood by meanwhile like a statue. not a word, not a look, so far, though she had been forced to touch my hand. but my instinct saved me. i roused her--i played upon her! i took the line that i was morally certain _she_ had been taking in their _tête-à-tête_. why not a scuffle?--a general scrimmage?--in which it was matter of accident who fell? the man surely was inoffensive and gentle, incapable of deliberate murder. and as to the evidence of hatred, it told both ways. he stiffened and was silent. what a fine brow he has--a look sometimes, when he is moved, of antique power and probity! but she--she trembled--animation came back. she would almost have spoken to me--but i did well not to prolong it--to hurry on." then he took the telegram out of his pocket which had been put into his hands as he reached the hotel, his mouth quivering again with the exultation which he had felt when he had received it. it recalled to his ranging memory all the details of his hurried interview with the little widrington solicitor, who had already scented a job in the matter of hurd's defence. this man--needy, shrewd, and well equipped with local knowledge--had done work for wharton and the party, and asked nothing better than to stand well with the future member for the division. "there is a lady," wharton had said, "the daughter of mr. boyce of mellor, who is already very much interested in this fellow and his family. she takes this business greatly to heart. i have seen her this morning, but had no time to discuss the matter with her. she will, i have little doubt, try to help the relations in the arrangements for the defence. go to her this morning--tell her that the case has my sympathy--that, as she knows, i am a barrister, and, if she wishes it, i will defend hurd. i shall be hard put to it to get up the case with the election coming on, but i will do it--for the sake of the public interest involved. you understand? her father is a tory--and she is just about to marry mr. raeburn. her position, therefore, is difficult. nevertheless, she will feel strongly--she does feel strongly about this case, and about the whole game system--and i feel moved to support her. she will take her own line, whatever happens. see her--see the wife, too, who is entirely under miss boyce's influence--and wire to me at my hotel at birmingham. if they wish to make other arrangements, well and good. i shall have all the more time to give to the election." leaving this commission behind him, he had started on his journey. at the end of it a telegram had been handed to him on the stairs of his hotel: "have seen the lady, also mrs. hurd. you are urgently asked to undertake defence." he spread it out before him now, and pondered it. the bit of flimsy paper contained for him the promise of all he most coveted,--influence, emotion, excitement. "she will have returns upon herself," he thought smiling, "when i see her again. she will be dignified, resentful; she will suspect everything i say or do--still more, she will suspect herself. no matter! the situation is in my hands. whether i succeed or fail, she will be forced to work with me, to consult with me--she will owe me gratitude. what made her consent?--she must have felt it in some sort a humiliation. is it that raeburn has been driving her to strong measures--that she wants, woman-like, to win, and thought me after all her best chance, and put her pride in her pocket? or is it?--ah! one should put _that_ out of one's head. it's like wine--it unsteadies one. and for a thing like this one must go into training. shall i write to her--there is just time now, before i start--take the lofty tone, the equal masculine tone, which i have noticed she likes?--ask her pardon for an act of madness--before we go together to the rescue of a life? it might do--it might go down. but no, i think not! let the situation develop itself. action and reaction--the unexpected--i commit myself to that. _she_--marry aldous raeburn in a month? well, she may--certainly she may. but there is no need for me, i think, to take it greatly into account. curious! twenty-four hours ago i thought it all done with--dead and done with. 'so like provvy,' as bentham used to say, when he heard of anything particularly unseemly in the way of natural catastrophe. now to dine, and be off! how little sleep can i do with in the next fortnight?" he rang, ordered his cab, and then went to the coffee-room for some hasty food. as he was passing one of the small tables with which the room was filled, a man who was dining there with a friend recognised him and gave him a cold nod. wharton walked on to the further end of the room, and, while waiting for his meal, buried himself in the local evening paper, which already contained a report of his speech. "did you see that man?" asked the stranger of his friend. "the small young fellow with the curly hair?" "small young fellow, indeed! he is the wiriest athlete i know--extraordinary physical strength for his size--and one of the cleverest rascals out as a politician. i am a neighbour of his in the country. his property joins mine. i knew his father--a little, dried-up old chap of the old school--very elegant manners and very obstinate--worried to death by his wife--oh, my goodness! such a woman!" "what's the name?" said the friend, interrupting. "wharton--h.s. wharton. his mother was a daughter of lord westgate, and _her_ mother was an actress whom the old lord married in his dotage. lady mildred wharton was like garrick, only natural when she was acting, which she did on every possible occasion. a preposterous woman! old wharton ought to have beaten her for her handwriting, and murdered her for her gowns. her signature took a sheet of note-paper, and as for her dress i never could get out of her way. whatever part of the room i happened to be in i always found my feet tangled in her skirts. somehow, i never could understand how she was able to find so much stuff of one pattern. but it was only to make you notice her, like all the rest. every bit of her was a pose, and the maternal pose was the worst of all." "h.s. wharton?" said the other. "why, that's the man who has been speaking here to-day. i've just been reading the account of it in the _evening star_. a big meeting--called by a joint committee of the leading birmingham trades to consider the liberal election programme as it affects labour--that's the man--he's been at it hammer and tongs--red-hot--all the usual devices for harrying the employer out of existence, with a few trifles--graduated income-tax and land nationalisation--thrown in. oh! that's the man, is it?--they say he had a great reception--spoke brilliantly--and is certainly going to get into parliament next week." the speaker, who had the air of a shrewd and prosperous manufacturer, put up his eyeglass to look at this young robespierre. his _vis-à-vis_--a stout country gentleman who had been in the army and knocked about the world before coming into his estate--shrugged his shoulders. "so i hear--he daren't show his nose as a candidate in _our_ part of the world, though of course he does us all the harm he can. i remember a good story of his mother--she quarrelled with her husband and all her relations, his and hers, and then she took to speaking in public, accompanied by her dear boy. on one occasion she was speaking at a market town near us, and telling the farmers that as far as she was concerned she would like to see the big properties cut up to-morrow. the sooner her father's and husband's estates were made into small holdings stocked with public capital the better. after it was all over, a friend of mine, who was there, was coming home in a sort of omnibus that ran between the town and a neighbouring village. he found himself between two fat farmers, and this was the conversation--broad lincolnshire, of course: 'did tha hear lady mildred wharton say them things, willum?' 'aye, a did.' 'what did tha think, willum?' 'what did _tha_ think, george?' 'wal, _aa_ thowt laady mildred wharton wor a graät fule, willum, if tha asks me.' 'i'll uphowd tha, george! i'll uphowd tha!' said the other, and then they talked no more for the rest of the journey." the friend laughed. "so it was from the dear mamma that the young man got his opinions?" "of course. she dragged him into every absurdity she could from the time he was fifteen. when the husband died she tried to get the servants to come in to meals, but the butler struck. so did wharton himself, who, for a socialist, has always showed a very pretty turn for comfort. i am bound to say he was cut up when she died. it was the only time i ever felt like being civil to him--in those months after she departed. i suppose she was devoted to him--which after all is something." "good heavens!" said the other, still lazily turning over the pages of the newspaper as they sat waiting for their second course, "here is another poaching murder--in brookshire--the third i have noticed within a month. on lord maxwell's property--you know them?" "i know the old man a little--fine old fellow! they'll make him president of the council, i suppose. he can't have much work left in him; but it is such a popular, respectable name. ah! i'm sorry; the sort of thing to distress him terribly." "i see the grandson is standing." "oh yes; will get in too. a queer sort of man--great ability and high character. but you can't imagine him getting on in politics, unless it's by sheer weight of wealth and family influence. he'll find a scruple in every bush--never stand the rough work of the house, or get on with the _men_. my goodness! you have to pull with some queer customers nowadays. by the way, i hear he is making an unsatisfactory marriage--a girl very handsome, but with no manners, and like nobody else--the daughter, too, of an extremely shady father. it's surprising; you'd have thought a man like aldous raeburn would have looked for the pick of things." "perhaps it was she looked for the pick of things!" said the other, with a blunt laugh. "waiter, another bottle of champagne." chapter xi. marcella was lying on the sofa in the mellor drawing-room. the february evening had just been shut out, but she had told william not to bring the lamps till they were rung for. even the fire-light seemed more than she could bear. she was utterly exhausted both in body and mind; yet, as she lay there with shut eyes, and hands clasped under her cheek, a start went through her at every sound in the house, which showed that she was not resting, but listening. she had spent the morning in the hurds' cottage, sitting by mrs. hurd and nursing the little boy. minta hurd, always delicate and consumptive, was now generally too ill from shock and misery to be anywhere but in her bed, and willie was growing steadily weaker, though the child's spirit was such that he would insist on dressing, on hearing and knowing everything about his father, and on moving about the house as usual. yet every movement of his wasted bones cost him the effort of a hero, and the dumb signs in him of longing for his father increased the general impression as of some patient creature driven by nature to monstrous and disproportionate extremity. the plight of this handful of human beings worked in marcella like some fevering torture. she was wholly out of gear physically and morally. another practically sleepless night, peopled with images of horror, had decreased her stock of sane self-control, already lessened by long conflict of feeling and the pressure of self-contempt. now, as she lay listening for aldous raeburn's ring and step, she hardly knew whether to be angry with him for coming so late, or miserable that he should come at all. that there was a long score to settle between herself and him she knew well. shame for an experience which seemed to her maiden sense indelible--both a weakness and a treachery--lay like a dull weight on heart and conscience. but she would not realise it, she would not act upon it. she shook the moral debate from her impatiently. aldous should have his due all in good time--should have ample opportunity of deciding whether he would, after all, marry such a girl as she. meanwhile his attitude with regard to the murder exasperated her. yet, in some strange way it relieved her to be angry and sore with him--to have a grievance she could avow, and on which she made it a merit to dwell. his gentle, yet firm difference of opinion with her on the subject struck her as something new in him. it gave her a kind of fierce pleasure to fight it. he seemed somehow to be providing her with excuses--to be coming down to her level--to be equalling wrong with wrong. the door handle turned. at last! she sprang up. but it was only william coming in with the evening post. mrs. boyce followed him. she took a quiet look at her daughter, and asked if her headache was better, and then sat down near her to some needlework. during these two days she had been unusually kind to marcella. she had none of the little feminine arts of consolation. she was incapable of fussing, and she never caressed. but from the moment that marcella had come home from the village that morning, a pale, hollow-eyed wreck, the mother had asserted her authority. she would not hear of the girl's crossing the threshold again; she had put her on the sofa and dosed her with sal-volatile. and marcella was too exhausted to rebel. she had only stipulated that a note should be sent to aldous, asking him to come on to mellor with the news as soon as the verdict of the coroner's jury should be given. the jury had been sitting all day, and the verdict was expected in the evening. marcella turned over her letters till she came to one from a london firm which contained a number of cloth patterns. as she touched it she threw it aside with a sudden gesture of impatience, and sat upright. "mamma! i have something to say to you." "yes, my dear." "mamma, the wedding must be put off!--it _must_!--for some weeks. i have been thinking about it while i have been lying here. how _can_ i?--you can see for yourself. that miserable woman depends on me altogether. how can i spend my time on clothing and dressmakers? i feel as if i could think of nothing else--nothing else in the world--but her and her children." she spoke with difficulty, her voice high and strained. "the assizes may be held that very week--who knows?--the very day we are married." she stopped, looking at her mother almost threateningly. mrs. boyce showed no sign of surprise. she put her work down. "i had imagined you might say something of the kind," she said after a pause. "i don't know that, from your point of view, it is unreasonable. but, of course, you must understand that very few people will see it from your point of view. aldous raeburn may--you must know best. but his people certainly won't; and your father will think it--" "madness," she was going to say, but with her usual instinct for the moderate fastidious word she corrected it to "foolish." marcella's tired eyes were all wilfulness and defiance. "i can't help it. i couldn't do it. i will tell aldous at once. it must be put off for a month. and even that," she added with a shudder, "will be bad enough." mrs. boyce could not help an unperceived shrug of the shoulders, and a movement of pity towards the future husband. then she said drily,-- "you must always consider whether it is just to mr. raeburn to let a matter of this kind interfere so considerably with his wishes and his plans. he must, i suppose, be in london for parliament within six weeks." marcella did not answer. she sat with her hands round her knees lost in perplexities. the wedding, as originally fixed, was now three weeks and three days off. after it, she and aldous were to have spent a short fortnight's honeymoon at a famous house in the north, lent them for the occasion by a duke who was a cousin of aldous's on the mother's side, and had more houses than he knew what to do with. then they were to go immediately up to london for the opening of parliament. the furnishing of the mayfair house was being pressed on. in her new-born impatience with such things, marcella had hardly of late concerned herself with it at all, and miss raeburn, scandalised, yet not unwilling, had been doing the whole of it, subject to conscientious worryings of the bride, whenever she could be got hold of, on the subject of papers and curtains. as they sat silent, the unspoken idea in the mother's mind was--"eight weeks more will carry us past the execution." mrs. boyce had already possessed herself very clearly of the facts of the case, and it was her perception that marcella was throwing herself headlong into a hopeless struggle--together with something else--a confession perhaps of a touch of greatness in the girl's temper, passionate and violent as it was, that had led to this unwonted softness of manner, this absence of sarcasm. very much the same thought--only treated as a nameless horror not to be recognised or admitted--was in marcella's mind also, joined however with another, unsuspected even by mrs. boyce's acuteness. "very likely--when i tell him--he will not want to marry me at all--and of course i shall tell him." but not yet--certainly not yet. she had the instinctive sense that during the next few weeks she should want all her dignity with aldous, that she could not afford to put herself at a disadvantage with him. to be troubled about her own sins at such a moment would be like the meanness of the lazy and canting christian, who whines about saving his soul while he ought to be rather occupied with feeding the bodies of his wife and children. a ring at the front door. marcella rose, leaning one hand on the end of the sofa--a long slim figure in her black dress--haggard and pathetic. when aldous entered, her face was one question. he went up to her and took her hand. "in the case of westall the verdict is one of 'wilful murder' against hurd. in that of poor charlie dynes the court is adjourned. enough evidence has been taken to justify burial. but there is news to-night that one of the widrington gang has turned informer, and the police say they will have their hands on them all within the next two or three days." marcella withdrew herself from him and fell back into the corner of the sofa. shading her eyes with her hand she tried to be very composed and business-like. "was hurd himself examined?" "yes, under the new act. he gave the account which he gave to you and to his wife. but the court--" "did not believe it?" "no. the evidence of motive was too strong. it was clear from his own account that he was out for poaching purposes, that he was leading the oxford gang, and that he had a gun while westall was unarmed. he admitted too that westall called on him to give up the bag of pheasants he held, and the gun. he refused. then he says westall came at him, and he fired. dick patton and one or two others gave evidence as to the language he has habitually used about westall for months past." "cowards--curs!" cried marcella, clenching both her hands, a kind of sob in her throat. aldous, already white and careworn, showed, mrs. boyce thought, a ray of indignation for an instant. then he resumed steadily-- "and brown, our steward, gave evidence as to his employment since october. the coroner summed up carefully, and i think fairly, and the verdict was given about half-past six." "they took him back to prison?" "of course. he comes before the magistrates on thursday." "and you will be one!" the girl's tone was indescribable. aldous started. mrs. boyce reddened with anger, and checking her instinct to intervene began to put away her working materials that she might leave them together. while she was still busy aldous said: "you forget; no magistrate ever tries a case in which he is personally concerned. i shall take no part in the trial. my grandfather, of course, must prosecute." "but it will be a bench of landlords," cried marcella; "of men with whom a poacher is already condemned." "you are unjust to us, i think," said aldous, slowly, after a pause, during which mrs. boyce left the room--"to some of us, at any rate. besides, as of course you know, the case will be simply sent on for trial at the assizes. by the way "--his tone changed--"i hear to-night that harry wharton undertakes the defence." "yes," said marcella, defiantly. "is there anything to say against it? you wouldn't wish hurd not to be defended, i suppose?" "marcella!" even her bitter mood was pierced by the tone. she had never wounded him so deeply yet, and for a moment he felt the situation intolerable; the surging grievance and reproach, with which his heart was really full, all but found vent in an outburst which would have wholly swept away his ordinary measure and self-control. but then, as he looked at her, it struck his lover's sense painfully how pale and miserable she was. he could not scold! but it came home to him strongly that for her own sake and his it would be better there should be explanations. after all things had been going untowardly for many weeks. his nature moved slowly and with much self-doubt, but it was plain to him now that he must make a stand. after his cry, her first instinct was to apologise. then the words stuck in her throat. to her, as to him, they seemed to be close on a trial of strength. if she could not influence him in this matter--so obvious, as it seemed to her, and so near to her heart--what was to become of that lead of hers in their married life, on which she had been reckoning from the beginning? all that was worst in her and all that was best rose to the struggle. but, as he did not speak, she looked up at last. "i was waiting," he said in a low voice. "what for?" "waiting till you should tell me you did not mean what you said." she saw that he was painfully moved; she also saw that he was introducing something into their relation, an element of proud self-assertion, which she had never felt in it before. her own vanity instantly rebelled. "i ought not to have said exactly what i did," she said, almost stifled by her own excitement, and making great efforts not to play the mere wilful child; "that i admit. but it has been clear to me from the beginning that--that"--her words hurried, she took up a book and restlessly lifted it and let it fall--"you have never looked at this thing justly. you have looked at the crime as any one must who is a landowner; you have never allowed for the provocation; you have not let yourself feel pity--" he made an exclamation. "do you know where i was before i went into the inquest?" "no," she said defiantly, determined not to be impressed, feeling a childish irritation at the interruption. "i was with mrs. westall. harden and i went in to see her. she is a hard, silent woman. she is clearly not popular in the village, and no one comes in to her. her"--he hesitated--"her baby is expected before long. she is in such a state of shock and excitement that clarke thinks it quite possible she may go out of her mind. i saw her sitting by the fire, quite silent, not crying, but with a wild eye that means mischief. we have sent in a nurse to help mrs. jellison watch her. she seems to care nothing about her boy. everything that that woman most desired in life has been struck from her at a blow. why? that a man who was in no stress of poverty, who had friends and employment, should indulge himself in acts which he knew to be against the law, and had promised you and his wife to forego, and should at the same time satisfy a wild beast's hatred against the man, who was simply defending his master's property. have _you_ no pity for mrs. westall or her child?" he spoke as calmly as he could, making his appeal to reason and moral sense; but, in reality, every word was charged with electric feeling. "i _am_ sorry for her!" cried marcella, passionately. "but, after all, how can one feel for the oppressor, or those connected with him, as one does for the victim?" he shook his head, protesting against the word, but she rushed on. "you do know--for i told you yesterday--how under the shelter of this _hateful_ game system westall made kurd's life a burden to him when he was a young man--how he had begun to bully him again this past year. we had the same sort of dispute the other day about that murder in ireland. you were shocked that i would not condemn the moonlighters who had shot their landlord from behind a hedge, as you did. you said the man had tried to do his duty, and that the murder was brutal and unprovoked. but i thought of the _system_--of the _memories_ in the minds of the murderers. there _were_ excuses--he suffered for his father--i am not going to judge that as i judge other murders. so, when a czar of russia is blown up, do you expect one to think only of his wife and children? no! i will think of the tyranny and the revolt; i will pray, yes, _pray_ that i might have courage to do as they did! you may think me wild and mad. i dare say. i am made so. i shall always feel so!" she flung out her words at him, every limb quivering under the emotion of them. his cool, penetrating eye, this manner she had never yet known in him, exasperated her. "where was the tyranny in this case?" he asked her quietly. "i agree with you that there are murders and murders. but i thought your point was that here was neither murder nor attack, but only an act of self-defence. that is hurd's plea." she hesitated and stumbled. "i know," she said, "i know. i believe it. but, even if the attack had been on hurd's part, i should still find excuses, because of the system, and because of westall's hatefulness." he shook his head again. "because a man is harsh and masterful, and uses stinging language, is he to be shot down like a dog?" there was a silence. marcella was lashing herself up by thoughts of the deformed man in his cell, looking forward after the wretched, unsatisfied life, which was all society had allowed him, to the violent death by which society would get rid of him--of the wife yearning her heart away--of the boy, whom other human beings, under the name of law, were about to separate from his father for ever. at last she broke out thickly and indistinctly: "the terrible thing is that i cannot count upon you--that now i cannot make you feel as i do--feel with me. and by-and-by, when i shall want your help desperately, when your help might be everything--i suppose it will be no good to ask it." he started, and bending forward he possessed himself of both her hands--her hot trembling hands--and kissed them with a passionate tenderness. "what help will you ask of me that i cannot give? that would be hard to bear!" still held by him, she answered his question by another: "give me your idea of what will happen. tell me how you think it will end." "i shall only distress you, dear," he said sadly. "no; tell me. you think him guilty. you believe he will be convicted." "unless some wholly fresh evidence is forthcoming," he said reluctantly, "i can see no other issue." "very well; then he will be sentenced to death. but, after sentence--i know--that man from widrington, that solicitor told me--if--if strong influence is brought to bear--if anybody whose word counts--if lord maxwell and you, were to join the movement to save him--there is sure to be a movement--the radicals will take it up. will you do it--will you promise me now--for my sake?" he was silent. she looked at him, all her heart burning in her eyes, conscious of her woman's power too, and pressing it. "if that man is hung," she said pleadingly, "it will leave a mark on my life nothing will ever smooth out. i shall feel myself somehow responsible. i shall say to myself, if i had not been thinking about my own selfish affairs--about getting married--about the straw-plaiting--i might have seen what was going on. i might have saved these people, who have been my friends--my _real_ friends--from this horror." she drew her hands away and fell back on the sofa, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes. "if you had seen her this morning!" she said in a strangled voice. "she was saying, 'oh, miss, if they do find him guilty, they can't hang him--not my poor deformed jim, that never had a chance of being like the others. oh, we'll beg so hard. i know there's many people will speak for him. he was mad, miss, when he did it. he'd never been himself, not since last winter, when we all sat and starved, and he was driven out of his senses by thinking of me and the children. you'll get mr. raeburn to speak--won't you, miss?--and lord maxwell? it was their game. i know it was their game. but they'll forgive him. they're such great people, and so rich--and we--we've always had such a struggle. oh, the bad times we've had, and no one know! they'll try and get him off, miss? oh, i'll go and _beg_ of them.'" she stopped, unable to trust her voice any further. he stooped over her and kissed her brow. there was a certain solemnity in the moment for both of them. the pity of human fate overshadowed them. at last he said firmly, yet with great feeling: "i will not prejudge anything, that i promise you. i will keep my mind open to the last. but--i should like to say--it would not be any easier to me to throw myself into an agitation for reprieve because this man was tempted to crime by _my_ property--on _my_ land. i should think it right to look at it altogether from the public point of view. the satisfaction of my own private compunctions--of my own private feelings--is not what i ought to regard. my own share in the circumstances, in the conditions which made such an act possible does indeed concern me deeply. you cannot imagine but that the moral problem of it has possessed me ever since this dreadful thing happened. it troubled me much before. now, it has become an oppression--a torture. i have never seen my grandfather so moved, so distressed, in all my remembrance of him. yet he is a man of the old school, with the old standards. as for me, if ever i come to the estate i will change the whole system, i will run no risks of such human wreck and ruin as this--" his voice faltered. "but," he resumed, speaking steadily again, "i ought to warn you that such considerations as these will not affect my judgment of this particular case. in the first place, i have no quarrel with capital punishment as such. i do not believe we could rightly give it up. your attitude properly means that wherever we can legitimately feel pity for a murderer, we should let him escape his penalty. i, on the other hand, believe that if the murderer saw things as they truly are, he would himself _claim_ his own death, as his best chance, his only chance--in this mysterious universe!--of self-recovery. then it comes to this--was the act murder? the english law of murder is not perfect, but it appears to me to be substantially just, and guided by it--" "you talk as if there were no such things as mercy and pity in the world," she interrupted wildly; "as if law were not made and administered by men of just the same stuff and fabric as the lawbreaker!" he looked troubled. "ah, but _law_ is something beyond laws or those who administer them," he said in a lower tone; "and the law--the _obligation-sense_--of our own race and time, however imperfect it may be, is sacred, not because it has been imposed upon us from without, but because it has grown up to what it is, out of our own best life--ours, yet not ours--the best proof we have, when we look back at it in the large, when we feel its work in ourselves of some diviner power than our own will--our best clue to what that power may be!" he spoke at first, looking away--wrestling out his thought, as it were, by himself--then turning back to her, his eyes emphasised the appeal implied, though not expressed, in what he said--intense appeal to her for sympathy, forbearance, mutual respect, through all acuteness of difference. his look both promised and implored. he bad spoken to her but very rarely or indirectly as yet of his own religious or philosophical beliefs. she was in a stage when such things interested her but little, and reticence in personal matters was so much the law of his life that even to her expansion was difficult. so that--inevitably--she was arrested, for the moment, as any quick perception must be, by the things that unveil character. then an upheaval of indignant feeling swept the impression away. all that he said might be ideally, profoundly true--_but_--the red blood of the common life was lacking in every word of it! he ought to be incapable of saying it _now_. her passionate question was, how could he _argue_--how could he hold and mark the ethical balance--when a _woman_ was suffering, when _children_ were to be left fatherless? besides--the ethical balance itself--does it not alter according to the hands that hold it--poacher or landlord, rich or poor? but she was too exhausted to carry on the contest in words. both felt it would have to be renewed. but she said to herself secretly that mr. wharton, when he got to work, would alter the whole aspect of affairs. and she knew well that her vantage-ground as towards aldous was strong. then at last he was free to turn his whole attention for a little to her and her physical state, which made him miserable. he had never imagined that any one, vigorous and healthy as she was, could look so worn out in so short a time. she let him talk to her--lament, entreat, advise--and at last she took advantage of his anxiety and her admissions to come to the point, to plead that the marriage should be put off. she used the same arguments that she had done to her mother. "how can i bear to be thinking of these things?"--she pointed a shaking finger at the dress patterns lying scattered on the table--"with this agony, this death, under my eyes?" it was a great blow to him, and the practical inconveniences involved were great. but the fibre of him--of which she had just felt the toughness--was delicate and sensitive as her own, and after a very short recoil he met her with great chivalry and sweetness, agreeing that everything should be put off for six weeks, till easter in fact. she would have been very grateful to him but that something--some secret thought--checked the words she tried to say. "i must go home then," he said, rising and trying to smile. "i shall have to make things straight with aunt neta, and set a great many arrangements in train. now, you will _try_ to think of something else? let me leave you with a book that i can imagine you will read." she let herself be tended and thought for. at the last, just as he was going, he said: "have you seen mr. wharton at all since this happened?" his manner was just as usual. she felt that her eye was guilty, but the darkness of the firelit room shielded her. "i have not seen him since we met him in the drive. i saw the solicitor who is working up the case for him yesterday. he came over to see mrs. hurd and me. i had not thought of asking him, but we agreed that, if he would undertake it, it would be the best chance." "it _is_ probably the best chance," said aldous, thoughtfully. "i believe wharton has not done much at the bar since he was called, but that, no doubt, is because he has had so much on his hands in the way of journalism and politics. his ability is enough for anything, and he will throw himself into this. i do not think hurd could do better." she did not answer. she felt that he was magnanimous, but felt it coldly, without emotion. he came and stooped over her. "good-night--good-night--tired child--dear heart! when i saw you in that cottage this morning i thought of the words, 'give, and it shall be given unto you.' all that my life can do to pour good measure, pressed down, running over, into yours, i vowed you then!" when the door closed upon him, marcella, stretched in the darkness, shed the bitterest tears that had ever yet been hers--tears which transformed her youth--which baptised her, as it were, into the fulness of our tragic life. she was still weeping when she heard the door softly opened. she sprang up and dried her eyes, but the little figure that glided in was not one to shrink from. mary harden came and sat down beside her. "i knew you would be miserable. let me come and cry too. i have been my round--have seen them all--and i came to bring you news." "how has she taken--the verdict?" asked marcella, struggling with her sobs, and succeeding at last in composing herself. "she was prepared for it. charlie told her when he saw her after you left this afternoon that she must expect it." there was a pause. "i shall soon hear, i suppose," said marcella, in a hardening voice, her hands round her knees, "what mr. wharton is doing for the defence. he will appear before the magistrates, i suppose." "yes; but charlie thinks the defence will be mainly reserved. only a little more than a fortnight to the assizes! the time is so short. but now this man has turned informer, they say the case is quite straightforward. with all the other evidence the police have there will be no difficulty in trying them all. marcella!" "yes." had there been light enough to show it, mary's face would have revealed her timidity. "marcella, charlie asked me to give you a message. he begs you not to--not to make mrs. hurd hope too much. he himself believes there is no hope, and it is not kind." "are you and he like all the rest," cried marcella, her passion breaking out again, "only eager to have blood for blood?" mary waited an instant. "it has almost broken charlie's heart," she said at last; "but he thinks it was murder, and that hurd will pay the penalty; nay, more "--she spoke with a kind of religious awe in her gentle voice--"that he ought to be glad to pay it. he believes it to be god's will, and i have heard him say that he would even have executions in public again--under stricter regulations of course--that we may not escape, as we always do if we can--from all sight and thought of god's justice and god's punishments." marcella shuddered and rose. she almost threw mary's hand away from her. "tell your brother from me, mary," she said, "that his god is to _me_ just a constable in the service of the english game-laws! if he _is_ such a one, i at least will fling my everlasting no at him while i live." and she swept from the room, leaving mary aghast. * * * * * meanwhile there was consternation and wrath at maxwell court, where aldous, on his return from mellor, had first of all given his great-aunt the news of the coroner's verdict, and had then gone on to break to her the putting-off of the marriage. his championship of marcella in the matter, and his disavowal of all grievance were so quiet and decided, that miss raeburn had been only able to allow herself a very modified strain of comment and remonstrance, so long as he was still there to listen. but she was all the more outspoken when he was gone, and lady winterbourne was sitting with her. lady winterbourne, who was at home alone, while her husband was with a married daughter on the riviera, had come over to dine _tête-à-tête_ with her friend, finding it impossible to remain solitary while so much was happening. "well, my dear," said miss raeburn, shortly, as her guest entered the room, "i may as well tell you at once that aldous's marriage is put off." "put off!" exclaimed lady winterbourne, bewildered. "why it was only thursday that i was discussing it all with marcella, and she told me everything was settled." "thursday!--i dare say!" said miss raeburn, stitching away with fiery energy, "but since then a poacher has murdered one of our gamekeepers, which makes all the difference." "what _do_ you mean, agneta?" "what i say, my dear. the poacher was marcella's friend, and she cannot now distract her mind from him sufficiently to marry aldous, though every plan he has in the world will be upset by her proceedings. and as for his election, you may depend upon it she will never ask or know whether he gets in next monday or no. that goes without saying. she is meanwhile absorbed with the poacher's defence, _mr. wharton_, of course, conducting it. this is your modern young woman, my dear--typical, i should think." miss raeburn turned her buttonhole in fine style, and at lightning speed, to show the coolness of her mind, then with a rattling of all her lockets, looked up and waited for lady winterbourne's reflections. "she has often talked to me of these people--the hurds," said lady winterbourne, slowly. "she has always made special friends with them. don't you remember she told us about them that day she first came back to lunch?" "of course i remember! that day she lectured maxwell, at first sight, on his duties. she began well. as for these people," said miss raeburn, more slowly, "one is, of course, sorry for the wife and children, though i am a good deal sorrier for mrs. westall, and poor, poor mrs. dynes. the whole affair has so upset maxwell and me, we have hardly been able to eat or sleep since. i thought it made maxwell look dreadfully old this morning, and with all that he has got before him too! i shall insist on sending for clarke to-morrow morning if he does not have a better night. and now this postponement will be one more trouble--all the engagements to alter, and the invitations. _really_! that girl." and miss raeburn broke off short, feeling simply that the words which were allowed to a well-bred person were wholly inadequate to her state of mind. "but if she feels it--as you or i might feel such a thing about some one we knew or cared for, agneta?" "how can she feel it like that?" cried miss raeburn, exasperated. "how can she know any one of--of that class well enough? it is not seemly, i tell you, adelaide, and i don't believe it is sincere. it's just done to make herself conspicuous, and show her power over aldous. for other reasons too, if the truth were known!" miss raeburn turned over the shirt she was making for some charitable society and drew out some tacking threads with a loud noise which relieved her. lady winterbourne's old and delicate cheek had flushed. "i'm sure it's sincere," she said with emphasis. "do you mean to say, agneta, that one can't sympathise, in such an awful thing, with people of another class, as one would with one's own flesh and blood?" miss raeburn winced. she felt for a moment the pressure of a democratic world--a hated, formidable world--through her friend's question. then she stood to her guns. "i dare say you'll think it sounds bad," she said stoutly; "but in my young days it would have been thought a piece of posing--of sentimentalism--something indecorous and unfitting--if a girl had put herself in such a position. marcella _ought_ to be absorbed in her marriage; that is the natural thing. how mrs. boyce can allow her to mix herself with such things as this murder--to _live_ in that cottage, as i hear she has been doing, passes my comprehension." "you mean," said lady winterbourne, dreamily, "that if one had been very fond of one's maid, and she died, one wouldn't put on mourning for her. marcella would." "i dare say," said miss raeburn, snappishly. "she is capable of anything far-fetched and theatrical." the door opened and hallin came in. he had been suffering of late, and much confined to the house. but the news of the murder had made a deep and painful impression upon him, and he had been eagerly acquainting himself with the facts. miss raeburn, whose kindness ran with unceasing flow along the channels she allowed it, was greatly attached to him in spite of his views, and she now threw herself upon him for sympathy in the matter of the wedding. in any grievance that concerned aldous she counted upon him, and her shrewd eyes had plainly perceived that he had made no great friendship with marcella. "i am very sorry for aldous," he said at once; "but i understand _her_ perfectly. so does aldous." miss raeburn was angrily silent. but when lord maxwell, who had been talking with aldous, came in, he proved, to her final discomfiture, to be very much of the same opinion. "my dear," he said wearily as he dropped into his chair, his old face grey and pinched, "this thing is too terrible--the number of widows and orphans that night's work will make before the end breaks my heart to think of. it will be a relief not to have to consider festivities while these men are actually before the courts. what i am anxious about is that marcella should not make herself ill with excitement. the man she is interested in will be hung, must be hung; and with her somewhat volatile, impulsive nature--" he spoke with old-fashioned discretion and measure. then quickly he pulled himself up, and, with some trivial question or other, offered his arm to lady winterbourne, for aldous had just come in, and dinner was ready. chapter xii. nearly three weeks passed--short flashing weeks, crowded with agitations, inward or outward, for all the persons of this story. after the inquiry before the magistrates--conducted, as she passionately thought, with the most marked animus on the part of the bench and police towards the prisoners--had resulted in the committal for trial of hurd and his five companions, marcella wrote aldous raeburn a letter which hurt him sorely. "don't come over to see me for a little while," it ran. "my mind is all given over to feelings which must seem to you--which, i know, do seem to you--unreasonable and unjust. but they are my life, and when they are criticised, or even treated coldly, i cannot bear it. when you are not there to argue with, i can believe, most sincerely, that you have a right to see this matter as you do, and that it is monstrous of me to expect you to yield to me entirely in a thing that concerns your sense of public duty. but don't come now--not before the trial. i will appeal to you if i think you can help me. i _know_ you will if you can. mr. wharton keeps me informed of everything. i enclose his last two letters, which will show you the line he means to take up with regard to some of the evidence." aldous's reply cost him a prodigal amount of pain and difficulty. "i will do anything in the world to make these days less of a burden to you. you can hardly imagine that it is not grievous to me to think of any trouble of yours as being made worse by my being with you. but still i understand. one thing only i ask--that you should not imagine the difference between us greater than it is. the two letters you enclose have given me much to ponder. if only the course of the trial enables me with an honest heart to throw myself into your crusade of mercy, with what joy shall i come and ask you to lead me, and to forgive my own slower sense and pity! "i should like you to know that hallin is very much inclined to agree with you, to think that the whole affair was a 'scrimmage,' and that hurd at least ought to be reprieved. he would have come to talk it over with you himself, but that clarke forbids him anything that interests or excites him for the present. he has been very ill and suffering for the last fortnight, and, as you know, when these attacks come on we try to keep everything from him that could pain or agitate him. but i see that this whole affair is very much on his mind, in spite of my efforts. "... oh, my darling! i am writing late at night, with your letter open before me and your picture close to my hand. so many things rise in my mind to say to you. there will come a time--there _must!_--when i may pour them all out. meanwhile, amid all jars and frets, remember this, that i have loved you better each day since first we met. "i will not come to mellor then for a little while. my election, little heart as i have for it, will fill up the week. the nomination-day is fixed for thursday and the polling for monday." marcella read the letter with a confusion of feeling so great as to be in itself monstrous and demoralising. was she never to be simple, to see her way clearly again? as for him, as he rode about the lanes and beechwoods in the days that followed, alone often with that nature for which all such temperaments as aldous raeburn's have so secret and so observant an affection, he was perpetually occupied with this difficulty which had arisen between marcella and himself, turning it over and over in the quiet of the morning, before the turmoil of the day began. he had followed the whole case before the magistrates with the most scrupulous care. and since then, he had twice run across the widrington solicitor for the defence, who was now instructing wharton. this man, although a strong radical, and employed generally by his own side, saw no objection at all to letting lord maxwell's heir and representative understand how in his opinion the case was going. aldous raeburn was a person whom everybody respected; confidences were safe with him; and he was himself deeply interested in the affair. the raeburns being the raeburns, with all that that implied for smaller people in brookshire, little mr. burridge was aware of no reason whatever why westall's employers should not know that, although mr. wharton was working up the defence with an energy and ability which set burridge marvelling, it was still his, burridge's opinion, that everything that could be advanced would be wholly unavailing with the jury; that the evidence, as it came into final shape, looked worse for hurd rather than better; and that the only hope for the man lay in the after-movement for reprieve which can always be got up in a game-preserving case. "and is as a rule political and anti-landlord," thought aldous, on one of these mornings, as he rode along the edge of the down. he foresaw exactly what would happen. as he envisaged the immediate future, he saw one figure as the centre of it--not marcella, but wharton! wharton was defending, wharton would organise the petition, wharton would apply for his own support and his grandfather's, through marcella. to wharton would belong not only the popular _kudos_ of the matter, but much more, and above all, marcella's gratitude. aldous pulled up his horse an instant, recognising that spot in the road, that downward stretching glade among the beeches, where he had asked marcella to be his wife. the pale february sunlight was spreading from his left hand through the bare grey trunks, and over the distant shoulders of the woods, far into the white and purple of the chalk plain. sounds of labour came from the distant fields; sounds of winter birds from the branches round him. the place, the time, raised in him all the intensest powers of consciousness. he saw himself as the man _standing midway_ in everything--speculation, politics, sympathies--as the perennially ineffective and, as it seemed to his morbid mood, the perennially defeated type, beside the whartons of this world. wharton! he knew him--had read him long ago--read him afresh of late. raeburn's lip showed the contempt, the bitterness which the philosopher could not repress, showed also the humiliation of the lover. here was he, banished from marcella; here was wharton, in possession of her mind and sympathies, busily forging a link-- "it shall be _broken!_" said raeburn to himself with a sudden fierce concentration of will. "so much i will claim--and enforce." but not now, nothing now, but patience, delicacy, prudence. he gathered himself together with a long breath, and went his way. * * * * * for the rest, the clash of motives and affections he felt and foresaw in this matter of the disley murders, became day by day more harassing. the moral debate was strenuous enough. the murders had roused all the humane and ethical instincts, which were in fact the man, to such a point that they pursued him constantly, in the pauses of his crowded days, like avenging erinnyes. hallin's remark that "game-preserving creates crime" left him no peace. intellectually he argued it, and on the whole rejected it; morally, and in feeling, it scourged him. he had suffered all his mature life under a too painful and scrupulous sense that he, more than other men, was called to be his brother's keeper. it was natural that, during these exhausting days, the fierce death on westall's rugged face, the piteous agony in dynes's young eyes and limbs, should haunt him, should make his landlord's place and responsibility often mere ashes and bitterness. but, as marcella had been obliged to perceive, he drew the sharpest line between the bearings of this ghastly business on his own private life and action, and its relation to public order. that the gamekeepers destroyed were his servants, or practically his servants, made no difference to him whatever in his estimate of the crime itself. if the circumstances had been such that he could honestly have held hurd not to be a murderer, no employer's interest, no landlord's desire for vengeance, would have stood in his way. on the other hand, believing, as he emphatically did, that hurd's slaying of westall had been of a kind more deliberate and less capable of excuse than most murders, he would have held it a piece of moral cowardice to allow his own qualms and compunctions as to the rights and wrongs of game-preserving to interfere with a duty to justice and society. ay! and something infinitely dearer to him than his own qualms and compunctions. hallin, who watched the whole debate in his friend day by day, was conscious that he had never seen aldous more himself, in spite of trouble of mind; more "in character," so to speak, than at this moment. spiritual dignity of mind and temper, blended with a painful personal humility, and interfused with all--determining all--elements of judgment, subtleties, prejudices, modes of looking at things, for which he was hardly responsible, so deeply ingrained were they by inheritance and custom. more than this: did not the ultimate explanation of the whole attitude of the man lie in the slow but irresistible revolt of a strong individuality against the passion which had for a time suppressed it? the truth of certain moral relations may be for a time obscured and distorted; none the less, _reality_ wins the day. so hallin read it. * * * * * meanwhile, during days when both for aldous and wharton the claims of a bustling, shouting public, which must be canvassed, shaken hands with, and spoken to, and the constant alternations of business meetings, committee-rooms and the rest, made it impossible, after all, for either man to spend more than the odds and ends of thought upon anything outside the clatter of politics, marcella had been living a life of intense and monotonous feeling, shut up almost within the walls of a tiny cottage, hanging over sick-beds, and thrilling to each pulse of anguish as it beat in the miserable beings she tended. the marriage of the season, with all its accompanying festivities and jubilations, had not been put off for seven weeks--till after easter--without arousing a storm of critical astonishment both in village and county. and when the reason was known--that it was because miss boyce had taken the disley murder so desperately to heart, that until the whole affair was over, and the men either executed or reprieved, she could spare no thought to wedding clothes or cates--there was curiously little sympathy with marcella. most of her own class thought it a piece of posing, if they did not say so as frankly as miss raeburn--something done for self-advertisement and to advance anti-social opinions; while the mellor cottagers, with the instinctive english recoil from any touch of sentiment not, so to speak, in the bargain, gossiped and joked about it freely. "she can't be very fond o' 'im, not of muster raeburn, she can't," said old patton, delivering himself as he sat leaning on his stick at his open door, while his wife and another woman or two chattered inside. "_not_ what i'd call lover-y. she don't want to run in harness, she don't, no sooner than, she need. she's a peert filly is miss boyce." "i've been a-waitin', an' a-waitin'," said his wife, with her gentle sigh, "to hear summat o' that new straw-plaitin' she talk about. but nary a word. they do say as it's give up althegither." "no, she's took up wi' nursin' minta hurd--wonderful took up," said another woman. "they do say as ann mullins can't abear her. when she's there nobody can open their mouth. when that kind o' thing happens in the fambly it's bad enoof without havin' a lady trailin' about you all day long, so that you have to be mindin' yersel', an' thinkin' about givin' her a cheer, an' the like." one day in the dusk, more than a fortnight after the inquest, marcella, coming from the hurds' cottage, overtook mrs. jellison, who was going home after spending the afternoon with her daughter. hitherto marcella had held aloof from isabella westall and her relations, mainly, to do her justice, from fear lest she might somehow hurt or offend them. she had been to see charlie dynes's mother, but she had only brought herself to send a message of sympathy through mary harden to the keeper's widow. mrs. jellison looked at her askance with her old wild eyes as marcella came up with her. "oh, she's _puddlin'_ along," she said in answer to marcella's inquiry, using a word very familiar in the village. "she'll not do herself a mischief while there's nurse ellen an' me to watch her like a pair o' cats. she's dreadful upset, is isabella--shouldn't ha' thought it of her. that fust day"--a cloud darkened the curious, dreamy face--"no, i'm not a-goin' to think about that fust day, i'm not, 'tain't a ha'porth o' good," she added resolutely; "but she was all right when they'd let her get 'im 'ome, and wash an' settle 'im, an' put 'im comfortable like in his coffin. he wor a big man, miss, when he wor laid out! searle, as made the coffin, told her as ee 'adn't made one such an extry size since old harry flood, the blacksmith, fifteen year ago. ee'd soon a done for jim hurd if it 'ad been fists o' both sides. but guns is things as yer can't reckon on.". "why didn't he let hurd alone," said marcella, sadly, "and prosecute him next day? it's attacking men when their blood is up that brings these awful hings about." "wal, i don't see that," said mrs. jellison, pugnaciously; "he wor paid to do 't--an' he had the law on his side. 'ow 's she?" she said, lowering her voice and jerking her thumb in the direction of the hurds' cottage. "she's very ill," replied marcella, with a contraction of the brow. "dr. clarke says she ought to stay in bed, but of course she won't." "they're a-goin' to try 'im thursday?" said mrs. jellison, inquiringly. "yes." "an' muster wharton be a-goin' to defend 'im. muster wharton may be cliver, ee may--they do say as ee can see the grass growin', ee's that knowin'--but ee'll not get jim hurd off; there's nobody in the village as b'lieves for a moment as 'ow he will. they'll best 'im. lor' bless yer, they'll best 'im. i was a-sayin' it to isabella this afternoon--ee'll not save 'is neck, don't you be afeared." marcella drew herself up with a shiver of repulsion. "will it mend your daughter's grief to see another woman's heart broken? don't you suppose it might bring her some comfort, mrs. jellison, if she were to try and forgive that poor wretch? she might remember that her husband gave him provocation, and that anyway, if his life is spared, his punishment and their misery will be heavy enough!" "oh, lor' no!" said mrs. jellison, composedly. "she don't want to be forgivin' of 'im. mr. harden ee come talkin' to 'er, but she isn't one o' that sort, isn't isabella. i'm sartin sure she'll be better in 'erself when they've put 'im out o' the way. it makes her all ov a fever to think of muster wharton gettin' 'im off. _i_ don't bear jim hurd no pertickler malice. isabella may talk herself black i' the face, but she and johnnie'll have to come 'ome and live along o' me, whatever she may say. she can't stay in that cottage, cos they'll be wantin' it for another keeper. lord maxwell ee's givin' her a fine pension, my word ee is! an' says ee'll look after johnnie. and what with my bit airnins--we'll do, yer know, miss--we'll do!" the old woman looked up with a nod, her green eyes sparkling with the queer inhuman light that belonged to them. marcella could not bring herself to say good-night to her, and was hurrying on without a word, when mrs. jellison stopped her. "an' 'ow about that straw-plaitin', miss?" she said slyly. "i have had to put it on one side for a bit," said marcella, coldly, hating the woman's society. "i have had my hands full and lady winterbourne has been away, but we shall, of course, take it up again later." she walked away quickly, and mrs. jellison hobbled after her, grinning to herself every now and then as she caught the straight, tall figure against the red evening sky. "i'll go in ter town termorrer," she thought, "an' have a crack wi' jimmy gedge; _ee_ needn't be afeard for 'is livin'. an' them great fules as ha' bin runnin' in a string arter 'er, an' cacklin' about their eighteen-pence a score, as i've told 'em times, i'll eat my apron the fust week as iver they get it. i don't hold wi' ladies--no, nor passons neither--not when it comes to meddlin' wi' your wittles, an' dictatin' to yer about forgivin' them as ha' got the better ov yer. that young lady there, what do she matter? that sort's allus gaddin' about? what'll she keer about us when she's got 'er fine husband? here o' saturday, gone o' monday--that's what she is. now jimmy gedge, yer kin allus count on '_im._ thirty-six year ee ha' set there in that 'ere shop, and i guess ee'll set there till they call 'im ter kingdom come. be's a cheatin', sweatin', greedy old skinflint is jimmy gedge; but when yer wants 'im yer _kin_ find 'im." * * * * * marcella hurried home, she was expecting a letter from wharton, the third within a week. she had not set eyes on him since they had met that first morning in the drive, and it was plain to her that he was as unwilling as she was that there should be any meeting between them. since the moment of his taking up the case, in spite of the pressure of innumerable engagements, he had found time to send her, almost daily, sheets covered with his small even writing, in which every detail and prospect of the legal situation, so far as it concerned james hurd, were noted and criticised with a shrewdness and fulness which never wavered, and never lost for a moment the professional note. "dear miss boyce"--the letters began--leading up to a "yours faithfully," which marcella read as carefully as the rest. often, as she turned them over, she asked herself whether that scene in the library had not been a mere delusion of the brain, whether the man whose wild words and act had burnt themselves into her life could possibly be writing her these letters, in this key, without a reference, without an allusion. every day, as she opened them, she looked them through quietly with a shaking pulse; every day she found herself proudly able to hand them on to her mother, with the satisfaction of one who has nothing to conceal, whatever the rest of the world may suspect. he was certainly doing his best to replace their friendship on that level of high comradeship in ideas and causes which, as she told herself, it had once occupied. his own wanton aggression and her weakness had toppled it down thence, and brought it to ruin. she could never speak to him, never know him again till it was re-established. still his letters galled her. he assumed, she supposed, that such a thing could happen, and nothing more be said about it? how little he knew her, or what she had in her mind! now, as she walked along, wrapped in her plaid cape, her thought was one long tumultuous succession of painful or passionate images, interrupted none the less at times by those curious self-observing pauses of which she had always been capable. she had been sitting for hours beside mrs. hurd, with little willie upon her knees. the mother, always anaemic and consumptive, was by now prostrate, the prey of a long-drawn agony, peopled by visions of jim alone and in prison--jim on the scaffold with the white cap over his eyes--jim in the prison coffin--which would rouse her shrieking from dreams which were the rending asunder of soul and body. minta hurd's love for the unhappy being who had brought her to this pass had been infinitely maternal. there had been a boundless pity in it, and the secret pride of a soul, which, humble and modest towards all the rest of the world, yet knew itself to be the breath and sustenance, the indispensable aid of one other soul in the universe, and gloried accordingly. to be cut off now from all ministration, all comforting--to have to lie there like a log, imagining the moment when the neighbours should come in and say, "it is all over--they have broken his neck--and buried him"--it was a doom beyond all even that her timid pessimist heart had ever dreamed. she had already seen him twice in prison, and she knew that she would see him again. she was to go on monday, miss boyce said, before the trial began, and after--if they brought him in guilty--they would let her say good-bye. she was always thirsting to see him. but when she went, the prison surroundings paralysed her. both she and hurd felt themselves caught in the wheels of a great relentless machine, of which the workings filled them with a voiceless terror. he talked to her spasmodically of the most incongruous things--breaking out sometimes with a glittering eye into a string of instances bearing on westall's bullying and tyrannous ways. he told her to return the books miss boyce had lent him, but when asked if he would like to see marcella he shrank and said no. mr. wharton was "doin' capital" for him; but she wasn't to count on his getting off. and he didn't know that he wanted to, neither. once she took willie to see him; the child nearly died of the journey; and the father, "though any one can see, miss, he's just sick for 'im," would not hear of his coming again. sometimes he would hardly kiss her at parting; he sat on his chair, with his great head drooped forward over his red hands, lost in a kind of animal lethargy. westall's name always roused him. hate still survived. but it made _her_ life faint within her to talk of the murdered man--wherein she showed her lack of the usual peasant's realism and curiosity in the presence of facts of blood and violence. when she was told it was time for her to go, and the heavy door was locked behind her, the poor creature, terrified at the warder and the bare prison silences, would hurry away as though the heavy hand of this awful justice were laid upon her too, torn by the thought of him she left behind, and by the remembrance that he had only kissed her once, and yet impelled by mere physical instinct towards the relief of ann mullins's rough face waiting for her--of the outer air and the free heaven. as for willie, he was fast dwindling. another week or two--the doctor said--no more. he lay on marcella's knee on a pillow, wasted to an infant's weight, panting and staring with those strange blue eyes, but always patient, always struggling to say his painful "thank you" when she fed him with some of the fruit constantly sent her from maxwell court. everything that was said about his father he took in and understood, but he did not seem to fret. his mother was almost divided from him by this passivity of the dying; nor could she give him or his state much attention. her gentle, sensitive, but not profound nature was strained already beyond bearing by more gnawing griefs. after her long sit in mrs. hurd's kitchen marcella found the air of the february evening tonic and delightful. unconsciously impressions stole upon her--the lengthening day, the celandines in the hedges, the swelling lilac buds in the cottage gardens. they spoke to her youth, and out of mere physical congruity it could not but respond. still, her face kept the angered look with which she had parted from mrs. jellison. more than that--the last few weeks had visibly changed it, had graved upon it the signs of "living." it was more beautiful than ever in its significant black and white, but it was older--a _woman_ spoke from it. marcella had gone down into reality, and had found there the rebellion and the storm for which such souls as hers are made. rebellion most of all. she had been living with the poor, in their stifling rooms, amid their perpetual struggle for a little food and clothes and bodily ease; she had seen this struggle, so hard in itself, combined with agonies of soul and spirit, which made the physical destitution seem to the spectator something brutally gratuitous, a piece of careless and tyrannous cruelty on the part of nature--or god? she would hardly let herself think of aldous--though she _must_ think of him by-and-by! he and his fared sumptuously every hour! as for her, it was as though in her woman's arms, on her woman's breast, she carried lazarus all day, stooping to him with a hungering pity. and aldous stood aloof. aldous would not help her--or not with any help worth having--in consoling this misery--binding up these sores. her heart cried shame on him. she had a crime against him to confess--but she felt herself his superior none the less. if he cast her off--why then surely they would be quits, quits for good and all. as she reached the front door of mellor, she saw a little two-wheeled cart standing outside it, and william holding the pony. visitors were nowadays more common at mellor than they had been, and her instinct was to escape. but as she was turning to a side door william touched his cap to her. "mr. wharton's waiting to see you, miss." she stopped sharply. "where is mrs. boyce, william?" "in the drawing-room, miss." she walked in calmly. wharton was standing on the rug, talking; mrs. boyce was listening to what he had to say with the light repellent air marcella knew so well. when she came in wharton stepped forward ceremoniously to shake hands, then began to speak at once, with the manner of one who is on a business errand and has no time to waste. "i thought it best, miss boyce, as i had unexpectedly a couple of spare hours this evening, to come and let you know how things were going. you understand that the case comes on at the assizes next thursday?" marcella assented. she had seated herself on the old sofa beside the fire, her ungloved hands on her knee. something in her aspect made wharton's eyes waver an instant as he looked down upon her--but it was the only sign. "i should like to warn you," he said gravely, "that i entertain no hope whatever of getting james hurd off. i shall do my best, but the verdict will certainly be murder; and the judge, i think, is sure to take a severe view. we may get a recommendation to mercy, though i believe it to be extremely unlikely. but if so, the influence of the judge, according to what i hear, will probably be against us. the prosecution have got together extremely strong evidence--as to hurd's long connection with the gang, in spite of the raeburns' kindness--as to his repeated threats that he would 'do for' westall if he and his friends were interrupted--and so on. his own story is wholly uncorroborated; and dynes's deposition, so far as it goes, is all against it." he went on to elaborate these points with great clearness of exposition and at some length; then he paused. "this being so," he resumed, "the question is, what can be done? there must be a petition. amongst my own party i shall be, of course, able to do something, but we must have men of all sides. without some at least of the leading conservatives, we shall fare badly. in one word--do you imagine that you can induce mr. raeburn and lord maxwell to sign?" mrs. boyce watched him keenly. marcella sat in frozen paleness. "i will try," she said at last, with deliberation. "then"--he took up his gloves--"there may be a chance for us. if you cannot succeed, no one else can. but if lord maxwell and mr. raeburn can be secured, others will easily follow. their names--especially under all the circumstances--will carry a peculiar weight. i may say everything, in the first instance--the weight, the first effect of the petition--depends on them. well, then, i leave it in your hands. no time should be lost after the sentence. as to the grounds of our plea, i shall, of course, lay them down in court to the best of my ability." "i shall be there," she interrupted. he started. so did mrs. boyce, but characteristically she made no comment. "well, then," he resumed after a pause, "i need say no more for the present. how is the wife?" she replied, and a few other formal sentences of inquiry or comment passed between them. "and your election?" said mrs. boyce, still studying him with hostile eyes, as he got up to take leave. "to-morrow!" he threw up his hands with a little gesture of impatience. "that at least will be one thread spun off and out of the way, whatever happens. i must get back to widrington as fast as my pony can carry me. good-bye, miss boyce." marcella went slowly upstairs. the scene which had just passed was unreal, impossible; yet every limb was quivering. then the sound of the front door shutting sent a shock through her whole nature. the first sensation was one of horrible emptiness, forlornness. the next--her mind threw itself with fresh vehemence upon the question, "can i, by any means, get my way with aldous?" chapter xiii. "and may the lord have mercy on your soul!" the deep-pitched words fell slowly on marcella's ears, as she sat leaning forward in the gallery of the widrington assize court. women were sobbing beside and behind her. minta hurd, to her left, lay in a half-swoon against her sister-in-law, her face buried in ann's black shawl. for an instant after hurd's death sentence had been spoken marcella's nerves ceased to throb--the long exhaustion of feeling stopped. the harsh light and shade of the ill-lit room; the gas-lamps in front of the judge, blanching the ranged faces of the jury; the long table of reporters below, some writing, but most looking intently towards the dock; the figure of wharton opposite, in his barrister's gown and wig--that face of his, so small, nervous, delicate--the frowning eyebrows a dark bar under the white of the wig--his look, alert and hostile, fixed upon the judge; the heads and attitudes of the condemned men, especially the form of a fair-haired youth, the principal murderer of charlie dynes, who stood a little in front of the line, next to hurd, and overshadowing his dwarf's stature--these things marcella saw indeed; for years after she could have described them point by point; but for some seconds or minutes her eyes stared at them without conscious reaction of the mind on the immediate spectacle. in place of it, the whole day, all these hours that she had been sitting there, brushed before her in a synthesis of thought, replacing the stream of impressions and images. the crushing accumulation of hostile evidence--witness after witness coming forward to add to the damning weight of it; the awful weakness of the defence--wharton's irritation under it--the sharpness, the useless, acrid ability of his cross-examinations; yet, contrasting with the legal failure, the personal success, the mixture of grace with energy, the technical accomplishment of the manner, as one wrestling before his equals--nothing left here of the garrulous vigour and brutality of the labourers' meeting!--the masterly use of all that could avail, the few quiet words addressed at the end to the pity of the jury, and by implication to the larger ethical sense of the community,--all this she thought of with great intellectual clearness while the judge's sonorous voice rolled along, sentencing each prisoner in turn. horror and pity were alike weary; the brain asserted itself. the court was packed. aldous raeburn sat on marcella's right hand; and during the day the attention of everybody in the dingy building had been largely divided between the scene below, and that strange group in the gallery where the man who had just been elected conservative member for east brookshire, who was lord maxwell's heir, and westall's employer, sat beside his betrothed, in charge of a party which comprised not only marcella boyce, but the wife, sister, and little girl of westall's murderer. on one occasion some blunt answer of a witness had provoked a laugh coming no one knew whence. the judge turned to the gallery and looked up sternly--"i cannot conceive why men and women--women especially--should come crowding in to hear such a case as this; but if i hear another laugh i shall clear the court." marcella, whose whole conscious nature was by now one network of sensitive nerve, saw aldous flush and shrink as the words were spoken. then, looking across the court, she caught the eye of an old friend of the raeburns, a county magistrate. at the judge's remark he had turned involuntarily to where she and aldous sat; then, as he met miss boyce's face, instantly looked away again. she perfectly--passionately--understood that brookshire was very sorry for aldous raeburn that day. the death sentences--three in number--were over. the judge was a very ordinary man; but, even for the ordinary man, such an act carries with it a great tradition of what is befitting, which imposes itself on voice and gesture. when he ceased, the deep breath of natural emotion could be felt and heard throughout the crowded court; loud wails of sobbing women broke from the gallery. "silence!" cried an official voice, and the judge resumed, amid stifled sounds that stabbed marcella's sense, once more nakedly alive to everything around it. the sentences to penal servitude came to an end also. then a ghastly pause. the line of prisoners directed by the warders turned right about face towards a door in the back wall of the court. as the men filed out, the tall, fair youth, one of those condemned to death, stopped an instant and waved his hand to his sobbing sweetheart in the gallery. hurd also turned irresolutely. "look!" exclaimed ann mullins, propping up the fainting woman beside her, "he's goin'." marcella bent forward. she, rather than the wife, caught the last look on his large dwarf's face, so white and dazed, the eyes blinking under the gas. aldous touched her softly on the arm. "yes," she said quickly, "yes, we must get her out. ann, can you lift her?" aldous went to one side of the helpless woman: ann mullins held her on the other. marcella followed, pressing the little girl close against her long black cloak. the gallery made way for them; every one looked and whispered till they had passed. below, at the foot of the stairs, they found themselves in a passage crowded with people--lawyers, witnesses, officials, mixed with the populace. again a road was opened for aldous and his charges. "this way, mr. raeburn," said a policeman, with alacrity. "stand back, please! is your carriage there, sir?" "let ann mullins take her--put them into the cab--i want to speak to mr. wharton," said marcella in aldous's ear. "get me a cab at once," he said to the policeman, "and tell my carriage to wait." "miss boyce!" marcella turned hastily and saw wharton beside her. aldous also saw him, and the two men interchanged a few words. "there is a private room close by," said wharton, "i am to take you there, and mr. raeburn will join us at once." he led her along a corridor, and opened a door to the left. they entered a small dingy room, looking through a begrimed window on a courtyard. the gas was lit, and the table was strewn with papers. "never, never more beautiful!" flashed through wharton's mind, "with that knit, strenuous brow--that tragic scorn for a base world--that royal gait--" aloud he said: "i have done my best privately among the people i can get at, and i thought, before i go up to town to-night--you know parliament meets on monday?--i would show you what i had been able to do, and ask you to take charge of a copy of the petition." he pointed to a long envelope lying on the table. "i have drafted it myself--i think it puts all the points we can possibly urge--but as to the names--" he took out a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket. "it won't do," he said, looking down at it, and shaking his head. "as i said to you, it is so far political merely. there is a very strong liberal and radical feeling getting up about the case. but that won't carry us far. this petition with these names is a demonstration against game preserving and keepers' tyranny. what we want is the co-operation of a _neighbourhood_, especially of its leading citizens. however, i explained all this to you--there is no need to discuss it. will you look at the list?" still holding it, he ran his finger over it, commenting here and there. she stood beside him; the sleeve of his gown brushed her black cloak; and under his perfect composure there beat a wild exultation in his power--without any apology, any forgiveness--to hold her there, alone with him, listening--her proud head stooped to his--her eye following his with this effort of anxious attention. she made a few hurried remarks on the names, but her knowledge of the county was naturally not very serviceable. he folded up the paper and put it back. "i think we understand," he said. "you will do what you can in the only quarter"--he spoke slowly--"that can really aid, and you will communicate with me at the house of commons? i shall do what i can, of course, when the moment comes, in parliament, and meanwhile i shall start the matter in the press--our best hope. the radical papers are already taking it up." there was a sound of steps in the passage outside. a policeman opened the door, and aldous raeburn entered. his quick look ran over the two figures standing beside the table. "i had some difficulty in finding a cab," he explained, "and we had to get some brandy; but she came round, and we got her off. i sent one of our men with her. the carriage is here." he spoke--to marcella--with some formality. he was very pale, but there was both authority and tension in his bearing. "i have been consulting with miss boyce," said wharton, with equal distance of manner, "as to the petition we are sending up to the home office." aldous made no reply. "one word, miss boyce,"--wharton quietly turned to her. "may i ask you to read the petition carefully, before you attempt to do anything with it? it lays stress on the _only_ doubt that can reasonably be felt after the evidence, and after the judge's summing up. that particular doubt i hold to be entirely untouched by the trial; but it requires careful stating--the issues may easily be confused." "will you come?" said aldous to marcella. what she chose to think the forced patience of his tone exasperated her. "i will do everything i can," she said in a low, distinct voice to wharton. "good-bye." she held out her hand. to both the moment was one of infinite meaning; to her, in her high spiritual excitement, a sacrament of pardon and gratitude--expressed once for all--by this touch--in aldous raeburn's presence. the two men nodded to each other. wharton was already busy, putting his papers together. "we shall meet next week, i suppose, in the house?" said wharton, casually. "good-night." * * * * * "will you take me to the court?" said marcella to aldous, directly the door of the carriage was shut upon them, and, amid a gaping crowd that almost filled the little market-place of widrington, the horses moved off. "i told mamma, that, if i did not come home, i should be with you, and that i should ask you to send me back from the court to-night." she still held the packet wharton had given her in her hand. as though for air, she had thrown back the black gauze veil she had worn all through the trial, and, as they passed through the lights of the town, aldous could see in her face the signs--the plain, startling signs--of the effect of these weeks upon her. pale, exhausted, yet showing in every movement the nervous excitement which was driving her on--his heart sank as he looked at her--foreseeing what was to come. as soon as the main street had been left behind, he put his head out of the window, and gave the coachman, who had been told to go to mellor, the new order. "will you mind if i don't talk?" said marcella, when he was again beside her. "i think i am tired out, but i might rest now a little. when we get to the court, will you ask miss raeburn to let me have some food in her sitting-room? then, at nine o'clock or so, may i come down and see lord maxwell and you--together?" what she said, and the manner in which she said it, could only add to his uneasiness; but he assented, put a cushion behind her, wrapped the rugs round her, and then sat silent, train after train of close and anxious thought passing through his mind as they rolled along the dark roads. when they arrived at maxwell court, the sound of the carriage brought lord maxwell and miss raeburn at once into the hall. aldous went forward in front of marcella. "i have brought marcella," he said hastily to his aunt. "will you take her upstairs to your sitting-room, and let her have some food and rest? she is not fit for the exertion of dinner, but she wishes to speak to my grandfather afterwards." lord maxwell had already hurried to meet the black-veiled figure standing proudly in the dim light of the outer hall. "my dear! my dear!" he said, drawing her arm within his, and patting her hand in fatherly fashion. "how worn-out you look!--yes, certainly--agneta, take her up and let her rest--and you wish to speak to me afterwards? of course, my dear, of course--at any time." miss raeburn, controlling herself absolutely, partly because of aldous's manner, partly because of the servants, took her guest upstairs straightway, put her on the sofa in a cheerful sitting-room with a bright fire, and then, shrewdly guessing that she herself could not possibly be a congenial companion to the girl at such a moment, whatever might have happened or might be going to happen, she looked at her watch, said that she must go down to dinner, and promptly left her to the charge of a kind elderly maid, who was to do and get for her whatever she would. marcella made herself swallow some food and wine. then she said that she wished to be alone and rest for an hour, and would come downstairs at nine o'clock. the maid, shocked by her pallor, was loth to leave her, but marcella insisted. when she was left alone she drew herself up to the fire and tried hard to get warm, as she had tried to eat. when in this way a portion of physical ease and strength had come back to her, she took out the petition from its envelope and read it carefully. as she did so her lip relaxed, her eye recovered something of its brightness. all the points that had occurred to her confusedly, amateurishly, throughout the day, were here thrown into luminous and admirable form. she had listened to them indeed, as urged by wharton in his concluding speech to the jury, but it had not, alas! seemed so marvellous to her then, as it did now, that, _after_ such a plea, the judge should have summed up as he did. when she had finished it and had sat thinking awhile over the declining fire, an idea struck her. she took a piece of paper from miss raeburn's desk, and wrote on it: "will you read this--and lord maxwell--before i come down? i forgot that you had not seen it.--m." a ring at the bell brought the maid. "will you please get this taken to mr. raeburn? and then, don't disturb me again for half an hour." and for that time she lay in miss raeburn's favourite chair, outwardly at rest. inwardly she was ranging all her arguments, marshalling all her forces. when the chiming clock in the great hall below struck nine, she got up and put the lamp for a moment on the mantelpiece, which held a mirror. she had already bathed her face and smoothed her hair. but she looked at herself again with attention, drew down the thick front waves of hair a little lower on the white brow, as she liked to have them, and once more straightened the collar and cuffs which were the only relief to her plain black dress. the house as she stepped out into it seemed very still. perfumed breaths of flowers and pot-pourri ascended from the hall. the pictures along the walls as she passed were those same caroline and early georgian beauties that had so flashingly suggested her own future rule in this domain on the day when aldous proposed to her. she felt suddenly very shrinking and lonely as she went downstairs. the ticking of a large clock somewhere--the short, screaming note of miss raeburn's parrot in one of the ground-floor rooms--these sounds and the beating of her own heart seemed to have the vast house to themselves. no!--that was a door opening--aldous coming to fetch her. she drew a childish breath of comfort. he sprang up the stairs, two or three steps at a time, as he saw her coming. "are you rested--were they good to you? oh! my precious one!--how pale you are still! will you come and see my--grandfather now? he is quite ready." she let him lead her in. lord maxwell was standing by his writing-table, leaning over the petition which was open before him--one hand upon it. at sight of her he lifted his white head. his fine aquiline face was grave and disturbed. but nothing could have been kinder or more courtly than his manner as he came towards her. "sit down in that chair. aldous, make her comfortable. poor child, how tired she looks! i hear you wished to speak to me on this most unhappy, most miserable business." marcella, who was sitting erect on the edge of the chair into which aldous had put her, lifted her eyes with a sudden confidence. she had always liked lord maxwell. "yes," she said, struggling to keep down eagerness and emotion. "yes, i came to bring you this petition, which is to be sent up to the home secretary on behalf of jim hurd, and--and--to _beg_ of you and aldous to sign it, if in any way you can. i know it will be difficult, but i thought i might--i might be able to suggest something to you--to convince you--as i have known these people so well--and it is very important to have your signatures." how crude it sounded--how mechanical! she felt that she had not yet command of herself. the strange place, the stately room, the consciousness of aldous behind her--aldous, who should have been on her side and was not--all combined to intimidate her. lord maxwell's concern was evident. in the first place, he was painfully, unexpectedly struck by the change in the speaker. why, what had aldous been about? so thin! so frail and willowy in her black dress--monstrous! "my dear," he said, walking up to her and laying a fatherly hand on her shoulder, "my dear, i wish i could make you understand how gladly i would do this, or anything else, for you, if i honourably could. i would do it for your sake and for your grandfather's sake. but--this is a matter of conscience, of public duty, both for aldous and myself. you will not surely _wish_ even, that we should be governed in our relations to it by any private feeling or motive?" "no, but i have had no opportunity of speaking to you about it--and i take such a different view from aldous. he knows--everybody must know--that there is another side, another possible view from that which the judge took. you weren't in court to-day, were you, at all?" "no. but i read all the evidence before the magistrates with great care, and i have just talked over the crucial points with aldous, who followed everything to-day, as you know, and seems to have taken special note of mr. wharton's speeches." "aldous!"--her voice broke irrepressibly into another note--"i thought he would have let me speak to you first!--to-night!" lord maxwell, looking quickly at his grandson, was very sorry for him. aldous bent over her chair. "you remember," he said, "you sent down the petition. i thought that meant that we were to read and discuss it. i am very sorry." she tried to command herself, pressing her hand to her brow. but already she felt the irrevocable, and anger and despair were rising. "the whole point lies in this," she said, looking up: "_can_ we believe hurd's own story? there is no evidence to corroborate it. i grant that--the judge did not believe it--and there is the evidence of hatred. but is it not possible and conceivable all the same? he says that he did not go out with any thought whatever of killing westall, but that when westall came upon him with his stick up, threatening and abusing him, as he had done often before, in a fit of wild rage he shot at him. surely, _surely_ that is conceivable? there _is_--there _must_ be a doubt; or, if it is murder, murder done in that way is quite, quite different from other kinds and degrees of murder." now she possessed herself. the gift of flowing persuasive speech which was naturally hers, which the agitations, the debates of these weeks had been maturing, came to her call. she leant forward and took up the petition. one by one she went through its pleas, adding to them here and there from her own knowledge of hurd and his peasant's life--presenting it all clearly, with great intellectual force, but in an atmosphere of emotion, of high pity, charged throughout with the "tears of things." to her, gradually, unconsciously, the whole matter--so sordid, commonplace, brutal in lord maxwell's eyes!--had become a tragic poem, a thing of fear and pity, to which her whole being vibrated. and as she conceived it, so she reproduced it. wharton's points were there indeed, but so were hurd's poverty, hurd's deformity, hurd as the boyish victim of a tyrant's insults, the miserable wife, the branded children--emphasised, all of them, by the occasional quiver, quickly steadied again, of the girl's voice. lord maxwell sat by his writing-table, his head resting on his hand, one knee crossed over the other. aldous still hung over her chair. neither interrupted her. once the eyes of the two men met over her head--a distressed, significant look. aldous heard all she said, but what absorbed him mainly was the wild desire to kiss the dark hair, so close below him, alternating with the miserable certainty that for him at that moment to touch, to soothe her, was to be repulsed. when her voice broke--when she had said all she could think of--she remained looking imploringly at lord maxwell. he was silent a little; then he stooped forward and took her hand. "you have spoken," he said with great feeling, "most nobly--most well--like a good woman, with a true compassionate heart. but all these things you have said are not new to me, my dear child. aldous warned me of this petition--he has pressed upon me, still more i am sure upon himself, all that he conceived to be your view of the case--the view of those who are now moving in the matter. but with the best will in the world i cannot, and i believe that he cannot--though he must speak for himself--i cannot take that view. in my belief hurd's act was murder, and deserves the penalty of murder. i have paid some attention to these things. i was a practising barrister in my youth, and later i was for two years home secretary. i will explain to you my grounds very shortly." and, bending forward, he gave the reasons for his judgment of the case as carefully and as lucidly as though he were stating them to a fellow-expert, and not to an agitated girl of twenty-one. both in words and manner there was an implied tribute, not only to marcella, but perhaps to that altered position of the woman in our moving world which affects so many things and persons in unexpected ways. marcella listened, restlessly. she had drawn her hand away, and was twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. the flush that had sprung up while she was talking had died away. she grew whiter and whiter. when lord maxwell ceased, she said quickly, and as he thought unreasonably-- "so you will not sign?" "no," he replied firmly, "i cannot sign. holding the conviction about the matter i do, i should be giving my name to statements i do not believe; and in order to give myself the pleasure of pleasing you, and of indulging the pity that every man must feel for every murderer's wife and children, i should be not only committing a public wrong, but i should be doing what i could to lessen the safety and security of one whole class of my servants--men who give me honourable service--and two of whom have been so cruelly, so wantonly hurried before their maker!" his voice gave the first sign of his own deep and painful feeling on the matter. marcella shivered. "then," she said slowly, "hurd will be executed." lord maxwell had a movement of impatience. "let me tell you," he said, "that that does not follow at all. there is _some_ importance in signatures--or rather in the local movement that the signatures imply. it enables a case to be reopened, which, in any event, this case is sure to be. but any home secretary who could decide a murder case on any other grounds whatever than those of law and his own conscience would not deserve his place a day--an hour! believe me, you mistake the whole situation." he spoke slowly, with the sharp emphasis natural to his age and authority. marcella did not believe him. every nerve was beginning to throb anew with that passionate recoil against tyranny and prejudice, which was in itself an agony. "and you say the same?" she said, turning to aldous. "i cannot sign that petition," he said sadly. "won't you try and believe what it costs me to refuse?" it was a heavy blow to her. amply as she had been prepared for it, there had always been at the bottom of her mind a persuasion that in the end she would get her way. she had been used to feel barriers go down before that ultimate power of personality of which she was abundantly conscious. yet it had not availed her here--not even with the man who loved her. lord maxwell looked at the two--the man's face of suffering, the girl's struggling breath. "there, there, aldous!" he said, rising. "i will leave you a minute. do make marcella rest--get her, for all our sakes, to forget this a little. bring her in presently to us for some coffee. above all, persuade her that we love her and admire her with all our hearts, but that in a matter of this kind she must leave us to do--as before god!--what we think right." he stood before her an instant, gazing down upon her with dignity--nay, a certain severity. then he turned away and left the room. marcella sprang up. "will you order the carriage?" she said in a strangled voice. "i will go upstairs." "marcella!" cried aldous; "can you not be just to me, if it is impossible for you to be generous?" "just!" she repeated, with a tone and gesture of repulsion, pushing him back from her. "_you_ can talk of justice!" he tried to speak, stammered, and failed. that strange paralysis of the will-forces which dogs the man of reflection at the moment when he must either take his world by storm or lose it was upon him now. he had never loved her more passionately--but as he stood there looking at her, something broke within him, the first prescience of the inevitable dawned. "_you_," she said again, walking stormily to and fro, and catching at her breath--"_you_, in this house, with this life--to talk of justice--the justice that comes of slaying a man like hurd! and i must go back to that cottage, to that woman, and tell her there is _no_ hope--none! because _you_ must follow your conscience--you who have everything! oh! i would not have your conscience--i wish you a heart--rather! don't come to me, please! oh! i must think how it can be. things cannot go on so. i should kill myself, and make you miserable. but now i must go to _her_--to the _poor_--to those whom i _love_, whom i carry in my heart!" she broke off sobbing. he saw her, in her wild excitement, look round the splendid room as though she would wither it to ruin with one fiery, accusing glance. "you are very scornful of wealth," he said, catching her wrists, "but one thing you have no right to scorn!--the man who has given you his inmost heart--and now only asks you to believe in this, that he is not the cruel hypocrite you are determined to make him!" his face quivered in every feature. she was checked a moment--checked by the moral compulsion of his tone and manner, as well as by his words. but again she tore herself away. "_please_ go and order the carriage," she said. "i cannot bear any more. i _must_ go home and rest. some day i will ask your pardon--oh! for this--and--and--" she was almost choked again--"other things. but now i must go away. there is some one who will help me. i must not forget that!" the reckless words, the inflection, turned aldous to stone. unconsciously he drew himself proudly erect--their eyes met. then he went up to the bell and rang it. "the brougham at once, for miss boyce. will you have a maid to go with you?" he asked, motioning the servant to stay till miss boyce had given her answer. "no, thank you. i must go and put on my things. will you explain to miss raeburn?" the footman opened the door for her. she went. chapter xiv. "but this is unbearable!" said aldous. "do you mean to say that she is at home and that she will not see me?" mrs. boyce's self-possession was shaken for once by the flushed humiliation of the man before her. "i am afraid it is so," she said hurriedly. "i remonstrated with marcella, but i could do nothing. i think, if you are wise, you will not for the present attempt to see her." aldous sat down, with his hat in his hand, staring at the floor. after a few moments' silence he looked up again. "and she gave you no message for me?" "no," said mrs. boyce, reluctantly. "only that she could not bear to see anybody from the court, even you, while this matter was still undecided." aldous's eye travelled round the mellor drawing-room. it was arrested by a chair beside him. on it lay an envelope addressed to miss boyce, of which the handwriting seemed to him familiar. a needle with some black silk hanging from it had been thrust into the stuffed arm of the chair; the cushion at the back still bore the imprint of the sitter. she had been there, not three minutes ago, and had fled before him. the door into mrs. boyce's sitting-room was still ajar. he looked again at the envelope on the chair, and recognised the writing. walking across to where mrs. boyce sat, he took a seat beside her. "will you tell me," he said steadily--"i think you will admit i have a right to know--is marcella in constant correspondence now with henry wharton?" mrs. boyce's start was not perceptible. "i believe so," she quickly replied. "so far as i can judge, he writes to her almost every other day." "does she show you his letters?" "very often. they are entirely concerned with his daily interviews and efforts on hurd's behalf." "would you not say," he asked, after another pause, raising his clear grey eyes to her, "that since his arrival here in december marcella's whole views and thoughts have been largely--perhaps vitally--influenced by this man?" mrs. boyce had long expected questions of this kind--had, indeed, often marvelled and cavilled that aldous had not asked them weeks before. now that they were put to her she was, first of all, anxious to treat them with common sense, and as much plain truth as might be fair to both parties. the perpetual emotion in which marcella lived tired and oppressed the mother. for herself she asked to see things in a dry light. yet she knew well that the moment was critical. her feeling was more mixed than it had been. on the whole it was indignantly on aldous's side--with qualifications and impatiences, however. she took up her embroidery again before she answered him. in her opinion the needle is to the woman what the cigarette is to the diplomatist. "yes, certainly," she said at last. "he has done a great deal to form her opinions. he has made her both read and think on all those subjects she has so long been fond of talking about." she saw aldous wince; but she had her reasons for being plain with him. "has there been nothing else than that in it?" said aldous, in an odd voice. mrs. boyce tried no evasions. she looked at him straight, her slight, energetic head, with its pale gold hair lit up by the march sun behind her. "i do not know," she said calmly; "that is the real truth. i _think_ there is nothing else. but let me tell you what more i think." aldous laid his hand on hers for an instant. in his pity and liking for her he had once or twice allowed himself this quasi-filial freedom. "if you would," he entreated. "leave marcella quite alone--for the present. she is not herself--not normal, in any way. nor will she be till this dreadful thing is over. but when it is over, and she has had time to recover a little, _then_"--her thin voice expressed all the emphasis it could--"_then_ assert yourself! ask her that question you have asked me--and get your answer." he understood. her advice to him, and the tone of it, implied that she had not always thought highly of his powers of self-defence in the past. but there was a proud and sensitive instinct in him which both told him that he could not have done differently and forbade him to explain. "you have come from london to-day?" said mrs. boyce, changing the subject. all intimate and personal conversation was distasteful to her, and she admitted few responsibilities. her daughter hardly counted among them. "yes; london is hard at work cabinet-making," he said, trying to smile. "i must get back to-night." "i don't know how you could be spared," said mrs. boyce. he paused; then he broke out: "when a man is in the doubt and trouble i am, he must be spared. indeed, since the night of the trial, i feel as though i had been of very little use to any human being." he spoke simply, but every word touched her. what an inconceivable entanglement the whole thing was! yet she was no longer merely contemptuous of it. "look!" she said, lifting a bit of black stuff from the ground beside the chair which held the envelope; "she is already making the mourning for the children. i can see she despairs." he made a sound of horror. "can you do nothing?" he cried reproachfully. "to think of her dwelling upon this--nothing but this, day and night--and i, banished and powerless!" he buried his head in his hands. "no, i can do nothing," said mrs. boyce, deliberately. then, after a pause, "you do not imagine there is any chance of success for her?" he looked up and shook his head. "the radical papers are full of it, as you know. wharton is managing it with great ability, and has got some good supporters in the house. but i happened to see the judge the day before yesterday, and i certainly gathered from him that the home office was likely to stand firm. there may be some delay. the new ministry will not kiss hands till saturday. but no doubt it will be the first business of the new home secretary.--by the way, i had rather marcella did not hear of my seeing judge cartwright," he added hastily--almost imploringly. "i could not bear that she should suppose--" mrs. boyce thought to herself indignantly that she never could have imagined such a man in such a plight. "i must go," he said, rising. "will you tell her from me," he added slowly, "that i could never have believed she would be so unkind as to let me come down from london to see her, and send me away empty--without a word?" "leave it to my discretion," said mrs. boyce, smiling and looking up. "oh, by the way, she told me to thank you. mr. wharton, in his letter this morning, mentioned that you had given him two introductions which were important to him. she specially wished you to be thanked for it." his exclamation had a note of impatient contempt that mrs. boyce was genuinely glad to hear. in her opinion he was much too apt to forget that the world yields itself only to the "violent." he walked away from the house without once looking back. marcella, from, her window, watched him go. "how _could_ she see him?" she asked herself passionately, both then and on many other occasions during these rushing, ghastly days. his turn would come, and it should be amply given him. but _now_ the very thought of that half-hour in lord maxwell's library threw her into wild tears. the time for entreaty--for argument--was gone by, so far as he was concerned. he might have been her champion, and would not. she threw herself recklessly, madly into the encouragement and support of the man who had taken up the task which, in her eyes, should have been her lover's. it had become to her a _fight_--with society, with the law, with aldous--in which her whole nature was absorbed. in the course of the fight she had realised aldous's strength, and it was a bitter offence to her. how little she could do after all! she gathered together all the newspapers that were debating the case, and feverishly read every line; she wrote to wharton, commenting on what she read, and on his letters; she attended the meetings of the reprieve committee which had been started at widrington; and she passed hours of every day with minta hurd and her children. she would hardly speak to mary harden and the rector, because they had not signed the petition, and at home her relations with her father were much strained. mr. boyce was awakening to a good deal of alarm as to how things might end. he might not like the raeburns, but that anything should come in the way of his daughter's match was, notwithstanding, the very last thing in the world, as he soon discovered, that he really desired. during six months he had taken it for granted; so had the county. he, of all men, could not afford to be made ridiculous, apart from the solid, the extraordinary advantages of the matter. he thought marcella a foolish, unreasonable girl, and was not the less in a panic because his wife let him understand that he had had a good deal to do with it. so that between him and his daughter there were now constant sparrings--sparrings which degraded marcella in her own eyes, and contributed not a little to make her keep away from home. the one place where she breathed freely, where the soul had full course, was in minta hurd's kitchen. side by side with that piteous plaintive misery, her own fierceness dwindled. she would sit with little willie on her knees in the dusk of the spring evenings, looking into the fire, and crying silently. she never suspected that her presence was often a burden and constraint, not only to the sulky sister-in-law but to the wife herself. while miss boyce was there the village kept away; and mrs. hurd was sometimes athirst, without knowing it, for homelier speech and simpler consolations than any marcella could give her. the last week arrived. wharton's letters grew more uncertain and despondent; the radical press fought on with added heat as the cause became more desperate. on monday the wife went to see the condemned man, who told her not to be so silly as to imagine there was any hope. tuesday night, wharton asked his last question in parliament. friday was the day fixed for the execution. the question in parliament came on late. the home secretary's answer, though not final in form, was final in substance. wharton went out immediately and wrote to marcella. "she will not sleep if i telegraph to-night," he thought, with that instinct for detail, especially for physical detail, which had in it something of the woman. but, knowing that his letter could not reach her by the early post with the stroke of eight next morning, he sent out his telegram, that she might not learn the news first from the papers. marcella had wandered out before breakfast, feeling the house an oppression, and knowing that, one way or another, the last news might reach her any hour. she had just passed through the little wood behind and alongside of the house, and was in a field beyond, when she heard some one running behind her. william handed her the telegram, his own red face full of understanding. marcella took it, commanded herself till the boy was out of sight and hearing again, then sank down on the grass to read it. "all over. the home secretary's official refusal to interfere with sentence sent to widrington to-day. accept my sorrow and sympathy." she crushed it in her hand, raising her head mechanically. before her lay that same shallow cup of ploughed land stretching from her father's big wood to the downs, on the edge of which hurd had plied his ferrets in the winter nights. but to-day the spring worked in it, and breathed upon it. the young corn was already green in the furrows; the hazel-catkins quivered in the hedge above her; larks were in the air, daisies in the grass, and the march of sunny clouds could be seen in the flying shadows they flung on the pale greens and sheeny purples of the wide treeless basin. human helplessness, human agony--set against the careless joy of nature--there is no new way of feeling these things. but not to have felt them, and with the mad, impotent passion and outcry which filled marcella's heart at this moment, is never to have risen to the full stature of our kind. * * * * * "marcella, it is my strong wish--my command--that you do _not_ go out to the village to-night." "i must go, papa." it was thursday night--the night before the friday morning fixed for hurd's execution. dinner at mellor was just over. mr. boyce, who was standing in front of the fire, unconsciously making the most of his own inadequate height and size, looked angrily at his stately daughter. she had not appeared at dinner, and she was now dressed in the long black cloak and black hat she had worn so constantly in the last few weeks. mr. boyce detested the garb. "you are making yourself _ridiculous_, marcella. pity for these wretched people is all very well, but you have no business to carry it to such a point that you--and we--become the talk, the laughing-stock of the county. and i should like to see you, too, pay some attention to aldous raeburn's feelings and wishes." the admonition, in her father's mouth, would almost have made her laugh, if she could have laughed at anything. but, instead, she only repeated: "i must go, i have explained to mamma." "evelyn! why do you permit it?" cried mr. boyce, turning aggressively to his wife. "marcella explained to me, as she truly said," replied mrs. boyce, looking up calmly. "it is not her habit to ask permission of any one." "mamma," exclaimed the girl, in her deep voice, "you would not wish to stop me?" "no," said mrs. boyce, after a pause, "no. you have gone so far, i understand your wish to do this. richard,"--she got up and went to him,--"don't excite yourself about it; shall i read to you, or play a game with you?" he looked at her, trembling with anger. but her quiet eye warned him that he had had threatenings of pain that afternoon. his anger sank into fear. he became once more irritable and abject. "let her gang her gait," he said, throwing himself into a chair. "but i tell you i shall not put up with this kind of thing much longer, marcella." "i shall not ask you, papa," she said steadily, as she moved towards the door. mrs. boyce paused where she stood, and looked after her daughter, struck by her words. mr. boyce simply took them as referring to the marriage which would emancipate her before long from any control of his, and fumed, without finding a reply. the maid-servant who, by mrs. boyce's orders, was to accompany marcella to the village, was already at the front door. she carried a basket containing invalid food for little willie, and a lighted lantern. it was a dark night and raining fast. marcella was fastening up her tweed skirt in the hall, when she saw mrs. boyce hurry along the gallery above, and immediately afterwards her mother came across the hall to her. "you had better take the shawl, marcella: it is cold and raw. if you are going to sit up most of the night you will want it." she put a wrap of her own across marcella's arm. "your father is quite right," she went on. "you have had one horrible experience to-day already--" "don't, mamma!" exclaimed marcella, interrupting her. then suddenly she threw her arms round her mother. "kiss me, mamma! please kiss me!" mrs. boyce kissed her gravely, and let herself even linger a moment in the girl's strong hold. "you are extraordinarily wilful," she said. "and it is so strange to me that you think you do any good. are you sure even that she wants to have you?" marcella's lip quivered. she could not speak, apparently. waving her hand to her mother, she joined the maid waiting for her, and the two disappeared into the blackness. "but _does_ it do any good?" mrs. boyce repeated to herself as she went back to the drawing-room. "_sympathy!_ who was ever yet fed, warmed, comforted by _sympathy_? marcella robs that woman of the only thing that the human being should want at such a moment--solitude. why should we force on the poor what to us would be an outrage?" meanwhile marcella battled through the wind and rain, thankful that the warm spring burst was over, and that the skies no longer mocked this horror which was beneath them. at the entrance to the village she stopped, and took the basket from the little maid. "now, ruth, you can go home. run quick, it is so dark, ruth!" "yes, miss." the young country girl trembled. miss boyce's tragic passion in this matter had to some extent infected the whole household in which she lived. "ruth, when you say your prayers to-night, pray god to comfort the poor,--and to punish the cruel!" "yes, miss," said the girl, timidly, and ready to cry. the lantern she held flashed its light on miss boyce's white face and tall form. till her mistress turned away she did not dare to move; that dark eye, so wide, full, and living, roused in her a kind of terror. on the steps of the cottage marcella paused. she heard voices inside--or rather the rector's voice reading. a thought of scorn rose in her heart. "how long will the poor endure this religion--this make-believe--which preaches patience, _patience_! when it ought to be urging war?" but she went in softly, so as not to interrupt. the rector looked up and made a grave sign of the head as she entered; her own gesture forbade any other movement in the group; she took a stool beside willie, whose makeshift bed of chairs and pillows stood on one side of the fire; and the reading went on. since minta hurd had returned with marcella from widrington gaol that afternoon, she had been so ill that a doctor had been sent for. he had bade them make up her bed downstairs in the warm; and accordingly a mattress had been laid on the settle, and she was now stretched upon it. her huddled form, the staring whiteness of the narrow face and closed eyelids, thrown out against the dark oak of the settle, and the disordered mass of grizzled hair, made the centre of the cottage. beside her on the floor sat mary harden, her head bowed over the rough hand she held, her eyes red with weeping. fronting them, beside a little table, which held a small paraffin lamp, sat the young rector, his testament in his hand, his slight boy's figure cast in sharp shadow on the cottage wall. he had placed himself so as to screen the crude light of the lamp from the wife's eyes; and an old skirt had been hung over a chair to keep it from little willie. between mother and child sat ann mullins, rocking herself to and fro over the fire, and groaning from time to time--a shapeless sullen creature, brutalised by many children and much poverty--of whom marcella was often impatient. "_and he said, lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom. and he said unto him, verily, i say unto thee, to-day shalt thou be with me in paradise."_ the rector's voice, in its awed monotony, dwelt insistently on each word, then paused. "_to-day_," whispered mary, caressing minta's hand, while the tears streamed down her cheeks; "he repented, minta, and the lord took him to himself--at once--forgiving all his sins." mrs. hurd gave no sign, but the dark figure on the other side of the cottage made an involuntary movement, which threw down a fire-iron, and sent a start through willie's wasted body. the reader resumed; but perfect spontaneity was somehow lost both for him and for mary. marcella's stormy presence worked in them both, like a troubling leaven. nevertheless, the priest went steadily through his duty, dwelling on every pang of the passion, putting together every sacred and sublime word. for centuries on centuries his brethren and forerunners had held up the man of sorrows before the anguished and the dying; his turn had come, his moment and place in the marvellous never-ending task; he accepted it with the meek ardour of an undoubting faith. "_and all the multitudes that came together to this sight, when they beheld the things that were done, returned, smiting their breasts_." he closed the book, and bent forward, so as to bring his voice close to the wife's ear. "so he died--the sinless and the just--for you, for your husband. he has passed through death--through cruel death; and where he has gone, we poor, weak, stained sinners can follow,--holding to him. no sin, however black, can divide us from him, can tear us from his hand in the dark waters, if it be only repented,--thrown upon his cross. let us pray for your husband, let us implore the lord's mercy this night--this hour!--upon his soul." a shudder of remembrance passed through marcella. the rector knelt; mrs. hurd lay motionless, save for deep gasps of struggling breath at intervals; ann mullins sobbed loudly; and mary harden wept as she prayed, lost in a mystical vision of the lord himself among them--there on the cottage floor--stretching hands of pity over the woman beside her, showing his marred side and brow. marcella alone sat erect, her whole being one passionate protest against a faith which could thus heap all the crimes and responsibilities of this too real earth on the shadowy head of one far-off redeemer. "this very man who prays," she thought, "is in some sort an accomplice of those who, after tempting, are now destroying, and killing, because they know of nothing better to do with the life they themselves have made outcast." and she hardened her heart. when the spoken prayer was over, mr. harden still knelt on silently for some minutes. so did mary. in the midst of the hush, marcella saw the boy's eyes unclose. he looked with a sort of remote wonder at his mother and the figures beside her. then suddenly the gaze became eager, concrete; he sought for something. her eye followed his, and she perceived in the shadow beside him, on a broken chair placed behind the rough screen which had been made for him, the four tiny animals of pinched paper wharton had once fashioned. she stooped noiselessly and moved the chair a little forward that he might see them better. the child with difficulty turned his wasted head, and lay with his skeleton hand under his cheek, staring at his treasures--his little, all--with just a gleam, a faint gleam, of that same exquisite content which had fascinated wharton. then, for the first time that day, marcella could have wept. at last the rector and his sister rose. "god be with you, mrs. hurd," said mr. harden, stooping to her; "god support you!" his voice trembled. mrs. hurd in bewilderment looked up. "oh, mr. harden!" she cried with a sudden wail. "mr. harden!" mary bent over her with tears, trying to still her, speaking again with quivering lips of "the dear lord, the saviour." the rector turned to marcella. "you are staying the night with her?" he asked, under his breath. "yes. mrs. mullins was up all last night. i offered to come to-night." "you went with her to the prison to-day, i believe?" "yes." "did you see hurd?" "for a very few minutes." "did you hear anything of his state of mind?" he asked anxiously. "is he penitent?" "he talked to me of willie," she said--a fierce humanness in her unfriendly eyes. "i promised him that when the child died, he should be buried respectably--not by the parish. and i told him i would always look after the little girls." the rector sighed. he moved away. then unexpectedly he came back again. "i must say it to you," he said firmly, but still so low as not to be heard by any one else in the cottage. "you are taking a great responsibility here to-night. let me implore you not to fill that poor woman with thoughts of bitterness and revenge at such a moment of her life. that _you_ feel bitterly, i know. mary has explained to me--but ask yourself, i beg of you!--how is _she_ to be helped through her misery, either now or in the future, except by patience and submission to the will of god?" he had never made so long a speech to this formidable parishioner of his, and his young cheek glowed with the effort. "you must leave me to do what i think best," said marcella, coldly. she felt herself wholly set free from that sort of moral compulsion which his holiness of mind and character had once exerted upon her. that hateful opinion of his, which mary had reported, had broken the spell once for all. mary did not venture to kiss her friend. they all went. ann mulling, who was dropping as much with sleep as grief, shuffled off last. when she was going, mrs. hurd seemed to rouse a little, and held her by the skirt, saying incoherent things. "dear mrs. hurd," said marcella, kneeling down beside her, "won't you let ann go? i am going to spend the night here, and take care of you and willie." mrs. hurd gave a painful start. "you're very good, miss," she said half-consciously, "very good, i'm sure. but she's his own flesh and blood is ann--his own flesh and blood. ann!" the two women clung together, the rough, ill-tempered sister-in-law muttering what soothing she could think of. when she was gone, minta hurd turned her face to the back of the settle and moaned, her hands clenched under her breast. marcella went about her preparations for the night. "she is extremely weak," dr. clarke had said; "the heart in such a state she may die of syncope on very small provocation. if she is to spend the night in crying and exciting herself, it will go hard with her. get her to sleep if you possibly can." and he had left a sleeping draught. marcella resolved that she would persuade her to take it. "but i will wake her before eight o'clock," she thought. "no human being has the right to rob her of herself through that last hour." and tenderly she coaxed minta to take the doctor's "medicine." minta swallowed it submissively, asking no questions. but the act of taking it roused her for the time, and she would talk. she even got up and tottered across to willie. "willie!--willie!--oh! look, miss, he's got his animals--he don't think of nothing else. oh, willie! won't you think of your father?--you'll never have a father, willie, not after to-night!" the boy was startled by her appearance there beside him--his haggard, dishevelled mother, with the dews of perspiration standing on the face, and her black dress thrown open at the throat and breast for air. he looked at her, and a little frown lined the white brow. but he did not speak. marcella thought he was too weak to speak, and for an instant it struck her with a thrill of girlish fear that he was dying then and there--that night--that hour. but when she had half helped, half forced mrs. hurd back to bed again, and had returned to him, his eyelids had fallen, he seemed asleep. the fast, whistling breath was much the same as it had been for days; she reassured herself. and at last the wife slept too. the narcotic seized her. the aching limbs relaxed, and all was still. marcella, stooping over her, kissed the shoulder of her dress for very joy, so grateful to every sense of the watcher was the sudden lull in the long activity of anguish. then she sat down in the rocking chair by the fire, yielding herself with a momentary relief to the night and the silence. the tall clock showed that it was not yet ten. she had brought a book with her, and she drew it upon her knee; but it lay unopened. a fretting, gusty wind beat against the window, with occasional rushes of rain. marcella shivered, though she had built up the fire, and put on her cloak. a few distant sounds from the village street round the corner, the chiming of the church clock, the crackling of the fire close beside her--she heard everything there was to hear, with unusual sharpness of ear, and imagined more. all at once restlessness, or some undefined impression, made her look round her. she saw that the scanty baize curtain was only half-drawn across one of the windows, and she got up to close it. fresh from the light of the lamp, she stared through the panes into the night without at first seeing anything. then there flashed out upon the dark the door of a public-house to the right, the last in the village road. a man came out stumbling and reeling; the light within streamed out an instant on the road and the common; then the pursuing rain and darkness fell upon him. she was drawing back when, with sudden horror, she perceived something else close beside her, pressing against the window. a woman's face!--the powerful black and white of it--the strong aquiline features--the mad keenness of the look were all plain to her. the eyes looked in hungrily at the prostrate form on the settle--at the sleeping child. another figure appeared out of the dark, running up the path. there was a slight scuffle, and voices outside. marcella drew the curtain close with a hasty hand, and sat down hardly able to breathe. the woman who had looked in was isabella westall. it was said that she was becoming more and more difficult to manage and to watch. marcella was some time in recovering herself. that look, as of a sleepless, hateful eagerness, clung to the memory. once or twice, as it haunted her, she got up again to make sure that the door was fast. the incident, with all it suggested, did but intensify the horror and struggle in which the girl stood, made her mood more strained, more piercingly awake and alert. gradually, as the hours passed, as all sounds from without, even that of the wind, died away, and the silence settled round her in ever-widening circles, like deep waters sinking to repose, marcella felt herself a naked soul, alone on a wide sea, with shapes of pain and agony and revolt. she looked at the sleeping wife. "he, too, is probably asleep," she thought, remembering some information which a kindly warder had given her in a few jerky, well-meant sentences, while she was waiting downstairs in the gaol for minta hurd. "incredible! only so many hours, minutes left--so far as any mortal _knows_--of living, thinking, recollecting, of all that makes us something as against the _nothing_ of death--and a man wastes them in sleep, in that which is only meant for the ease and repair of the daily struggle. and minta--her husband is her all--to-morrow she will have no husband; yet she sleeps, and i have helped to make her. ah! nature may well despise and trample on us; there is no reason in us--no dignity! oh, why are we here--why am _i_ here--to ache like this--to hate good people like charles harden and mary--to refuse all i could give--to madden myself over pain i can never help? i cannot help it, yet i cannot forsake it; it drives, it clings to me!" she sat over the fire, willie's hand clasped in hers. he alone in this forlorn household _loved_ her. mrs. hurd and the other children feared and depended on her. this creature of thistle-down--this little thread and patch of humanity--felt no fear of her. it was as though his weakness divined through her harshness and unripeness those maternal and protecting powers with which her nature was in truth so richly dowered. he confided himself to her with no misgivings. he was at ease when she was there. little piteous hand!--its touch was to her symbolic, imperative. eight months had she been at mellor? and that marcella, who had been living and moving amid these woods and lanes all this time--that foolish girl, delighting in new grandeurs, and flattered by aldous raeburn's attentions--that hot, ambitious person who had meant to rule a county through a husband--what had become of her? up to the night of hurd's death sentence she had still existed in some sort, with her obligations, qualms, remorses. but since then--every day, every hour had been grinding, scorching her away--fashioning in flame and fever this new marcella who sat here, looking impatiently into another life, which should know nothing of the bonds of the old. ah, yes!--her _thought_ could distinguish between the act and the man, between the man and his class; but in her _feeling_ all was confounded. this awful growth of sympathy in her--strange irony!--had made all sympathy for aldous raeburn impossible to her. marry him?--no! no!--never! but she would make it quite easy to him to give her up. pride should come in--he should feel no pain in doing it. she had in her pocket the letter she had received from him that afternoon. she had hardly been able to read it. ear and heart were alike dull to it. from time to time she probably slept in her chair. or else it was the perpetual rush of images and sensations through the mind that hastened the hours. once when the first streaks of the march dawn were showing through the curtains minta hurd sprang up with a loud cry: "oh, my god! jim, _jim!_ oh, no!--take that off. oh, _please_, sir, please! oh, for god's sake, sir!" agony struggled with sleep. marcella, shuddering, held and soothed her, and for a while sleep, or rather the drug in her veins, triumphed again. for another hour or two she lay restlessly tossing from side to side, but unconscious. willie hardly moved all night. again and again marcella held beef-tea or milk to his mouth, and tried to rouse him to take it, but she could make no impression on the passive lips; the sleeping serenity of the brow never changed. at last, with a start, marcella looked round and saw that the morning was fully there. a cold light was streaming through the curtains; the fire was still glowing; but her limbs were stiff and chilled under her shawl. she sprang up, horror descending on her. her shaking fingers could hardly draw out the watch in her belt. _ten minutes to eight_! for the first time the girl felt nerve and resolution fail her. she looked at mrs. hurd and wrung her hands. the mother was muttering and moving, but not yet fully awake; and willie lay as before. hardly knowing what she was doing, she drew the curtains back, as though inspiration might come with the light. the rain-clouds trailed across the common; water dripped heavily from the thatch of the cottage; and a few birds twittered from some bedraggled larches at the edge of the common. far away, beyond and beneath those woods to the right, widrington lay on the plain, with that high-walled stone building at its edge. she saw everything as it must now be happening as plainly as though she were bodily present there--the last meal--the pinioning--the chaplain. goaded by the passing seconds, she turned back at last to wake that poor sleeper behind her. but something diverted her. with a start she saw that willie's eyes were open. "willie," she said, running to him, "how are you, dear? shall i lift your head a little?" he did not answer, though she thought he tried, and she was struck by the blueness under the eyes and nose. hurriedly she felt his tiny feet. they were quite cold. "mrs. hurd!" she cried, rousing her in haste; "dear mrs. hurd, come and see willie!" the mother sprang up bewildered, and, hurrying across the room, threw herself upon him. "willie, what is it ails you, dear? tell mother! is it your feet are so cold? but we'll rub them--we'll get you warm soon. and here's something to make you better." marcella handed her some brandy. "drink it, dear; drink it, sweetheart!" her voice grew shrill. "he can't," said marcella. "do not let us plague him; it is the end. dr. clarke said it would come in the morning." they hung over him, forgetting everything but him for the moment--the only moment in his little life he came first even with his mother. there was a slight movement of the hand. "he wants his animals," said marcella, the tears pouring down her cheeks. she lifted them and put them on his breast, laying the cold fingers over them. then he tried to speak. "daddy!" he whispered, looking up fully at his mother; "take 'em to daddy!" she fell on her knees beside him with a shriek, hiding her face, and shaking from head to foot. marcella alone saw the slight, mysterious smile, the gradual sinking of the lids, the shudder of departing life that ran through the limbs. a heavy sound swung through the air--a heavy repeated sound. mrs. hurd held up her head and listened. the church clock tolled eight. she knelt there, struck motionless by terror--by recollection. "oh, jim!" she said, under her breath--"my jim!" the plaintive tone--as of a creature that has not even breath and strength left wherewith to chide the fate that crushes it--broke marcella's heart. sitting beside the dead son, she wrapt the mother in her arms, and the only words that even her wild spirit could find wherewith to sustain this woman through the moments of her husband's death were words of prayer--the old shuddering cries wherewith the human soul from the beginning has thrown itself on that awful encompassing life whence it issued, and whither it returns. chapter xv. two days later, in the afternoon, aldous raeburn found himself at the door of mellor. when he entered the drawing-room, mrs. boyce, who had heard his ring, was hurrying away. "don't go," he said, detaining her with a certain peremptoriness. "i want all the light on this i can get. tell me, she has _actually_ brought herself to regard this man's death as in some sort my doing--as something which ought to separate us?" mrs. boyce saw that he held an opened letter from marcella crushed in his hand. but she did not need the explanation. she had been expecting him at any hour throughout the day, and in just this condition of mind. "marcella must explain for herself," she said, after a moment's thought. "i have no right whatever to speak for her. besides, frankly, i do not understand her, and when i argue with her she only makes me realise that i have no part or lot in her--that i never had. it is just enough. she was brought up away from me. and i have no natural hold. i cannot help you, or any one else, with her." aldous had been very tolerant and compassionate in the past of this strange mother's abdication of her maternal place, and of its probable causes. but it was not in human nature that he should be either to-day. he resumed his questioning, not without sharpness. "one word, please. tell me something of what has happened since thursday, before i see her. i have written--but till this morning i have had not one line from her." they were standing by the window, he with his frowning gaze, in which agitation struggled against all his normal habits of manner and expression, fixed upon the lawn and the avenue. she told him briefly what she knew of marcella's doings since the arrival of wharton's telegram--of the night in the cottage, and the child's death. it was plain that he listened with a shuddering repulsion. "do you know," he exclaimed, turning upon her, "that she may never recover this? such a strain, such a horror! rushed upon so wantonly, so needlessly." "i understand. you think that i have been to blame? i do not wonder. but it is not true--not in this particular case. and anyway your view is not mine. life--and the iron of it--has to be faced, even by women--perhaps, most of all, by women. but let me go now. otherwise my husband will come in. and i imagine you would rather see marcella before you see him or any one." that suggestion told. he instantly gathered himself together, and nervously begged that she would send marcella to him at once. he could think of nothing, talk of nothing, till he had seen her. she went, and aldous was left to walk up and down the room planning what he should say. after the ghastly intermingling of public interests and private misery in which he had lived for these many weeks there was a certain relief in having reached the cleared space--the decisive moment--when he might at last give himself wholly to what truly concerned him. he would not lose her without a struggle. none the less he knew, and had known ever since the scene in the court library, that the great disaster of his life was upon him. the handle of the door turned. she was there. he did not go to meet her. she had come in wrought up to face attack--reproaches, entreaties--ready to be angry or to be humble, as he should give her the lead. but he gave her no lead. she had to break through that quivering silence as best she could. "i wanted to explain everything to you," she said in a low voice, as she came near to him. "i know my note last night was very hard and abrupt. i didn't mean to be hard. but i am still so tired--and everything that one says, and feels, hurts so." she sank down upon a chair. this womanish appeal to his pity had not been at all in her programme. nor did it immediately succeed. as he looked at her, he could only feel the wantonness of this eclipse into which she had plunged her youth and beauty. there was wrath, a passionate protesting wrath, under his pain. "marcella," he said, sitting down beside her, "did you read my letter that i wrote you the day before--?" "yes." "and after that, you could still believe that i was indifferent to your grief--your suffering--or to the suffering of any human being for whom you cared? you could still think it, and feel it?" "it was not what you have said all through," she replied, looking sombrely away from him, her chin on her hand, "it is what you have done." "what have i done?" he said proudly, bending forward from his seat beside her. "what have i ever done but claim from you that freedom you desire so passionately for others--freedom of conscience--freedom of judgment? you denied me this freedom, though i asked it of you with all my soul. and you denied me more. through these five weeks you have refused me the commonest right of love--the right to show you myself, to prove to you that through all this misery of differing opinion--misery, much more, oh, much more to me than to you!--i was in truth bent on the same ends with you, bearing the same burden, groping towards the same goal." "no! no!" she cried, turning upon him, and catching at a word; "what burden have you ever borne? i know you were sorry--that there was a struggle in your mind--that you pitied me--pitied _them_. but you judged it all _from above_--you looked down--and i could not see that you had any right. it made me mad to have such things seen from a height, when i was below--in the midst--_close_ to the horror and anguish of them." "whose fault was it," he interrupted, "that i was not with you? did i not offer--entreat? i could not sign a statement of fact which seemed to me an untrue statement, but what prevented me--prevented us.--however, let me take that point first. would you,"--he spoke deliberately, "would you have had me put my name to a public statement which i, rightly or wrongly, believed to be false, because you asked me? you owe it to me to answer." she could not escape the penetrating fire of his eye. the man's mildness, his quiet self-renouncing reserve, were all burnt up at last in this white heat of an accusing passion. in return she began to forget her own resolve to bear herself gently. "you don't remember," she cried, "that what divided us was your--your--incapacity to put the human pity first; to think of the surrounding circumstances--of the debt that you and i and everybody like us owe to a man like hurd--to one who had been stunted and starved by life as he had been." her lip began to tremble. "then it comes to this," he said steadily, "that if i had been a poor man, you would have allowed me my conscience--my judgment of right and wrong--in such a matter. you would have let me remember that i was a citizen, and that pity is only one side of justice! you would have let me plead that hurd's sin was not against me, but against the community, and that in determining whether to do what you wished or no, i must think of the community and its good before even i thought of pleasing you. if i had possessed no more than hurd, all this would have been permitted me; but because of maxwell court--because of my _money_,"--she shrank before the accent of the word--"you refused me the commonest moral rights. _my_ scruple, _my_ feeling, were nothing to you. your pride was engaged as well as your pity, and i must give way. marcella! you talk of justice--you talk of equality--is the only man who can get neither at your hands--the man whom you promised to marry!" his voice dwelt on that last word, dwelt and broke. he leant over her in his roused strength, and tried to take her hand. but she moved away from him with a cry. "it is no use! oh, don't--don't! it may be all true. i was vain, i dare say, and unjust, and hard. but don't you see--don't you understand--if we _could_ take such different views of such a case--if it could divide us so deeply--what chance would there be if we were married? i ought never--never--to have said 'yes' to you--even as i was then. but _now_," she turned to him slowly, "can't you see it for yourself? i am a changed creature. certain things in me are gone--_gone_--and instead there is a fire--something driving, tormenting--which must burn its way out. when i think of what i liked so much when you asked me to marry you--being rich, and having beautiful things, and dresses, and jewels, and servants, and power--social power--above all _that_--i feel sick and choked. i couldn't breathe now in a house like maxwell court. the poor have come to mean to me the only people who really _live_, and really _suffer_. i must live with them, work for them, find out what i can do for them. you must give me up--you must indeed. oh! and you will! you will be glad enough, thankful enough, when--when--you know what i _am_!" he started at the words. where was the prophetess? he saw that she was lying white and breathless, her face hidden against the arm of the chair. in an instant he was on his knees beside her. "marcella!" he could hardly command his voice, but he held her struggling hand against his lips. "you think that suffering belongs to one class? have you really no conception of what you will be dealing to me if you tear yourself away from me?" she withdrew her hand, sobbing. "don't, don't stay near me!" she said; "there is--more--there is something else." aldous rose. "you mean," he said in an altered voice, after a pause of silence, "that another influence--another man--has come between us?" she sat up, and with a strong effort drove back her weeping. "if i could say to you only this," she began at last, with long pauses, "'i mistook myself and my part in life. i did wrong, but forgive me, and let me go for both our sakes'--that would be--well!--that would be difficult,--but easier than this! haven't you understood at all? when--when mr. wharton came, i began to see things very soon, not in my own way, but in his way. i had never met any one like him--not any one who showed me such possibilities in _myself_--such new ways of using one's life, and not only one's possessions--of looking at all the great questions. i thought it was just friendship, but it made me critical, impatient of everything else. i was never myself from the beginning. then,--after the ball,"--he stooped over her that he might hear her the more plainly,--"when i came home i was in my room and i heard steps--there are ghost stories, you know, about that part of the house. i went out to see. perhaps, in my heart of hearts--oh, i can't tell, i can't tell!--anyway, he was there. we went into the library, and we talked. he did not want to touch our marriage,--but he said all sorts of mad things,--and at last--he kissed me." the last words were only breathed. she had often pictured herself confessing these things to him. but the humiliation in which she actually found herself before him was more than she had ever dreamed of, more than she could bear. all those great words of pity and mercy--all that implication of a moral atmosphere to which he could never attain--to end in this story! the effect of it, on herself, rather than on him, was what she had not foreseen. aldous raised himself slowly. "and when did this happen?" he asked after a moment. "i told you--the night of the ball--of the murder," she said with a shiver; "we saw hurd cross the avenue. i meant to have told you everything at once." "and you gave up that intention?" he asked her, when he had waited a little for more, and nothing came. she turned upon him with a flash of the old defiance. "how could i think of my own affairs?" "or of mine?" he said bitterly. she made no answer. aldous got up and walked to the chimney-piece. he was very pale, but his eyes were bright and sparkling. when she looked up at him at last she saw that her task was done. his scorn--his resentment--were they not the expiation, the penalty she had looked forward to all along?--and with that determination to bear them calmly? yet, now that they were there in front of her, they stung. "so that--for all those weeks--while you were letting me write as i did, while you were letting me conceive you and your action as i did, you had this on your mind? you never gave me a hint; you let me plead; you let me regard you as wrapped up in the unselfish end; you sent me those letters of his--those most misleading letters!--and all the time--" "but i meant to tell you--i always meant to tell you," she cried passionately. "i would never have gone on with a secret like that--not for your sake--but for my own." "yet you did go on so long," he said steadily; "and my agony of mind during those weeks--my feeling towards you--my--" he broke off, wrestling with himself. as for her, she had fallen back in her chair, physically incapable of anything more. he walked over to her side and took up his hat. "you have done me wrong," he said, gazing down upon her. "i pray god you may not do yourself a greater wrong in the future! give me leave to write to you once more, or to send my friend edward hallin to see you. then i will not trouble you again." he waited, but she could give him no answer. her form as she lay there in this physical and moral abasement printed itself upon his heart. yet he felt no desire whatever to snatch the last touch--the last kiss--that wounded passion so often craves. inwardly, and without words, he said farewell to her. she heard his steps across the room; the door shut; she was alone--and free. book iii. "o neigung, sage, wie hast du so tief im herzen dich verstecket? wer hat dich, die verborgen schlief, gewecket?" chapter i. "don't suppose that i feel enthusiastic or sentimental about the 'claims of labour,'" said wharton, smiling to the lady beside him. "you may get that from other people, but not from me. i am not moral enough to be a fanatic. my position is simplicity itself. when things are inevitable, i prefer to be on the right side of them, and not on the wrong. there is not much more in it than that. i would rather be on the back of the 'bore' for instance, as it sweeps up the tidal river, than the swimmer caught underneath it." "well, that is intelligible," said lady selina farrell, looking at her neighbour, as she crumbled her dinner-roll. to crumble your bread at dinner is a sign of nervousness, according to sydney smith, who did it with both hands when he sat next an archbishop; yet no one for a good many years past had ever suspected lady selina of nervousness, though her powers had probably been tried before now by the neighbourhood of many primates, catholic and anglican. for lady selina went much into society, and had begun it young. "still, you know," she resumed after a moment's pause--"you _play_ enthusiasm in public--i suppose you must." "oh! of course," said wharton, indifferently. "that is in the game." "why should it be--always? if you are a leader of the people, why don't you educate them? my father says that bringing feeling into politics is like making rhymes in one's account book." "well, when you have taught the masses how _not_ to feel," said wharton, laughing, "we will follow your advice. meanwhile it is our brains and their feelings that do the trick. and by the way, lady selina, are _you_ always so cool? if you saw the revolution coming to-morrow into the garden of alresford house, would you go to the balcony and argue?" "i devoutly hope there would be somebody ready to do something more to the point," said lady selina, hastily. "but of course _we_ have enthusiasms too." "what, the flag--and the throne--that kind of thing?" the ironical attention which wharton began at this moment to devote to the selection of an olive annoyed his companion. "yes," she repeated emphatically, "the flag and the throne--all that has made england great in the past. but we know very well that they are not _your_ enthusiasms." wharton's upper lip twitched a little. "and you are quite sure that busbridge towers has nothing to do with it?" he said suddenly, looking round upon her. busbridge towers was the fine ancestral seat which belonged to lady selina's father, that very respectable and ancient peer, lord alresford, whom an ungrateful party had unaccountably omitted--for the first time--from the latest conservative administration. "of course we perfectly understand," replied lady selina, scornfully, "that your side--and especially your socialist friends, put down all that _we_ do and say to greed and selfishness. it is our misfortune--hardly our fault." "not at all," said wharton, quietly, "i was only trying to convince you that it is a little difficult to drive feeling out of politics. do you suppose our host succeeds? you perceive?--this is a radical house--and a radical banquet?" he pushed the _menu_ towards her significantly. then his eye travelled with its usual keen rapidity over the room, over the splendid dinner-table, with its display of flowers and plate, and over the assembled guests. he and lady selina were dining at the hospitable board of a certain rich manufacturer, who drew enormous revenues from the west, had formed part of the radical contingent of the last liberal ministry, and had especially distinguished himself by a series of uncompromising attacks on the ground landlords of london. lady selina sighed. "it is all a horrible tangle," she said, "and what the next twenty years will bring forth who can tell? oh! one moment, mr. wharton, before i forget. are you engaged for saturday week?" he drew a little note-book out of his pocket and consulted it. it appeared that he was not engaged. "then will you dine with us?" she lightly mentioned the names of four or five distinguished guests, including the conservative premier of the day. wharton made her a little ceremonious bow. "i shall be delighted. can you trust me to behave?" lady selina's smile made her his match for the moment. "oh! we can defend ourselves!" she said. "by the way i think you told me that mr. raeburn was not a friend of yours." "no," said wharton, facing her look with coolness. "if you have asked mr. raeburn for the rd, let me crave your leave to cancel that note in my pocket-book. not for my sake, you understand, at all." she had difficulty in concealing her curiosity. but his face betrayed nothing. it always seemed to her that his very dark and straight eyebrows, so obtrusive and unusual as compared with the delicacy of the features, of the fair skin and light brown curls, made it easy for him to wear any mask he pleased. by their mere physical emphasis they drew attention away from the subtler and more revealing things of expression. "they say," she went on, "that he is sure to do well in the house, if only he can be made to take interest enough in the party. but one of his admirers told me that he was not at all anxious to accept this post they have just given him. he only did it to please his grandfather. my father thinks lord maxwell much aged this year. he is laid up now, with a chill of some sort i believe. mr. raeburn will have to make haste if he is to have any career in the commons. but you can see he cares very little about it. all his friends tell me they find him changed since that unlucky affair last year. by the way, did you ever see that girl?" "certainly. i was staying in her father's house while the engagement was going on." "were you!" said lady selina, eagerly, "and what did you think of her?" "well, in the first place," said wharton, slowly, "she is beautiful--you knew that?" lady selina nodded. "yes. miss raeburn, who has told me most of what i know, always throws in a shrug and a 'but' when you ask about her looks. however, i have seen a photograph of her, so i can judge for myself. it seemed to me a beauty that men perhaps would admire more than women." wharton devoted himself to his green peas, and made no reply. lady selina glanced at him sharply. she herself was by no means a beauty. but neither was she plain. she had a long, rather distinguished face, with a marked nose and a wide thin-lipped mouth. her plentiful fair hair, a little dull and ashy in colour, was heaped up above her forehead in infinitesimal curls and rolls which did great credit to her maid, and gave additional height to the head and length to a thin white neck. her light blue eyes were very direct and observant. their expression implied both considerable knowledge of the world and a natural inquisitiveness. many persons indeed were of opinion that lady selina wished to know too much about you and were on their guard when she approached. "you admired her very much, i see," she resumed, as wharton still remained silent. "oh, yes. we talked socialism, and then i defended her poacher for her." "oh, i remember. and it is really true, as miss raeburn says, that she broke it off because she could not get lord maxwell and mr. raeburn to sign the petition for the poacher?" "somewhere about true," said wharton, carelessly. "miss raeburn always gives the same account; you can never get anything else out of her. but i sometimes wonder whether it is the _whole_ truth. _you_ think she was sincere?" "well, she gave up maxwell court and thirty thousand a year," he replied drily. "i should say she had at least earned the benefit of the doubt." "i mean," said lady selina, "was she in love with anybody else, and was the poacher an excuse?" she turned upon him as she spoke--a smiling, self-possessed person--a little spoilt by those hard, inquisitive eyes. "no, i think not," said wharton, throwing his head back to meet her scrutiny. "if so, nothing has been heard of him yet. miss boyce has been at st. edward's hospital for the last year." "to learn nursing? it is what all the women do nowadays, they tell me, who can't get on with their relations or their lovers. do you suppose it is such a very hard life?" "i don't want to try!" said wharton. "do you?" she evaded his smile. "what is she going to do when she has done her training?" "settle down and nurse among the poor, i believe." "magnificent, no doubt, but hardly business, from her point of view. how much more she might have done for the poor with thirty thousand a year! and any woman could put up with aldous raeburn." wharton shrugged his shoulders. "we come back to those feelings, lady selina, you think so badly of." she laughed. "well, but feelings must be intelligible. and this seems so small a cause. however, were you there when it was broken off?" "no; i have never seen her since the day of the poacher's trial." "oh! so she has gone into complete seclusion from all her friends?" "that i can't answer for. i can only tell you my own experience." lady selina bethought herself of a great many more questions to ask, but somehow did not ask them. the talk fell upon politics, which lasted till the hostess gave the signal, and lady selina, gathering up her fan and gloves, swept from the room next after the countess at the head of the table, while a host of elderly ladies, wives of ministers and the like, stood meekly by to let her pass. as he sat down again, wharton made the entry of the dinner at alresford house, to which he had just promised himself, a little plainer. it was the second time in three weeks that lady selina had asked him, and he was well aware that several other men at this dinner-table, of about the same standing and prospects as himself, would be very glad to be in his place. lady selina, though she was unmarried, and not particularly handsome or particularly charming, was a personage--and knew it. as the mistress of her father's various fine houses, and the kinswoman of half the great families of england, she had ample social opportunities, and made, on the whole, clever use of them. she was not exactly popular, but in her day she had been extremely useful to many, and her invitations were prized. wharton had been introduced to her at the beginning of this, his second session, had adopted with her the easy, aggressive, "personal" manner--which, on the whole, was his natural manner towards women--and had found it immediately successful. when he had replaced his pocket-book, he found himself approached by a man on his own side of the table, a member of parliament like himself, with whom he was on moderately friendly terms. "your motion comes on next friday, i think," said the new-comer. wharton nodded. "it'll be a beastly queer division," said the other--"a precious lot of cross-voting." "that'll be the way with that kind of question for a good while to come--don't you think"--said wharton, smiling, "till we get a complete reorganisation of parties?" as he leaned back in his chair, enjoying his cigarette, his half-shut eyes behind the curls of smoke made a good-humoured but contemptuous study of his companion. mr. bateson was a young manufacturer, recently returned to parliament, and newly married. he had an open, ruddy face, spoilt by an expression of chronic perplexity, which was almost fretfulness. not that the countenance was without shrewdness; but it suggested that the man had ambitions far beyond his powers of performance, and already knew himself to be inadequate. "well, i shouldn't wonder if you get a considerable vote," he resumed, after a pause; "it's like women's suffrage. people will go on voting for this kind of thing, till there seems a chance of getting it. _then_!" "ah, well!" said wharton, easily, "i see we shan't get _you_." "_i_!--vote for an eight-hours day, by local and trade option! in my opinion i might as well vote for striking the flag on the british empire at once! it would be the death-knell of all our prosperity." wharton's artistic ear disliked the mixture of metaphor, and he frowned slightly. mr. bateson hurried on. he was already excited, and had fallen upon wharton as a prey. "and you really desire to make it _penal_ for us manufacturers--for me in my industry--in spite of all the chances and changes of the market, to work my men more than eight hours a day--_even_ if they wish it!" "we must get our decision, our majority of the adult workers in any given district in favour of an eight-hours day," said wharton, blandly; "then when they have voted for it, the local authority will put the act in motion." "and my men--conceivably--may have voted in the minority, against any such tomfoolery; yet, when the vote is given, it will be a punishable offence for them, and me, to work overtime? you _actually_ mean that; how do you propose to punish us?" "well," said wharton, relighting his cigarette, "that is a much debated point. personally, i am in favour of imprisonment rather than fine." the other bounded on his chair. "you would imprison me for working overtime--with _willing men!_" wharton eyed him with smiling composure. two or three other men--an old general, the smart private secretary of a cabinet minister, and a well-known permanent official at the head of one of the great spending departments--who were sitting grouped at the end of the table a few feet away, stopped their conversation to listen. "except in cases of emergency, which are provided for under the act," said wharton. "yes, i should imprison you, with the greatest pleasure in life. eight hours _plus_ overtime is what we are going to stop, _at all hazards!_" a flash broke from his blue eyes. then he tranquilly resumed his smoking. the young manufacturer flushed with angry agitation. "but you must know, it is inconceivable that you should not know, that the whole thing is stark staring lunacy. in our business, trade is declining, the export falling every year, the imports from france steadily advancing. and you are going to make us fight a country where men work eleven hours a day, for lower wages, with our hands tied behind our backs by legislation of this kind? well, you know," he threw himself back in his chair with a contemptuous laugh, "there can be only one explanation. you and your friends, of course, have banished political economy to saturn--and you suppose that by doing so you get rid of it for all the rest of the world. but i imagine it will beat you, all the same!" he stopped in a heat. as usual what he found to say was not equal to what he wanted to say, and beneath his anger with wharton was the familiar fuming at his own lack of impressiveness. "well, i dare say," said wharton, serenely. "however, let's take your 'political economy' a moment, and see if i can understand what you mean by it. there never were two words that meant all things to all men so disreputably!" and thereupon to the constant accompaniment of his cigarette, and with the utmost composure and good temper, he began to "heckle" his companion, putting questions, suggesting perfidious illustrations, extracting innocent admissions, with a practised shrewdness and malice, which presently left the unfortunate bateson floundering in a sea of his own contradictions, and totally unable for the moment to attach any rational idea whatever to those great words of his favourite science, wherewith he was generally accustomed to make such triumphant play, both on the platform and in the bosom of the family. the permanent official round the corner watched the unequal fight with attentive amusement. once when it was a question of mill's doctrine of cost of production as compared with that of a leading modern collectivist, he leant forward and supplied a correction of something wharton had said. wharton instantly put down his cigarette and addressed him in another tone. a rapid dialogue passed between them, the dialogue of experts, sharp, allusive, elliptical, in the midst of which the host gave the signal for joining the ladies. "well, all i know is," said bateson, as he got up, "that these kinds of questions, if you and your friends have your way, will _wreck_ the liberal party before long--far more effectually than anything irish has ever done. on these things some of us will fight, if it must come to that." wharton laughed. "it would be a national misfortune if you didn't give us a stiff job," he said, with an airy good-humour which at once made the other's blustering look ridiculous. "i wonder what that fellow is going to do in the house," said the permanent official to his companion as they went slowly upstairs, wharton being some distance ahead. "people are all beginning to talk of him as a coming man, though nobody quite knows why, as yet. they tell me he frames well in speaking, and will probably make a mark with his speech next friday. but his future seems to me very doubtful. he can only become a power as the head of a new labour party. but where is the party? they all want to be kings. the best point in his favour is that they are likely enough to take a gentleman if they must have a leader. but there still remains the question whether he can make anything out of the material." "i hope to god he can't!" said the old general, grimly; "it is these town-chatterers of yours that will bring the empire about our heads before we've done. they've begun it already, wherever they saw a chance." * * * * * in the drawing-room wharton devoted himself for a few minutes to his hostess, a little pushing woman, who confided to his apparently attentive ear a series of grievances as to the bad manners of the great ladies of their common party, and the general evil plight of liberalism in london from the social point of view. "either they give themselves airs--_rediculous_ airs!--or they admit everybody!" she said, with a lavish use of white shoulders and scarlet fan by way of emphasis. "my husband feels it just as much as i do. it is a real misfortune for the party that its social affairs should be so villainously managed. oh! i dare say _you_ don't mind, mr. wharton, because you are a socialist. but, i assure you, those of us who still believe in the influence of the best people don't like it." a point whence wharton easily led her through a series of spiteful anecdotes bearing on her own social mishaps and rebuffs, which were none the less illuminating because of the teller's anxious effort to give them a dignified and disinterested air. then, when neither she nor her plight were any longer amusing, he took his leave, exchanging another skirmishing word or two on the staircase with lady selina, who it appeared was "going on" as he was, and to the same house. in a few minutes his hansom landed him at the door of a great mansion in berkeley square, where a huge evening party was proceeding, given by one of those liberal ladies whom his late hostess had been so freely denouncing. the lady and the house belonged to a man who had held high office in the late administration. as he made his way slowly to the top of the crowded stairs, the stately woman in white satin and diamonds who was "receiving" on the landing marked him, and when his name was announced she came forward a step or two. nothing could have been more flattering than the smile with which she gave him her gloved hand to touch. "have you been out of town all these sundays?" she said to him, with the slightest air of soft reproach. "i am always at home, you know--i told you so!" she spoke with the ease of one who could afford to make whatever social advances she pleased. wharton excused himself, and they chatted a little in the intervals of her perpetual greetings to the mounting crowd. she and he had met at a famous country house in the easter recess, and her aristocrat's instinct for all that gives savour and sharpness to the dish of life had marked him at once. "sir hugh wants you to come down and see us in sussex," she said, stretching her white neck a little to speak after him, as he was at last carried through the drawing-room door by the pressure behind him. "will you?" he threw back an answer which she rather took for granted than heard, for she nodded and smiled through it--stiffening her delicate-face the moment afterwards to meet the timid remarks of one of her husband's constituents--asked by sir hugh in the streets that afternoon--who happened to present her with the next hand to shake. inside, wharton soon found himself brought up against the ex-secretary of state himself, who greeted him cordially, and then bantered him a little on his coming motion. "oh, i shall be interested to see what you make of it. but, you know, it has no _actuality_--never can have--till you can agree among yourselves. you _say_ you want the same thing--i dare say you'll all swear it on friday--but _really_--" the statesman shook his head pleasantly. "the details are a little vague still, i grant you," said wharton, smiling. "and you think the principle matters twopence without the details? i have always found that the difficulty with the christian command, 'be ye perfect.' the principle doesn't trouble me at all!" the swaying of the entering throng parted the two speakers, and for a second or two the portly host followed with his eye the fair profile and lightly-built figure of the younger man as they receded from him in the crowd. it was in his mind that the next twenty years, whether this man or that turned out to be important or no, must see an enormous quickening of the political pace. he himself was not conscious of any jealousy of the younger men; but neither did he see among them any commanding personality. this young fellow, with his vivacity, his energy, and his socialist whims, was interesting enough; and his problem was interesting--the problem of whether he could make a party out of the heterogeneous group of which he was turning out to be indisputably the ablest member. but what was there _certain_ or _inevitable_ about his future after all? and it was the same with all the rest. whereas the leaders of the past had surely announced themselves beyond mistake from the beginning. he was inclined to think, however, that we were levelling up rather than levelling down. the world grew too clever, and leadership was more difficult every day. meanwhile wharton found his progress through these stately rooms extremely pleasant. he was astonished at the multitude of people he knew, at the numbers of faces that smiled upon him. presently, after half an hour of hard small talk, he found himself for a moment without an acquaintance, leaning against an archway between two rooms, and free to watch the throng. self-love, "that froward presence, like a chattering child within us," was all alert and happy. a feeling of surprise, too, which had not yet worn away. a year before he had told marcella boyce, and with conviction, that he was an outcast from his class. he smiled now at that past _naïveté_ which had allowed him to take the flouts of his country neighbours and his mother's unpopularity with her aristocratic relations for an index of the way in which "society" in general would be likely to treat him and his opinions. he now knew, on the contrary, that those opinions had been his best advertisement. few people, it appeared, were more in demand among the great than those who gave it out that they would, if they could, abolish the great. "it's because they're not enough afraid of us--yet," he said to himself, not without spleen. "when we really get to business--if we ever do--i shall not be coming to lady cradock's parties." "mr. wharton, do you ever do such a frivolous thing as go to the theatre?" said a pretty, languishing creature at his elbow, the wife of a london theatrical manager. "suppose you come and see us in 'the minister's wooing,' first night next saturday. i've got _one_ seat in my box, for somebody _very_ agreeable. only it must be somebody who can appreciate my frocks!" "i should be charmed," said wharton. "are the frocks so adorable?" "adorable! then i may write you a note? you don't have your horrid parliament that night, do you?" and she fluttered on. "i think you don't know my younger daughter, mr. wharton?" said a severe voice at his elbow. he turned and saw an elderly matron with the usual matronly cap and careworn countenance putting forward a young thing in white, to whom he bowed with great ceremony. the lady was the wife of a north-country magnate of very old family, and one of the most exclusive of her kind in london. the daughter, a vision of young shyness and bloom, looked at him with frightened eyes as he leant against the wall beside her and began to talk. she wished he would go away and let her get to the girl friend who was waiting for her and signalling to her across the room. but in a minute or two she had forgotten to wish anything of the kind. the mixture of audacity with a perfect self-command in the manner of her new acquaintance, that searching half-mocking look, which saw everything in detail, and was always pressing beyond the generalisations of talk and manners, the lightness and brightness of the whole aspect, of the curls, the eyes, the flexible determined mouth, these things arrested her. she began to open her virgin heart, first in protesting against attack, then in confession, till in ten minutes her white breast was heaving under the excitement of her own temerity and wharton knew practically all about her, her mingled pleasure and remorse in "going out," her astonishment at the difference between the world as it was this year, and the world as it had been last, when she was still in the school-room--her sunday-school--her brothers--her ideals--for she was a little nun at heart--her favourite clergyman--and all the rest of it. "i say, wharton, come and dine, will you, thursday, at the house--small party--meet in my room?" so said one of the party whips, from behind into his ear. the speaker was a popular young aristocrat who in the preceding year had treated the member for west brookshire with chilliness. wharton turned--to consider a moment--then gave a smiling assent. "all right!" said the other, withdrawing his hand from wharton's shoulder--"good-night!--two more of these beastly crushes to fight through till i can get to my bed, worse luck! are any of your fellows here to-night?" wharton shook his head. "too austere, i suppose?" "a question of dress coats, i should think," said wharton, drily. the other shrugged his shoulders. "and this calls itself a party gathering--in a radical and democratic house--what a farce it all is!" "agreed! good-night." and wharton moved on, just catching as he did so the eyes of his new girl acquaintance looking back at him from a distant door. their shy owner withdrew them instantly, coloured, and passed out of sight. at the same moment a guest entered by the same door, a tall grave man in the prime of life, but already grey haired. wharton, to his surprise, recognised aldous raeburn, and saw also that the master of the house had him by the arm. they came towards him, talking. the crowd prevented him from getting effectually out of their way, but he turned aside and took up a magazine lying on a bookcase near. "and you really think him a trifle better?" said the ex-minister. "oh, yes, better--certainly better--but i am afraid he will hardly get back to work this session--the doctors talk of sending him away at once." "ah, well," said the other, smiling, "we don't intend it seems to let you send anything important up to the lords yet awhile, so there will be time for him to recruit." "i wish i was confident about the recruiting," said raeburn, sadly. "he has lost much strength. i shall go with them to the italian lakes at the end of next week, see them settled and come back at once." "shall you miss a sitting of the commission?" asked his host. both he and raeburn were members of an important labour commission appointed the year before by the new conservative government. "hardly, i think," said raeburn, "i am particularly anxious not to miss d----'s evidence." and they fell talking a little about the commission and the witnesses recently examined before it. wharton, who was wedged in by a group of ladies, and could not for the moment move, heard most of what they were saying, much against his will. moreover raeburn's tone of quiet and masterly familiarity with what he and his companion were discussing annoyed him. there was nothing in the world that he himself would more eagerly have accepted than a seat on that commission. "ah! there is lady cradock!" said raeburn, perceiving his hostess across a sea of intervening faces, and responding to her little wave of the hand. "i must go and get a few words with her, and then take my aunt away." as he made his way towards her, he suddenly brushed against wharton, who could not escape. raeburn looked up, recognised the man he had touched, flushed slightly and passed on. a bystander would have supposed them strangers to each other. chapter ii. two or three minutes later, wharton was walking down a side street towards piccadilly. after all the flattering incidents of the evening, the chance meeting with which it concluded had jarred unpleasantly. confound the fellow! was he the first man in the world who had been thrown over by a girl because he had been discovered to be a tiresome pedant? for even supposing miss boyce had described that little scene in the library at mellor to her _fiancé_ at the moment of giving him his dismissal--and the year before, by the help of all the news that reached him about the broken engagement, by the help still more of the look, or rather the entire absence of look wherewith raeburn had walked past his greeting and his outstretched hand in a corridor of the house, on the first occasion of their meeting after the news had become public property, wharton was inclined to think she _had_--what then? no doubt the stern moralist might have something to say on the subject of taking advantage of a guest's position to tamper with another man's betrothed. if so, the stern moralist would only show his usual incapacity to grasp the actual facts of flesh and blood. what chance would he or any one else have had with marcella boyce, if she had happened to be in love with the man she had promised to marry? that little trifle had been left out in the arrangement. it might have worked through perfectly well without; as it happened it had broken down. _realities_ had broken it down. small blame to them! "i stood for _truth_!" he said to himself with a kind of rage--"that moment when i held her in the library, she _lived_.--raeburn offered her a platform, a position; _i_ made her think, and feel. i helped her to know herself. our relation was not passion; it stood on the threshold--but it was real--a true relation so far as it went. that it went no farther was due again to circumstances--realities--of another kind. that _he_ should scorn and resent my performance at mellor is natural enough. if we were in france he would call me out and i should give him satisfaction with all the pleasure in life. but what am _i_ about? are his ways mine? i should have nothing left but to shoot myself to-morrow if they were!" he walked on swiftly, angrily rating himself for those symptoms of a merely false and conventional conscience which were apt to be roused in him by contact with aldous raeburn. "has he not interfered with my freedom--stamped his pedantic foot on me--ever since we were boys together! i have owed him one for many years--now i have paid it. let him take the chances of war!" then, driven on by an irritation not to be quieted, he began against his will to think of those various occasions on which he and aldous raeburn had crossed each other in the past--of that incident in particular which miss raeburn had roughly recalled to lady winterbourne's reluctant memory. well, and what of it? it had occurred when wharton was a lad of twenty-one, and during an interval of some months when aldous raeburn, who had left cambridge some three years before, and was already the man of importance, had shown a decided disposition to take up the brilliant, unmanageable boy, whom the levens, among other relations, had already washed their hands of. "what did he do it for?" thought wharton. "philanthropic motives of course. he is one of the men who must always be saving their souls, and the black sheep of the world come in handy for the purpose. i remember i was flattered then. it takes one some time to understand the workings of the hebraistic conscience!" yes--as it galled him to recollect--he had shown great plasticity for a time. he was then in the middle of his oxford years, and raeburn's letters and raeburn's influence had certainly pulled him through various scrapes that might have been disastrous. then--a little later--he could see the shooting lodge on the moors above loch etive, where he and raeburn, lord maxwell, miss raeburn, and a small party had spent the august of his twenty-first birthday. well--that surly keeper, and his pretty wife who had been miss raeburn's maid--could anything be more inevitable? a hard and jealous husband, and one of the softest, most sensuous natures that ever idleness made love to. the thing was in the air!--in the summer, in the blood--as little to be resisted as the impulse to eat when you are hungry, or drink when you thirst. besides, what particular harm had been done, what particular harm _could_ have been done with such a cerberus of a husband? as to the outcry which had followed one special incident, nothing could have been more uncalled for, more superfluous. aldous had demanded contrition, had said strong things with the flashing eyes, the set mouth of a cato. and the culprit had turned obstinate--would repent nothing--not for the asking. everything was arguable, and renan's doubt as to whether he or théophile gautier were in the right of it, would remain a doubt to all time--that was all raeburn could get out of him. after which the hebraist friend of course had turned his back on the offender, and there was an end of it. that incident, however, had belonged to a stage in his past life, a stage marked by a certain prolonged tumult of the senses, on which he now looked back with great composure. that tumult had found vent in other adventures more emphatic a good deal than the adventure of the keeper's wife. he believed that one or two of them had been not unknown to raeburn. well, that was done with! his mother's death--that wanton stupidity on the part of fate--and the shock it had somehow caused him, had first drawn him out of the slough of a cheap and facile pleasure on which he now looked back with contempt. afterwards, his two years of travel, and the joys at once virile and pure they had brought with them, joys of adventure, bodily endurance, discovery, together with the intellectual stimulus which comes of perpetual change, of new heavens, new seas, new societies, had loosened the yoke of the flesh and saved him from himself. the deliverance so begun had been completed at home, by the various chances and opportunities which had since opened to him a solid and tempting career in that labour movement his mother had linked him with, without indeed ever understanding either its objects or its men. the attack on capital now developing on all sides, the planning of the vast campaign, and the handling of its industrial troops, these things had made the pursuit of women look insipid, coupled as they were with the thrill of increasing personal success. passion would require to present itself in new forms, if it was now to take possession of him again. as to his relation to raeburn, he well remembered that when, after that long break in his life, he and aldous had met casually again, in london or elsewhere, aldous had shown a certain disposition to forget the old quarrel, and to behave with civility, though not with friendliness. as to wharton he was quite willing, though at the same time he had gone down to contest west brookshire, and, above all, had found himself in the same house as aldous raeburn's betrothed, with an even livelier sense than usual of the excitement to be got out of mere living. no doubt when raeburn heard that story of the library--if he had heard it--he recognised in it the man and the character he had known of old, and had shrunk from the connection of both with marcella boyce in bitter and insurmountable disgust. a mere hebraist's mistake! "that girl's attraction for me was not an attraction of the senses--except so far that for every normal man and woman charm is charm, and ginger is hot in the mouth and always will be! what i played for with her was _power_--power over a nature that piqued and yet by natural affinity belonged to me. i could not have retained that power, as it happened, by any bait of passion. even without the hurd affair, if i had gone on to approach her so, her whole moral nature would have risen against me and her own treachery. i knew that perfectly well, and took the line i did because for the moment the game was too exciting, too interesting, to give up. for the moment! then a few days,--a few weeks later--good lord! what stuff we mortals be!" and he raised his shoulders, mocking, yet by no means disliking his own idiosyncrasies. it had been strange, indeed, that complete change of mental emphasis, that alteration of spiritual axis that had befallen him within the first weeks of his parliamentary life, nay, even before the hurd agitation was over. that agitation had brought him vigorously and profitably into public notice at a convenient moment. but what had originally sprung from the impulse to retain a hold over a woman, became in the end the instrument of a new and quite other situation. wharton had no sooner entered the house of commons than he felt himself strangely at home there. he had the instinct for debate, the instinct for management, together with a sensitive and contriving ambition. he found himself possessed for the moment of powers of nervous endurance that astonished him--a patience of boredom besides, a capacity for drudgery, and for making the best of dull men. the omens were all favourable, sometimes startlingly so. he was no longer hampered by the ill-will of a county or a family connection. here in this new world, every man counted strictly for what, in the parliamentary sense, he was worth. wharton saw that, owing to his public appearances during the two preceding years, he was noticed, listened to, talked about in the house, from the first; and that his position in the newly-formed though still loosely-bound labour party was one of indefinite promise. the anxieties and pitfalls of the position only made it the more absorbing. the quick, elastic nature adjusted itself at once. to some kinds of success, nothing is so important as the ability to forget--to sweep the mind free of everything irrelevant and superfluous. marcella boyce, and all connected with her, passed clean out of wharton's consciousness. except that once or twice he said to himself with a passing smile that it was a good thing he had not got himself into a worse scrape at mellor. good heavens! in what plight would a man stand--a man with his career to make--who had given marcella boyce claims upon him! as well entangle oneself with the tragic muse at once as with that stormy, unmanageable soul! so much for a year ago. to-night, however, the past had been thrust back upon him, both by lady selina's talk and by the meeting with raeburn. to smart indeed once more under that old ascendency of raeburn's, was to be provoked into thinking of raeburn's old love. where was miss boyce? surely her year of hospital training must be up by now? he turned into st. james street, stopped at a door not far from the palace end, let himself in, and groped his way to the second floor. a sleepy man-servant turned out of his room, and finding that his master was not inclined to go to bed, brought lights and mineral water. wharton was practically a teetotaller. he had taken a whim that way as a boy, and a few experiments in drunkenness which he had made at college had only confirmed what had been originally perhaps a piece of notoriety-hunting. he had, as a rule, flawless health; and the unaccustomed headaches and nausea which followed these occasional excesses had disgusted and deterred him. he shook himself easily free of a habit which had never gained a hold upon him, and had ever since found his abstinence a source both of vanity and of distinction. nothing annoyed him more than to hear it put down to any ethical motive. "if i liked the beastly stuff, i should swim in it to-morrow," he would say with an angry eye when certain acquaintance--not those he made at labour congresses--goaded him on the point. "as it is, why should i make it, or chloral, or morphia, or any other poison, my master! what's the inducement--eh, you fellows?" _en revanche_ he smoked inordinately. "is that all, sir," said his servant, pausing behind his chair, after candles, matches, cigarettes, and apollinaris had been supplied in abundance. "yes; go to bed, williams, but don't lock up. good-night." the man departed, and wharton, going to the window which opened on a balcony looking over st. james street, threw it wide, and smoked a cigarette leaning against the wall. it was on the whole a fine night and warm, though the nip of the east wind was not yet out of the air. in the street below there was still a good deal of movement, for it was only just past midnight and the clubs were not yet empty. to his right the turreted gate-house of the palace with its clock rose dark against a sky covered with light, windy cloud. beyond it his eye sought instinctively for the clock tower, which stood to-night dull and beaconless--like some one in a stupid silence. that light of the sitting house had become to him one of the standing pleasures of life. he had never yet been honestly glad of its extinction. "i'm a precious raw hand," he confessed to himself with a shake of the head as he stood there smoking. "and it can't last--nothing does." presently he laid down his cigarette a moment on the edge of the balcony, and, coming back into the room, opened a drawer, searched a little, and finally took out a letter. he stooped over the lamp to read it. it was the letter which marcella boyce had written him some two or three days after the breach of her engagement. that fact was barely mentioned at the beginning of it, without explanation or comment of any kind. then the letter continued: "i have never yet thanked you as i ought for all that you have done and attempted through these many weeks. but for them it must have been plain to us both that we could never rightly meet again. i am very destitute just now--and i cling to self-respect as though it were the only thing left me. but that scene in the past, which put us both wrong with honour and conscience, has surely been wiped out--_thought--suffered_ away. i feel that i dare now say to you, as i would to any other co-worker and co-thinker--if in the future you ever want my work, if you can set me, with others, to any task that wants doing and that i could do--ask me, and i am not likely to refuse. "but for the present i am going quite away into another world. i have been more ill than i have ever been in my life this last few days, and they are all, even my father, ready to agree with me that i must go. as soon as i am a little stronger i am to have a year's training at a london hospital, and then i shall probably live for a while in town and nurse. this scheme occurred to me as i came back with the wife from seeing hurd the day before the execution. i knew then that all was over for me at mellor. "as for the wretched break-down of everything--of all my schemes and friendships here--i had better not speak of it. i feel that i have given these village-folk, whom i had promised to help, one more reason to despair of life. it is not pleasant to carry such a thought away with one. but if the tool breaks and blunts, how can the task be done? it can be of no use till it has been re-set. "i should like to know how your plans prosper. but i shall see your paper and follow what goes on in parliament. for the present i want neither to write nor get letters. they tell me that as a probationer i shall spend my time at first in washing glasses, and polishing bath-taps, on which my mind rests! "if you come across my friends of whom i have spoken to you--louis, anthony, and edith craven--and could make any use of louis for the _labour clarion_, i should be grateful. i hear they have had bad times of late, and louis has engaged himself, and wants to be married. you remember i told you how we worked at the south kensington classes together, and how they made me a venturist? "yours very truly, "marcella boyce." wharton laid down the letter, making a wry mouth over some of its phrases. "'_put us both wrong with honour and conscience.' 'one more reason for despair of life'--'all was over for me at mellor_'--dear! dear!--how women like the big words--the emphatic pose. all those little odds and ends of charities--that absurd straw-plaiting scheme! well, perhaps one could hardly expect her to show a sense of humour just then. but why does nature so often leave it out in these splendid creatures?" "hullo!" he added, as he bent over the table to look for a pen; "why didn't that idiot give me these?" for there, under an evening paper which he had not touched, lay a pile of unopened letters. his servant had forgotten to point them out to him. on the top was a letter on which wharton pounced at once. it was addressed in a bold inky hand, and he took it to be from nehemiah wilkins, m.p., his former colleague at the birmingham labour congress, of late a member of the _labour clarion_ staff, and as such a daily increasing plague and anxiety to the _clarion's_ proprietor. however, the letter was not from wilkins. it was from the secretary of a midland trades-union, with whom wharton had already been in communication. the union was recent, and represented the as yet feeble organisation of a metal industry in process of transition from the home-workshop to the full factory, or great industry stage. the conditions of work were extremely bad, and grievances many; wages were low, and local distress very great. the secretary, a young man of ability and enthusiasm, wrote to wharton to say that certain alterations in the local "payment lists" lately made by the employers amounted to a reduction of wages; that the workers, beginning to feel the heartening effects of their union, were determined not to submit; that bitter and even desperate agitation was spreading fast, and that a far-reaching strike was imminent. could they count on the support of the _clarion_? the _clarion_ had already published certain letters on the industry from a special commissioner--letters which had drawn public attention, and had been eagerly read in the district itself. would the _clarion_ now "go in" for them? would mr. wharton personally support them, in or out of parliament, and get his friends to do the same? to which questions, couched in terms extremely flattering to the power of the _clarion_ and its owner, the secretary appended a long and technical statement of the situation. wharton looked up from the letter with a kindling eye. he foresaw an extremely effective case, both for the newspaper and the house of commons. one of the chief capitalists involved was a man called denny, who had been long in the house, for whom the owner of the _clarion_ entertained a strong personal dislike. denny had thwarted him vexatiously--had perhaps even made him ridiculous--on one or two occasions; and wharton saw no reason whatever for forgiving one's enemies until, like narvaez, one had "shot them all." there would be much satisfaction in making denny understand who were his masters. and with these motives there mingled a perfectly genuine sympathy with the "poor devils" in question, and a desire to see them righted. "somebody must be sent down at once," he said to himself. "i suppose," he added, with discontent, "it must be wilkins." for the man who had written the articles for the _labour clarion_, as special commissioner, had some three weeks before left england to take command of a colonial newspaper. still pondering, he took up the other letters, turned them over--childishly pleased for the thousandth time by the m.p. on each envelope and the number and variety of his correspondence--and eagerly chose out three--one from his bankers, one from his lincolnshire agent, and one from the _clarion_ office, undoubtedly this time in wilkins's hand. he read them, grew a little pale, swore under his breath, and, angrily flinging the letters away from him, he took up his cigarette again and thought. the letter from his bankers asked his attention in stiff terms to a largely overdrawn account, and entirely declined to advance a sum of money for which he had applied to them without the guarantee of two substantial names in addition to his own. the letter from his agent warned him that the extraordinary drought of the past six weeks, together with the general agricultural depression, would certainly mean a large remission of rents at the june quarter day, and also informed him that the holders of his co-operative farm would not be able to pay their half-yearly interest on the capital advanced to them by the landlord. as to the third letter, it was in truth much more serious than the two others. wilkins, the passionate and suspicious workman, of great natural ability, who had been in many ways a thorn in wharton's side since the beginning of his public career, was now member for a mining constituency. his means of support were extremely scanty, and at the opening of the new parliament wharton had offered him well-paid work on the _clarion_ newspaper. it had seemed to the proprietor of the _clarion_ a way of attaching a dangerous man to himself, perhaps also of controlling him. wilkins had grudgingly accepted, understanding perfectly well what was meant. since then the relation between the two men had been one of perpetual friction. wilkins's irritable pride would yield nothing, either in the house or in the _clarion_ office, to wharton's university education and class advantages, while wharton watched with alarm the growing influence of this insubordinate and hostile member of his own staff on those labour circles from which the _clarion_ drew its chief support. in the letter he had just read wilkins announced to the proprietor of the _clarion_ that in consequence of the "scandalous mismanagement" of that paper's handling of a certain trade arbitration which had just closed, he, wilkins, could no longer continue to write for it, and begged to terminate his engagement at once, there being no formal agreement between himself and wharton as to length of notice on either side. a lively attack on the present management and future prospects of the _clarion_ followed, together with the threat that the writer would do what in him lay henceforward to promote the cause of a certain rival organ lately started, among such working men as he might be able to influence. "_brute_! jealous, impracticable brute!" exclaimed wharton aloud, as he stood chafing and smoking by the window. all the difficulties which this open breach was likely to sow in his path stood out before him in clear relief. "_personal_ leadership, there is the whole problem," he said to himself in moody despair. "can i--like parnell--make a party and keep it together? can i through the _clarion_--and through influence _outside_ the house--coerce the men _in_ the house? if so, we can do something, and lady cradock will no longer throw me her smiles. if not the game is up, both for me and for them. they have no cohesion, no common information, no real power. without leaders they are a mere set of half-educated firebrands whom the trained mind of the country humours because it must, and so far as they have brute force behind them. without _leadership_, _i_ am a mere unit of the weakest group in the house. yet, by jove! it looks as though i had not the gifts." and he looked back with passionate chagrin on the whole course of his connection with wilkins, his unavailing concessions and small humiliations, his belief in his own tact and success, all the time that the man dealt with was really slipping out of his hands. "damn the fellow!" he said at last, flinging his cigarette away. "well, that's done with. all the same, he would have liked that midland job! he has been hankering after a strike there for some time, and might have ranted as he pleased. i shall have the satisfaction of informing him he has lost his opportunity. now then--who to send? by jove! what about miss boyce's friend?" he stood a moment twisting the quill-pen he had taken up, then he hastily found a sheet of paper and wrote: "dear miss boyce,--it is more than a year since i have heard of you, and i have been wondering with much interest lately whether you have really taken up a nursing life. you remember speaking to me of your friends the cravens? i come across them sometimes at the venturist meetings, and have always admired their ability. last year i could do nothing practical to meet your wishes. this year, however, there is an opening on the _clarion_, and i should like to discuss it with you. are you in town or to be found? i could come any afternoon next week, _early_--i go down to the house at four--or on saturdays. but i should like it to be tuesday or wednesday, that i might try and persuade you to come to our eight hours debate on friday night. it would interest you, and i think i could get you a seat. we labour members are like the irishmen--we can always get our friends in. "i must send this round by mellor, so it may not reach you till tuesday. perhaps you will kindly telegraph. the _clarion_ matter is pressing. "yours sincerely, "h.s. wharton." when he had finished he lingered a moment over the letter, the play of conflicting motives and memories bringing a vague smile to the lips. reverie, however, was soon dispersed. he recollected his other correspondents, and springing up he began to pace his room, gloomily thinking over his money difficulties, which were many. he and his mother had always been in want of money ever since he could remember. lady mildred would spend huge sums on her various crotchets and campaigns, and then subside for six months into wretched lodgings in a back street of southsea or worthing, while the suffolk house was let, and her son mostly went abroad. this perpetual worry of needy circumstances had always, indeed, sat lightly on wharton. he was unmarried, and so far scarcity had generally passed into temporary comfort before he had time to find it intolerable. but now the whole situation was becoming more serious. in the first place, his subscriptions and obligations as a member of parliament, and as one of the few propertied persons in a moneyless movement, were considerable. whatever socialism might make of money in the future, he was well aware that money in the present was no less useful to a socialist politician than to any one else. in the next place, the starting and pushing of the _clarion_ newspaper--originally purchased by the help of a small legacy from an uncle--had enormously increased the scale of his money transactions and the risks of life. how was it that, with all his efforts, the _clarion_ was not making, but losing money? during the three years he had possessed it he had raised it from the position of a small and foul-mouthed print, indifferently nourished on a series of small scandals, to that of a labour organ of some importance. he had written a weekly signed article for it, which had served from the beginning to bring both him and the paper into notice; he had taken pains with the organisation and improvement of the staff; above all, he had spent a great deal more money upon it, in the way of premises and appliances, than he had been, as it turned out, in any way justified in spending. hence, indeed, these tears. rather more than a year before, while the _clarion_ was still enjoying a first spurt of success and notoriety, he had, with a certain recklessness which belonged to his character, invested in new and costly machinery, and had transferred the paper to larger offices. all this had been done on borrowed money. then, for some reason or other, the _clarion_ had ceased to answer to the spur--had, indeed, during the past eight months been flagging heavily. the outside world was beginning to regard the _clarion_ as an important paper. wharton knew all the time that its advertisements were falling off, and its circulation declining. why? who can say? if it is true that books have their fates, it is still more true of newspapers. was it that a collectivist paper--the rival organ mentioned by wilkins--recently started by a group of young and outrageously clever venturists and more closely in touch than the _clarion_ with two or three of the great unions, had filched the _clarion's_ ground? or was it simply that, as wharton put it to himself in moments of rage and despondency, the majority of working men "are either sots or block-heads, and will read and support _nothing_ but the low racing or police-court news, which is all their intelligences deserve?" few people had at the bottom of their souls a more scornful distrust of the "masses" than the man whose one ambition at the present moment was to be the accepted leader of english labour. finally, his private expenditure had always been luxurious; and he was liable, it will be seen, to a kind of debt that is not easily kept waiting. on the whole, his bankers had behaved to him with great indulgence. he fretted and fumed, turning over plan after plan as he walked, his curly head sunk in his shoulders, his hands behind his back. presently he stopped--absently--in front of the inner wall of the room, where, above a heavy rosewood bookcase, brought from his lincolnshire house, a number of large framed photographs were hung close together. his eye caught one and brightened. with an impatient gesture, like that of a reckless boy, he flung his thoughts away from him. "if ever the game becomes too tiresome here, why, the next steamer will take me out of it! what a _gorgeous_ time we had on that glacier!" he stood looking at a splendid photograph of a glacier in the thibetan himalayas, where, in the year following his mother's death, he had spent four months with an exploring party. the plate had caught the very grain and glisten of the snow, the very sheen and tint of the ice. he could _feel_ the azure of the sky, the breath of the mountain wind. the man seated on the ladder over that bottomless crevasse was himself. and there were the guides, two from chamounix, one from grindelwald, and that fine young fellow, the son of the elder chamounix guide, whom they had lost by a stone-shower on that nameless peak towering to the left of the glacier. ah, those had been years of _life_, those _wanderjahre_! he ran over the photographs with a kind of greed, his mind meanwhile losing itself in covetous memories of foamy seas, of long, low, tropical shores with their scattered palms, of superb rivers sweeping with sound and fury round innumerable islands, of great buildings ivory white amid the wealth of creepers which had pulled them into ruin, vacant now for ever of the voice of man, and ringed by untrodden forests. "'better fifty years of europe than a cycle of cathay,'" he thought. "ah! but how much did the man who wrote that know about cathay?" and with his hands thrust into his pockets, he stood lost awhile in a flying dream that defied civilisation and its cares. how well, how indispensable to remember, that beyond these sweltering streets where we choke and swarm, cathay stands always waiting! _somewhere_, while we toil in the gloom and the crowd, there is _air_, there is _sea_, the joy of the sun, the life of the body, so good, so satisfying! this interminable ethical or economical battle, these struggles selfish or altruistic, in which we shout ourselves hoarse to no purpose--why! they could be shaken off at a moment's notice! "however"--he turned on his heel--"suppose we try a few other trifles first. what time? those fellows won't have gone to bed yet!" he took out his watch, then extinguished his candles, and made his way to the street. a hundred yards or so away from his own door he stopped before a well-known fashionable club, extremely small, and extremely select, where his mother's brother, the peer of the family, had introduced him when he was young and tender, and his mother's relations still cherished hopes of snatching him as a brand from the burning. the front rooms of the club were tolerably full still. he passed on to the back. a door-keeper stationed in the passage stepped back and silently opened a door. it closed instantly behind him, and wharton found himself in a room with some twenty other young fellows playing baccarat, piles of shining money on the tables, the electric lamps hung over each, lighting every detail of the scene with the same searching disenchanting glare. "i say!" cried a young dark-haired fellow, like a dishevelled lord byron. "here comes the labour leader--make room!" and amid laughter and chaffing he was drawn down to the baccarat table, where a new deal was just beginning. he felt in his pockets for money; his eyes, intent and shining, followed every motion of the dealer's hand. for three years now, ever since his return from his travels, the gambler's passion had been stealing on him. already this season he had lost and won--on the whole lost--large sums. and the fact was--so far--absolutely unknown except to the men with whom he played in this room. chapter iii. "if yer goin' downstairs, nuss, you'd better take that there scuttle with yer, for the coals is gittin' low an' it ull save yer a journey!" marcella looked with amusement at her adviser--a small bandy-legged boy in shirt and knickerbockers, with black jewish eyes in a strongly featured face. he stood leaning on the broom he had just been wielding, his sleeves rolled up to the shoulder showing his tiny arms; his expression sharp and keen as a hawk's. "well, benny, then you look after your mother while i'm gone, and don't let any one in but the doctor." and marcella turned for an instant towards the bed whereon lay a sick woman too feeble apparently to speak or move. "i aint a goin' ter," said the boy, shortly, beginning to sweep again with energy, "an' if this 'ere baby cries, give it the bottle, i s'pose?" "no, certainly not," said marcella, firmly; "it has just had one. you sweep away, benny, and let the baby alone." benny looked a trifle wounded, but recovered himself immediately, and ran a general's eye over marcella who was just about to leave the room. "now look 'ere, nuss," he said in a tone of pitying remonstrance, "yer never a goin' down to that 'ere coal cellar without a light. yer'll 'ave to come runnin' up all them stairs again--sure as i'm alive yer will!" and darting to a cupboard he pulled out a grimy candlestick with an end of dip and some matches, disposed of them at the bottom of the coal-scuttle that marcella carried over her left arm, and then, still masterfully considering her, let her go. marcella groped her way downstairs. the house was one of a type familiar all over the poorer parts of west central london--the eighteenth-century house inhabited by law or fashion in the days of dr. johnson, now parcelled out into insanitary tenements, miserably provided with air, water, and all the necessaries of life, but still showing in its chimney-piece or its decaying staircase signs of the graceful domestic art which had ruled at the building and fitting of it. marcella, however, had no eye whatever at the moment for the panelling on the staircase, or the delicate ironwork of the broken balustrade. rather it seemed to her, as she looked into some of the half-open doors of the swarming rooms she passed, or noticed with disgust the dirt and dilapidation of the stairs, and the evil smells of the basement, that the house added one more to the standing shames of the district--an opinion doubly strong in her when at last she emerged from her gropings among the dens of the lower regions, and began to toil upstairs again with her filled kettle and coal-scuttle. the load was heavy, even for her young strength, and she had just passed a sleepless night. the evening before she had been sent for in haste to a woman in desperate illness. she came, and found a young jewess, with a ten days old child beside her, struggling with her husband and two women friends in a state of raging delirium. the room, was full to suffocation of loud-tongued, large-eyed jewesses, all taking turns at holding the patient, and chattering or quarrelling between their turns. it had been marcella's first and arduous duty to get the place cleared, and she had done it without ever raising her voice or losing her temper for an instant. the noisy pack had been turned out; the most competent woman among them chosen to guard the door and fetch and carry for the nurse; while marcella set to work to wash her patient and remake the bed as best she could, in the midst of the poor thing's wild shrieks and wrestlings. it was a task to test both muscular strength and moral force to their utmost. after her year's training marcella took it simply in the day's work. some hours of intense effort and strain; then she and the husband looked down upon the patient, a woman of about six-and-twenty, plunged suddenly in narcotic sleep, her matted black hair, which marcella had not dared to touch, lying in wild waves on the clean bed-clothes and night-gear that her nurse had extracted from this neighbour and that--she could hardly have told how. "_ach, mein gott, mein gott!_" said the husband, rising and shaking himself. he was a jew from german poland, and, unlike most of his race, a huge man, with the make and the muscles of a prize-fighter. yet, after the struggle of the last two hours he was in a bath of perspiration. "you will have to send her to the infirmary if this comes on again," said marcella. the husband stared in helpless misery, first at his wife, then at the nurse. "you will not go away, mees," he implored, "you will not leaf me alone?" wearied as she was, marcella could have smiled at the abject giant. "no, i will stay with her till the morning and till the doctor comes. you had better go to bed." it was close on three o'clock. the man demurred a little, but he was in truth too worn out to resist. he went into the back room and lay down with the children. then marcella was left through the long summer dawn alone with her patient. her quick ear caught every sound about her--the heavy breaths of the father and children in the back room, the twittering of the sparrows, the first cries about the streets, the first movements in the crowded house. her mind all the time was running partly on contrivances for pulling the woman through--for it was what a nurse calls "a good case," one that rouses all her nursing skill and faculty--partly on the extraordinary misconduct of the doctor, to whose criminal neglect and mismanagement of the case she hotly attributed the whole of the woman's illness; and partly--in deep, swift sinkings of meditative thought--on the strangeness of the fact that she should be there at all, sitting in this chair in this miserable room, keeping guard over this jewish mother and her child! the year in hospital had _rushed_--dreamless sleep by night, exhausting fatigue of mind and body by day. a hospital nurse, if her work _seizes_ her, as it had seized marcella, never thinks of herself. now, for some six or seven weeks she had been living in rooms, as a district nurse, under the control of a central office and superintendent. her work lay in the homes of the poor, and was of the most varied kind. the life was freer, more elastic; allowed room at last to self-consciousness. * * * * * but now the night was over. the husband had gone off to work at a factory near, whence he could be summoned at any moment; the children had been disposed of to mrs. levi, the helpful neighbour; she herself had been home for an hour to breakfast and dress, had sent to the office asking that her other cases might be attended to, and was at present in sole charge, with benny to help her, waiting for the doctor. when she reached the sick-room again with her burdens, she found benjamin sitting pensive, with the broom across his knees. "well, benny!" she said as she entered, "how have you got on?" "yer can't move the dirt on them boards with sweepin'," said benny, looking at them with disgust; "an' i ain't a goin' to try it no more." "you're about right there, benny," said marcella, mournfully, as she inspected them; "well, we'll get mrs. levi to come in and scrub--as soon as your mother can bear it." she stepped up to the bed and looked at her patient, who seemed to be passing into a state of restless prostration, more or less under the influence of morphia. marcella fed her with strong beef tea made by herself during the night, and debated whether she should give brandy. no--either the doctor would come directly, or she would send for him. she had not seen him yet, and her lip curled at the thought of him. he had ordered a nurse the night before, but had not stayed to meet her, and marcella had been obliged to make out his instructions from the husband as best she could. benny looked up at her with a wink as she went back to the fire. "i didn't let none o' _them_ in," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "they come a whisperin' at the door, an' a rattlin' ov the handle as soon as ever you gone downstairs. but i tole 'em just to take theirselves off, an' as 'ow you didn't want 'em. sillies!" and taking a crust smeared with treacle out of his pocket, benny returned with a severe air to the sucking of it. marcella laughed. "clever benny," she said, patting his head; "but why aren't you at school, sir?" benjamin grinned. "'ow d'yer s'pose my ma's goin' to git along without me to do for 'er and the babby?" he replied slily. "well, benny, you'll have the board officer down on you." at this the urchin laughed out. "why, 'e wor here last week! ee can't be troublin' 'isself about this 'ere bloomin' street _ev_ery day in the week." there was a sharp knock at the door. "the doctor," she said, as her face dismissed the frolic brightness which had stolen upon it for a moment. "run away, benny." benny opened the door, looked the doctor coolly up and down, and then withdrew to the landing, where his sisters were waiting to play with him. the doctor, a tall man of thirty, with a red, blurred face and a fair moustache, walked in hurriedly, and stared at the nurse standing by the fire. "you come from the st. martin's association?" marcella stiffly replied. he took her temperature-chart from her hand and asked her some questions about the night, staring at her from time to time with eyes that displeased her. presently she came to an account of the condition in which she had found her patient. the edge on the words, for all their professional quiet, was unmistakable. she saw him flush. he moved towards the bed, and she went with him. the woman moaned as he approached her. he set about his business with hands that shook. marcella decided at once that he was not sober, and watched his proceedings with increasing disgust and amazement. presently she could bear it no longer. "i think," she said, touching his arm, "that you had better leave it to me--and--go away!" he drew himself up with a start which sent the things he held flying, and faced her fiercely. "what do you mean?" he said, "don't you know your place?" the girl was very white, but her eyes were scornfully steady. "yes--i know my place!" then with a composure as fearless as it was scathing she said what she had to say. she knew--and he could not deny--that he had endangered his patient's life. she pointed out that he was in a fair way to endanger it again. every word she said lay absolutely within her sphere as a nurse. his cloudy brain cleared under the stress of it. then his eyes flamed, his cheeks became purple, and marcella thought for an instant he would have struck her. finally he turned down his shirt-cuffs and walked away. "you understand," he said thickly, turning upon her, with his hat in his hand, "that i shall not attend this case again till your association can send me a nurse that will do as she is told without insolence to the doctor. i shall now write a report to your superintendent." "as you please," said marcella, quietly. and she went to the door and opened it. he passed her sneering: "a precious superior lot you lady-nurses think yourselves, i dare say. i'd sooner have one old gamp than the whole boiling of you!" marcella eyed him sternly, her nostrils tightening. "will you go?" she said. he gave her a furious glance, and plunged down the stairs outside, breathing threats. marcella put her hand to her head a moment, and drew a long breath. there was a certain piteousness in the action, a consciousness of youth and strain. then she saw that the landing and the stairs above were beginning to fill with dark-haired jewesses, eagerly peering and talking. in another minute or two she would be besieged by them. she called sharply, "benny!" instantly benny appeared from the landing above, elbowing the jewesses to right and left. "what is it you want, nuss? no, she don't want none o' _you_--_there_!" and benjamin darted into the room, and would have slammed the door in all their faces, but that marcella said to him-- "let in mrs. levi, please." the kind neighbour, who had been taking care of the children, was admitted, and then the key was turned. marcella scribbled a line on a half-sheet of paper, and, with careful directions, despatched benny with it. "i have sent for a new doctor," she explained, still frowning and white, to mrs. levi. "that one was not fit." the woman's olive-skinned face lightened all over. "thanks to the lord!" she said, throwing up her hands. "but how in the world did you do 't, miss? there isn't a single soul in this house that doesn't go all of a tremble at the sight of 'im. yet all the women has 'im when they're ill--bound to. they thinks he must be clever, 'cos he's such a brute. i do believe sometimes it's that. he _is_ a brute!" marcella was bending over her patient, trying so far as she could to set her straight and comfortable again. but the woman had begun to mutter once more words in a strange dialect that marcella did not understand, and could no longer be kept still. the temperature was rising again, and another fit of delirium was imminent. marcella could only hope that she and mrs. levi between them would be able to hold her till the doctor came. when she had done all that was in her power, she sat beside the poor tossing creature, controlling and calming her as best she could, while mrs. levi poured into her shrinking ear the story of the woman's illness and of dr. blank's conduct of it. marcella's feeling, as she listened, was made up of that old agony of rage and pity! the sufferings of the poor, _because_ they were poor--these things often, still, darkened earth and heaven for her. that wretch would have been quite capable, no doubt, of conducting himself decently and even competently, if he had been called to some supposed lady in one of the well-to-do squares which made the centre of this poor and crowded district. "hullo, nurse!" said a cheery voice; "you seem to have got a bad case." the sound was as music in marcella's ears. the woman she held was fast becoming unmanageable--had just shrieked, first for "poison," then for a "knife," to kill herself with, and could hardly be prevented by the combined strength of her nurse and mrs. levi, now from throwing herself madly out of bed, and now from tearing out her black hair in handfuls. the doctor--a young scotchman with spectacles, and stubbly red beard--came quickly up to the bed, asked marcella a few short questions, shrugged his shoulders over her dry report of dr. blank's proceedings, then took out a black case from his pocket, and put his morphia syringe together. for a long time no result whatever could be obtained by any treatment. the husband was sent for, and came trembling, imploring doctor and nurse, in the intervals of his wife's paroxysms, not to leave him alone. marcella, absorbed in the tragic horror of the case, took no note of the passage of time. everything that the doctor suggested she carried out with a deftness, a tenderness, a power of mind, which keenly affected his professional sense. once, the poor mother, left unguarded for an instant, struck out with a wild right hand. the blow caught marcella on the cheek, and she drew back with a slight involuntary cry. "you are hurt," said dr. angus, running up to her. "no, no," she said, smiling through the tears that the shock had called into her eyes, and putting him rather impatiently aside; "it is nothing. you said you wanted some fresh ice." and she went into the back room to get it. the doctor stood with his hands in his pockets, studying the patient. "you will have to send her to the infirmary," he said to the husband; "there is nothing else for it." marcella came back with the ice, and was able to apply it to the head. the patient was quieter--was, in fact, now groaning herself into a fresh period of exhaustion. the doctor's sharp eyes took note of the two figures, the huddled creature on the pillows and the stately head bending over her, with the delicately hollowed cheek, whereon the marks of those mad fingers stood out red and angry. he had already had experience of this girl in one or two other cases. "well," he said, taking up his hat, "it is no good shilly-shallying. i will go and find dr. swift." dr. swift was the parish doctor. when he had gone, the big husband broke down and cried, with his head against the iron of the bed close to his wife. he put his great hand on hers, and talked to her brokenly in their own patois. they had been eight years married, and she had never had a day's serious illness till now. marcella's eyes filled with tears as she moved about the room, doing various little tasks. at last she went up to him. "won't you go and have some dinner?" she said to him kindly. "there's benjamin calling you," and she pointed to the door of the back room, where stood benny, his face puckered with weeping, forlornly holding out a plate of fried fish, in the hope of attracting his father's attention. the man, who in spite of his size and strength was in truth childishly soft and ductile, went as he was bid, and marcella and mrs. levi set about doing what they could to prepare the wife for her removal. presently parish doctor and sanitary inspector appeared, strange and peremptory invaders who did but add to the terror and misery of the husband. then at last came the ambulance, and dr. angus with it. the patient, now once more plunged in narcotic stupor, was carried downstairs by two male nurses, dr. angus presiding. marcella stood in the doorway and watched the scene,--the gradual disappearance of the helpless form on the stretcher, with its fevered face under the dark mat of hair; the figures of the straining men heavily descending step by step, their heads and shoulders thrown out against the dirty drabs and browns of the staircase; the crowd of jewesses on the stairs and landing, craning their necks, gesticulating and talking, so that dr. angus could hardly make his directions heard, angrily as he bade them stand back; and on the top stair, the big husband, following the form of his departing and unconscious wife with his eyes, his face convulsed with weeping, the whimpering children clinging about his knees. how hot it was!--how stifling the staircase smelt, and how the sun beat down from that upper window on the towzled unkempt women with their large-eyed children. chapter iv. marcella on her way home turned into a little street leading to a great block of model dwellings, which rose on the right hand side and made everything else, the mews entrance opposite, the lines of squalid shops on either side, look particularly small and dirty. the sun was beating fiercely down, and she was sick and tired. as she entered the iron gate of the dwellings, and saw before her the large asphalted court round which they ran--blazing heat on one side of it, and on the other some children playing cricket against the wall with chalk marks for wickets--she was seized with depression. the tall yet mean buildings, the smell of dust and heat, the general impression of packed and crowded humanity--these things, instead of offering her rest, only continued and accented the sense of strain, called for more endurance, more making the best of it. but she found a tired smile for some of the children who ran up to her, and then she climbed the stairs of the e. block, and opened the door of her own tenement, number . in number lived minta hurd and her children, who had joined marcella in london some two months before. in sets and , on either side of marcella and the hurds, lived two widows, each with a family, who were mostly out charing during the day. marcella's association allowed its district nurses to live outside the "home" of the district on certain conditions, which had been fulfilled in marcella's case by her settlement next door to her old friends in these buildings which were inhabited by a very respectable though poor class. meanwhile the trustees of the buildings had allowed her to make a temporary communication between her room and the hurds, so that she could either live her own solitary and independent life, or call for their companionship, as she pleased. as she shut her door behind her she found herself in a little passage or entry. to the left was her bedroom. straight in front of her was the living room with a small close range in it, and behind it a little back kitchen. the living room was cheerful and even pretty. her art-student's training showed itself. the cheap blue and white paper, the couple of oak flap tables from a broker's shop in marchmont street, the two or three cane chairs with their bright chintz cushions, the indian rug or two on the varnished boards, the photographs and etchings on the walls, the books on the tables--there was not one of these things that was not in its degree a pleasure to her young senses, that did not help her to live her life. this afternoon as she opened the door and looked in, the pretty colours and forms in the tiny room were as water to the thirsty. her mother had sent her some flowers the day before. there they were on the tables, great bunches of honey-suckles, of blue-bells, and banksia roses. and over the mantelpiece was a photograph of the place where such flowers as mellor possessed mostly grew--the unkempt lawn, the old fountain and grey walls of the cedar garden. the green blind over the one window which looked into the court, had been drawn down against the glare of the sun, as though by a careful hand. beside a light wooden rocking chair, which was marcella's favourite seat, a tray of tea things had been put out. marcella drew a long breath of comfort as she put down her bag. "now, _can_ i wait for my tea till i have washed and dressed?" she argued with herself an instant as though she had been a greedy child, then, going swiftly into the back kitchen, she opened the door between her rooms and the hurds. "minta!" a voice responded. "minta, make me some tea and boil an egg! there's a good soul! i will be back directly." and in ten minutes or so she came back again into the sitting-room, daintily fresh and clean but very pale. she had taken off her nurse's dress and apron, and had put on something loose and white that hung about her in cool folds. but minta hurd, who had just brought in the tea, looked at her disapprovingly. "whatever are you so late for?" she asked a little peevishly. "you'll get ill if you go missing your dinner." "i couldn't help it, minta, it was such a bad case." mrs. hurd poured out the tea in silence, unappeased. her mind was constantly full of protest against this nursing. why should miss boyce do such "funny things"--why should she live as she did, at all? their relation to each other was a curious one. marcella, knowing that the life of hurd's widow at mellor was gall and bitterness, had sent for her at the moment that she herself was leaving the hospital, offering her a weekly sum in return for a little cooking and house service. minta already possessed a weekly pension, coming from a giver unknown to her. it was regularly handed to her by mr. harden, and she could only imagine that one of the "gentlemen" who had belonged to the hurd reprieve committee, and had worked so hard for jim, was responsible for it, out of pity for her and her children. the payment offered her by miss boyce would defray the expense of london house-rent, the children's schooling, and leave a trifle over. moreover she was pining to get away from mellor. her first instinct after her husband's execution had been to hide herself from all the world. but for a long time her precarious state of health, and her dependence first on marcella, then on mary harden, made it impossible for her to leave the village. it was not till marcella's proposal came that her way was clear. she sold her bits of things at once, took her children and went up to brown's buildings. marcella met her with the tenderness, the tragic tremor of feeling from which the peasant's wife shrank anew, bewildered, as she had often shrunk from it in the past. jim's fate had made her an old woman at thirty-two. she was now a little shrivelled consumptive creature with almost white hair, and a face from which youth had gone, unless perhaps there were some traces of it in the still charming eyes, and small open mouth. but these changes had come upon her she knew not why, as the result of blows she felt but had never reasoned about. marcella's fixed mode of conceiving her and her story caused her from the beginning of their fresh acquaintance a dumb irritation and trouble she could never have explained. it was so tragic, reflective, exacting. it seemed to ask of her feelings that she could not have, to expect from her expression that was impossible. and it stood also between her and the friends and distractions that she would like to have. why shouldn't that queer man, mr. strozzi, who lived down below, and whose name she could not pronounce, come and sit sometimes of an evening, and amuse her and the children? he was a "professor of elocution," and said and sung comic pieces. he was very civil and obliging too; she liked him. yet miss boyce was evidently astonished that she could make friends with him, and minta perfectly understood the lift of her dark eyebrows whenever she came in and found him sitting there. meanwhile marcella had expected her with emotion, and had meant through this experiment to bring herself truly near to the poor. minta must not call her miss boyce, but by her name; which, however, minta, reddening, had declared she could never do. her relation to marcella was not to be that of servant in any sense, but of friend and sister; and on her and her children marcella had spent from the beginning a number of new womanish wiles which, strangely enough, this hard, strenuous life had been developing in her. she would come and help put the children to bed; she would romp with them in their night-gowns; she would bend her imperious head over the anxious endeavour to hem a pink cotton pinafore for daisy, or dress a doll for the baby. but the relation jarred and limped perpetually, and marcella wistfully thought it her fault. just now, however, as she sat gently swaying backwards and forwards in the rocking-chair, enjoying her tea, her mood was one of nothing but content. "oh, minta, give me another cup. i want to have a sleep so badly, and then i am going to see miss hallin, and stay to supper with them." "well, you mustn't go out in them nursin' things again," said minta, quickly; "i've put you in some lace in your black dress, an' it looks beautiful." "oh, thank you, minta; but that black dress always seems to me too smart to walk about these streets in." "it's just _nice_," said minta, with decision. "it's just what everybody that knows you--what your mamma--would like to see you in. i can't abide them nursin' clothes--nasty things!" "i declare!" cried marcella, laughing, but outraged; "i never like myself so well in anything." minta was silent, but her small mouth took an obstinate look. what she really felt was that it was absurd for ladies to wear caps and aprons and plain black bonnets, when there was no need for them to do anything of the kind. "whatever have you been doing to your cheek?" she exclaimed, suddenly, as marcella handed her the empty cup to take away. marcella explained shortly, and minta looked more discontented than ever. "a lot of low people as ought to look after themselves," that was how in her inmost mind she generally defined marcella's patients. she had been often kind and soft to her neighbours at mellor, but these dirty, crowded londoners were another matter. "where is daisy?" asked marcella as minta was going away with the tea; "she must have come back from school." "here i am," said daisy, with a grin, peeping in through the door of the back kitchen. "mother, baby's woke up." "come here, you monkey," said marcella; "come and go to sleep with me. have you had your tea?" "yes, lots," said daisy, climbing up into marcella's lap. "are you going to be asleep a long time?" "no--only a nap. oh! daisy, i'm so tired. come and cuddlie a bit! if you don't go to sleep you know you can slip away--i shan't wake." the child, a slight, red-haired thing, with something of the ethereal charm that her dead brother had possessed, settled herself on marcella's knees, slipped her left thumb into her mouth, and flung her other arm round marcella's neck. they had often gone to sleep so. mrs. hurd came back, drew down the blind further, threw a light shawl over them both, and left them. an hour and a half later minta came in again as she had been told. daisy had slipped away, but marcella was still lying in the perfect gentleness and relaxation of sleep. "you said i was to come and wake you," said minta, drawing up the blind; "but i don't believe you're a bit fit to be going about. here's some hot water, and there's a letter just come." marcella woke with a start, minta put the letter on her knee, and dream and reality flowed together as she saw her own name in wharton's handwriting. she read the letter, then sat flushed and thinking for a while with her hands on her knees. a little while later she opened the hurds' front-door. "minta, i am going now. i shall be back early after supper, for i haven't written my report." "there--now you look something like!" said minta, scanning her approvingly--the wide hat and pretty black dress. "shall daisy run out with that telegram?" "no, thanks. i shall pass the post. good-bye." and she stooped and kissed the little withered woman. she wished, ardently wished, that minta would be more truly friends with her! after a brisk walk through the june evening she stopped--still within the same district--at the door of a house in a long, old-fashioned street, wherein the builder was busy on either hand, since most of the long leases had just fallen in. but the house she entered was still untouched. she climbed a last-century staircase, adorned with panels of stucco work--slender italianate reliefs of wreaths, ribbons, and medallions on a pale green ground. the decoration was clean and cared for, the house in good order. eighty years ago it was the home of a famous judge, who entertained in its rooms the legal and literary celebrities of his day. now it was let out to professional people in lodgings or unfurnished rooms. edward hallin and his sister occupied the top floor. miss hallin, a pleasant-looking, plain woman of about thirty-five, came at once in answer to marcella's knock, and greeted her affectionately. edward hallin sprang up from a table at the further end of the room. "you are so late! alice and i had made up our minds you had forgotten us!" "i didn't get home till four, and then i had to have a sleep," she explained, half shyly. "what! you haven't been night-nursing?" "yes, for once." "alice, tell them to bring up supper, and let's look after her." he wheeled round a comfortable chair to the open window--the charming circular bow of last-century design, which filled up the end of the room and gave it character. the window looked out on a quiet line of back gardens, such as may still be seen in bloomsbury, with fine plane trees here and there just coming into full leaf; and beyond them the backs of another line of houses in a distant square, with pleasant irregularities of old brickwork and tiled roof. the mottled trunks of the planes, their blackened twigs and branches, their thin, beautiful leaves, the forms of the houses beyond, rose in a charming medley of line against the blue and peaceful sky. no near sound was to be heard, only the distant murmur that no londoner escapes; and some of the british museum pigeons were sunning themselves on the garden-wall below. within, the hallins' room was spacious and barely furnished. the walls, indeed, were crowded with books, and broken, where the books ceased, by photographs of italy and greece; but of furniture proper there seemed to be little beside hallin's large writing-table facing the window, and a few chairs, placed on the blue drugget which brother and sister had chosen with a certain anxiety, dreading secretly lest it should be a piece of self-indulgence to buy what pleased them both so much. on one side of the fireplace was miss hallin's particular corner; her chair, the table that held her few special books, her work-basket, with its knitting, her accounts. there, in the intervals of many activities, she sat and worked or read, always cheerful and busy, and always watching over her brother. "i wish," said hallin, with some discontent, when marcella had settled herself, "that we were going to be alone to-night; that would have rested you more." "why, who is coming?" said marcella, a little flatly. she had certainly hoped to find them alone. "your old friend, frank leven, is coming to supper. when he heard you were to be here he vowed that nothing could or should keep him away. then, after supper, one or two people asked if they might come in. there are some anxious things going on." he leant his head on his hand for a moment with a sigh, then forcibly wrenched himself from what were evidently recurrent thoughts. "do tell me some more of what you are doing!" he said, bending forward to her. "you don't know how much i have thought of what you have told me already." "i'm doing just the same," she said, laughing. "don't take so much interest in it. it's the fashion just now to admire nurses; but it's ridiculous. we do our work like other people--sometimes badly, sometimes well. and some of us wouldn't do it if we could help it." she threw out the last words with a certain vehemence, as though eager to get away from any sentimentalism about herself. hallin studied her kindly. "is this miscellaneous work a relief to you after hospital?" he asked. "for the present. it is more exciting, and one sees more character. but there are drawbacks. in hospital everything was settled for you--every hour was full, and there were always orders to follow. and the 'off' times were no trouble--i never did anything else but walk up and down the embankment if it was fine, or go to the national gallery if it was wet." "and it was the monotony you liked?" she made a sign of assent. "strange!" said hallin, "who could ever have foreseen it?" she flushed. "you might have foreseen it, i think," she said, not without a little impatience. "but i didn't like it all at once. i hated a great deal of it. if they had let me alone all the time to scrub and polish and wash--the things they set me to at first--i thought i should have been quite happy. to see my table full of glasses without a spot, and my brass-taps shining, made me as proud as a peacock! but then of course i had to learn the real work, and that was very odd at first." "how? morally?" she nodded, laughing at her own remembrances. "yes--it seemed to me all topsy-turvy. i thought the sister at the head of the ward rather a stupid person. if i had seen her at mellor i shouldn't have spoken two words to her. and here she was ordering me about--rating me as i had never rated a house-maid--laughing at me for not knowing this or that, and generally making me feel that a raw probationer was one of the things of least account in the whole universe. i knew perfectly well that she had said to herself, 'now then i must take that proud girl down a peg, or she will be no use to anybody;' and i had somehow to put up with it." "drastic!" said hallin, laughing; "did you comfort yourself by reflecting that it was everybody's fate?" her lip twitched with amusement. "not for a long time. i used to have the most absurd ideas!--sometimes looking back i can hardly believe it--perhaps it was partly a queer state of nerves. when i was at school and got in a passion i used to try and overawe the girls by shaking my speaker great-uncle in their faces. and so in hospital; it would flash across me sometimes in a plaintive sort of way that they _couldn't_ know that i was miss boyce of mellor, and had been mothering and ruling the whole of my father's village--or they wouldn't treat me so. mercifully i held my tongue. but one day it came to a crisis. i had had to get things ready for an operation, and had done very well. dr. marshall had paid me even a little compliment all to myself. but then afterwards the patient was some time in coming to, and there had to be hot-water bottles. i had them ready of course; but they were too hot, and in my zeal and nervousness i burnt the patient's elbow in two places. oh! the _fuss_, and the scolding, and the humiliation! when i left the ward that evening i thought i would go home next day." "but you didn't?" "if i could have sat down and thought it out, i should probably have gone. but i couldn't think it out--i was too _dead_ tired. that is the chief feature of your first months in hospital--the utter helpless fatigue at night. you go to bed aching and you wake up aching. if you are healthy as i was, it doesn't hurt you; but, when your time comes to sleep, sleep you _must_. even that miserable night my head was no sooner on the pillow than i was asleep; and next morning there was all the routine as usual, and the dread of being a minute late on duty. then when i got into the ward the sister looked at me rather queerly and went out of her way to be kind to me. oh! i was so grateful to her! i could have brushed her boots or done any other menial service for her with delight. and--then--somehow i pulled through. the enormous interest of the work seized me--i grew ambitious--they pushed me on rapidly--everybody seemed suddenly to become my friend instead of my enemy--and i ended by thinking the hospital the most fascinating and engrossing place in the whole world." "a curious experience," said hallin. "i suppose you had never obeyed any one in your life before?" "not since i was at school--and then--not much!" hallin glanced at her as she lay back in her chair. how richly human the face had grown! it was as forcible as ever in expression and colour, but that look which had often repelled him in his first acquaintance with her, as of a hard speculative eagerness more like the ardent boy than the woman, had very much disappeared. it seemed to him absorbed in something new--something sad and yet benignant, informed with all the pathos and the pain of growth. "how long have you been at work to-day?" he asked her. "i went at eleven last night. i came away at four this afternoon." hallin exclaimed, "you had food?" "do you think i should let myself starve with my work to do?" she asked him, with a shade of scorn and her most professional air. "and don't suppose that such a case occurs often. it is a very rare thing for us to undertake night-nursing at all." "can you tell me what the case was?" she told him vaguely, describing also in a few words her encounter with dr. blank. "i suppose he will make a fuss," she said, with a restless look, "and that i shall be blamed." "i should think your second doctor will take care of that!" said hallin. "i don't know. i couldn't help it. but it is one of our first principles not to question a doctor. and last week too i got the association into trouble. a patient i had been nursing for weeks and got quite fond of had to be removed to hospital. she asked me to cut her hair. it was matted dreadfully, and would have been cut off directly she got to the ward. so i cut it, left her all comfortable, and was to come back at one to meet the doctor and help get her off. when i came, i found the whole court in an uproar. the sister of the woman, who had been watching for me, stood on the doorstep, and implored me to go away. the husband had gone out of his senses with rage because i had cut his wife's hair without his consent. 'he'll murder you, nuss!' said the sister, 'if he sees you! don't come in!--he's mad--he's _been going round on 'is 'ands and knees on the floor_!'"--hallin interrupted with a shout of laughter. marcella laughed too; but to his amazement he saw that her hand shook, and that there were tears in her eyes. "it's all very well," she said with a sigh, "but i had to come away in disgrace, all the street looking on. and he made such a fuss at the office as never was. it was unfortunate--we don't want the people set against the nurses. and now dr. blank!--i seem to be always getting into scrapes. it is different from hospital, where everything is settled for one." hallin could hardly believe his ears. such womanish terrors and depressions from marcella boyce! was she, after all, too young for the work, or was there some fret of the soul reducing her natural force? he felt an unwonted impulse of tenderness towards her--such as one might feel towards a tired child--and set himself to cheer and rest her. he had succeeded to some extent, when he saw her give a little start, and following her eyes he perceived that unconsciously his arm, which was resting on the table, had pushed into her view a photograph in a little frame, which had been hitherto concealed from her by a glass of flowers. he would have quietly put it out of sight again, but she sat up in her chair. "will you give it me?" she said, putting out her hand. he gave it her at once. "alice brought it home from miss raeburn the other day. his aunt made him sit to one of the photographers who are always besieging public men. we thought it good." "it is very good," she said, after a pause. "is the hair really--as grey as that?" she pointed to it. "quite. i am very glad that he is going off with lord maxwell to italy. it will be ten days' break for him at any rate. his work this last year has been very heavy. he has had his grandfather's to do really, as well as his own; and this commission has been a stiff job too. i am rather sorry that he has taken this new post." "what post?" "didn't you hear? they have made him under-secretary to the home department. so that he is now in the government." she put back the photograph, and moved her chair a little so as to see more of the plane trees and the strips of sunset cloud. "how is lord maxwell?" she asked presently. "much changed. it might end in a sudden break-up at any time." hallin saw a slight contraction pass over her face. he knew that she had always felt an affection for lord maxwell. suddenly marcella looked hastily round her. miss hallin was busy with a little servant at the other end of the room making arrangements for supper. "tell me," she said, bending over the arm of her chair and speaking in a low, eager voice, "he is beginning to forget it?" hallin looked at her in silence, but his half sad, half ironic smile suggested an answer from which she turned away. "if he only would!" she said, speaking almost to herself, with a kind of impatience. "he ought to marry, for everybody's sake." "i see no sign of his marrying--at present," said hallin, drily. he began to put some papers under his hand in order. there was a cold dignity in his manner which she perfectly understood. ever since that day--that never-forgotten day--when he had come to her the morning after her last interview with aldous raeburn--come with reluctance and dislike, because aldous had asked it of him--and had gone away her friend, more drawn to her, more touched by her than he had ever been in the days of the engagement, their relation on this subject had been the same. his sweetness and kindness to her, his influence over her life during the past eighteen months, had been very great. in that first interview, the object of which had been to convey to her a warning on the subject of the man it was thought she might allow herself to marry, something in the manner with which he had attempted his incredibly difficult task--its simplicity, its delicate respect for her personality, its suggestion of a character richer and saintlier than anything she had yet known, and unconsciously revealing itself under the stress of emotion--this something had suddenly broken down his pale, proud companion, had to his own great dismay brought her to tears, and to such confidences, such indirect askings for help and understanding as amazed them both. experiences of this kind were not new to him. his life consecrated to ideas, devoted to the wresting of the maximum of human service from a crippling physical weakness; the precarious health itself which cut him off from a hundred ordinary amusements and occupations, and especially cut him off from marriage--together with the ardent temperament, the charm, the imaginative insight which had been his cradle-gifts--these things ever since he was a lad had made him again and again the guide and prop of natures stronger and stormier than his own. often the unwilling guide; for he had the half-impatient breathless instincts of the man who has set himself a task, and painfully doubts whether he will have power and time to finish it. the claims made upon him seemed to him often to cost him physical and brain energy he could ill spare. but his quick tremulous sympathy rendered him really a defenceless prey in such matters. marcella threw herself upon him as others had done; and there was no help for it. since their first memorable interview, at long intervals, he had written to her and she to him. of her hospital life, till to-night, she had never told him much. her letters had been the passionate outpourings of a nature sick of itself, and for the moment of living; full of explanations which really explained little; full too of the untaught pangs and questionings of a mind which had never given any sustained or exhaustive effort to any philosophical or social question, and yet was in a sense tortured by them all--athirst for an impossible justice, and aflame for ideals mocked first and above all by the writer's own weakness and defect. hallin had felt them interesting, sad, and, in a sense, fine; but he had never braced himself to answer them without groans. there were so many other people in the world in the same plight! nevertheless, all through the growth of friendship one thing had never altered between them from the beginning--hallin's irrevocable judgment of the treatment she had bestowed on aldous raeburn. never throughout the whole course of their acquaintance had he expressed that judgment to her in so many words. notwithstanding, she knew perfectly well both the nature and the force of it. it lay like a rock in the stream of their friendship. the currents of talk might circle round it, imply it, glance off from it; they left it unchanged. at the root of his mind towards her, at the bottom of his gentle sensitive nature, there was a sternness which he often forgot--she never. this hard fact in their relation had insensibly influenced her greatly, was constantly indeed working in and upon her, especially since the chances of her nursing career had brought her to settle in this district, within a stone's throw of him and his sister, so that she saw them often and intimately. but it worked in different ways. sometimes--as to-night--it evoked a kind of defiance. a minute or two after he had made his remark about aldous, she said to him suddenly, "i had a letter from mr. wharton to-day. he is coming to tea with me to-morrow, and i shall probably go to the house on friday with edith craven to hear him speak." hallin gave a slight start at the name. then he said nothing; but went on sorting some letters of the day into different heaps. his silence roused her irritation. "do you remember," she said, in a low, energetic voice, "that i told you i could never be ungrateful, never forget what he had done?" "yes, i remember," he said, not without a certain sharpness of tone. "you spoke of giving him help if he ever asked it of you--has he asked it?" she explained that what he seemed to be asking was louis craven's help, and that his overtures with regard to the _labour clarion_ were particularly opportune, seeing that louis was pining to be able to marry, and was losing heart, hope, and health for want of some fixed employment. she spoke warmly of her friends and their troubles, and hallin's inward distaste had to admit that all she said was plausible. since the moment in that strange talk which had drawn them together, when she had turned upon him with the passionate cry--"i see what you mean, perfectly! but i am not going to marry mr. wharton, so don't trouble to warn me--for the matter of that he has warned me himself:--but my _gratitude_ he _has_ earned, and if he asks for it i will _never_ deny it him "--since that moment there had been no word of wharton between them. at the bottom of his heart hallin distrusted her, and was ashamed of himself because of it. his soreness and jealousy for his friend knew no bounds. "if that were to come on again"--he was saying to himself now, as she talked to him--"i could not bear it, i could not forgive her!" he only wished that she would give up talking about wharton altogether. but, on the contrary, she would talk of him--and with a curious persistence. she must needs know what hallin thought of his career in parliament, of his prospects, of his powers as a speaker. hallin answered shortly, like some one approached on a subject for which he cares nothing. "yet, of course, it is not that; it is injustice!" she said to herself, with vehemence. "he _must_ care; they are his subjects, his interests too. but he will not look at it dispassionately, because--" so they fell out with each other a little, and the talk dragged. yet, all the while, marcella's inner mind was conscious of quite different thoughts. how good it was to be here, in this room, beside these two people! she must show herself fractious and difficult with hallin sometimes; it was her nature. but in reality, that slight and fragile form, that spiritual presence were now shrined in the girl's eager reverence and affection. she felt towards him as many a catholic has felt towards his director; though the hidden yearning to be led by him was often oddly covered, as now, by an outer self-assertion. perhaps her quarrel with him was that he would not lead her enough--would not tell her precisely enough what she was to do with herself. chapter v. while she and hallin were sitting thus, momentarily out of tune with each other, the silence was suddenly broken by a familiar voice. "i say, hallin--is this all right?" the words came from a young man who, having knocked unheeded, opened the door, and cautiously put in a curly head. "frank!--is that you? come in," cried hallin, springing up. frank leven came in, and at once perceived the lady sitting in the window. "well, i _am_ glad!" he cried, striding across the room and shaking hallin's hand by the way. "miss boyce! i thought none of your friends were ever going to get a sight of you again! why, what--" he drew back scanning her, a gay look of quizzing surprise on his fair boy's face. "he expected me in cap and apron," said marcella, laughing; "or means to pretend he did." "i expected a sensation! and here you are, just as you were, only twice as--i say, hallin, doesn't she look well!"--this in a stage aside to hallin, while the speaker was drawing off his gloves, and still studying marcella. "well, _i_ think she looks tired," said hallin, with a little attempt at a smile, but turning away. everybody felt a certain tension, a certain danger, even in the simplest words, and miss hallin's call to supper was very welcome. the frugal meal went gaily. the chattering christchurch boy brought to it a breath of happy, careless life, to which the three others--over-driven and over-pressed, all of them--responded with a kind of eagerness. hallin especially delighted in him, and would have out all his budget--his peacock's pride at having been just put into the 'varsity eleven, his cricket engagements for the summer, his rows with his dons, above all his lasting amazement that he should have just scraped through his mods. "i thought those roman emperors would have done for me!" he declared, with a child's complacency. "_brutes!_ i couldn't remember them. i learnt them up and down, backwards and forwards--but it was no good; they nearly dished me!" "yet it comes back to me," said hallin, slily, "that when a certain person was once asked to name the winner of the derby in some obscure year, he began at the beginning, and gave us all of them, from first to last, without a hitch." "the winner of the _derby_!" said the lad, eagerly, bending forward with his hands on his knees; "why, i should rather think so! that isn't memory; that's _knowledge_!--goodness! who's this?" the last remark was addressed _sotto voce_ to marcella. supper was just over, and the two guests, with hallin, had returned to the window, while miss hallin, stoutly refusing their help, herself cleared the table and set all straight. hallin, hearing a knock, had gone to the door while leven was speaking. four men came crowding in, all of them apparently well known both to hallin and his sister. the last two seemed to be workmen; the others were bennett, hallin's old and tried friend among the labour-leaders, and nehemiah wilkins, m.p. hallin introduced them all to marcella and leven; but the new-comers took little notice of any one but their host, and were soon seated about him discussing a matter already apparently familiar to them, and into which hallin had thrown himself at once with that passionate directness which, in the social and speculative field, replaced his ordinary gentleness of manner. he seemed to be in strong disagreement with the rest--a disagreement which troubled himself and irritated them. marcella watched them with quick curiosity from the window where she was sitting, and would have liked to go forward to listen. but frank leven turned suddenly round upon her with sparkling eyes. "oh, i say! don't go. do come and sit here with me a bit. oh, isn't it rum! isn't it _rum_! look at hallin,--those are the people whom he _cares_ to talk to. that's a shoemaker, that man to the left--really an awfully cute fellow--and this man in front, i think he told me he was a mason, a socialist of course--would like to string _me_ up to-morrow. did you ever see such a countenance? whenever that man begins, i think we must be precious near to shooting. and he's pious too, would pray over us first and shoot us afterwards--which isn't the case, i understand, with many of 'em. then the others--you know them? that's bennett--regular good fellow--always telling his pals not to make fools of themselves--for which of course they love him no more than they are obliged--and wilkins--oh! _wilkins_"--he chuckled--"they say it'll come to a beautiful row in the house before they've done, between him and my charming cousin, harry wharton. my father says he backs wilkins." then suddenly the lad recollected himself and his clear cheek coloured a little after a hasty glance at his companion. he fell to silence and looking at his boots. marcella wondered what was the matter with him. since her flight from mellor she had lived, so to speak, with her head in the sand. she herself had never talked directly of her own affairs to anybody. her sensitive pride did not let her realise that, notwithstanding, all the world was aware of them. "i don't suppose you know much about your cousin!" she said to him with a little scorn. "well, i don't want to!" said the lad, "that's one comfort! but i don't know anything about anything!--miss boyce!" he plunged his head in his hands, and marcella, looking at him, saw at once that she was meant to understand she had woe and lamentation beside her. her black eyes danced with laughter. at mellor she had been several times his confidante. the handsome lad was not apparently very fond of his sisters and had taken to her from the beginning. to-night she recognised the old symptoms. "what, you have been getting into scrapes again?" she said--"how many since we met last?" "there! you make fun of it!" he said indignantly from behind his fingers--"you're like all the rest." marcella teased him a little more till at last she was astonished by a flash of genuine wrath from the hastily uncovered eyes. "if you're only going to chaff a fellow let's go over there and talk! and yet i did want to tell you about it--you were awfully kind to me down at home. i want to tell you--and i don't want to tell you--perhaps i _oughtn't_ to tell you--you'll think me a brute, i dare say, an ungentlemanly brute for speaking of it at all--and yet somehow--" the boy, crimson, bit his lips. marcella, arrested and puzzled, laid a hand on his arm. she had been used to these motherly ways with him at mellor, on the strength of her seniority, so inadequately measured by its two years or so of time! "i won't laugh," she said, "tell me." "no--really?--shall i?" whereupon there burst forth a history precisely similar it seemed to some half dozen others she had already heard from the same lips. a pretty girl--or rather "an exquisite creature!" met at the house of some relation in scotland, met again at the "boats" at oxford, and yet again at commemoration balls, nuneham picnics, and the rest; adored and adorable; yet, of course, a sphinx born for the torment of men, taking her haughty way over a prostrate sex, kind to-day, cruel to-morrow; not to be won by money, yet, naturally, not to be won without it; possessed like rose aylmer of "every virtue, every grace," whether of form or family; yet making nothing but a devastating and death-dealing use of them--how familiar it all was!--and how many more of them there seemed to be in the world, on a man's reckoning, than on a woman's! "and you know," said the lad, eagerly, "though she's so _frightfully_ pretty--well, frightfully fetching, rather--and well dressed and all the rest of it, she isn't a bit silly, not one of your empty-headed girls--not she. she's read a _lot_ of things--a lot! i'm sure, miss boyce"--he looked at her confidently,--"if _you_ were to see her you'd think her awfully clever. and yet she's so little--and so dainty--and she dances--my goodness! you should see her dance, skirt-dance i mean--letty lind isn't in it! she's good too, awfully good. i think her mother's a most dreadful old bore--well, no, i didn't mean that--of course i didn't mean that!--but she's fussy, you know, and invalidy, and has to be wrapped up in shawls, and dragged about in bath chairs, and betty's an angel to her--she is really--though her mother's always snapping her head off. and as to the _poor_--" something in his tone, in the way he had of fishing for her approval, sent marcella into a sudden fit of laughter. then she put out a hand to restrain this plunging lover. "look here--do come to the point--have you proposed to her?" "i should rather think i have!" said the boy, fervently. "about once a week since christmas. of course she's played with me--that sort always does--but i think i might really have a chance with her, if it weren't for her mother--horrible old--no, of _course_ i don't mean that! but now it comes in--what i oughtn't to tell you--i _know_ i oughtn't to tell you! i'm always making a beastly mess of it. it's because i can't help talking of it!" and shaking his curly head in despair, he once more plunged his red cheeks into his hands and fell abruptly silent. marcella coloured for sympathy. "i really wish you wouldn't talk in riddles," she said. "what is the matter with you?--of course you must tell me." "well, i know you won't mind!" cried the lad, emerging. "as if you could mind! but it sounds like my impudence to be talking to you about--about--you see," he blurted out, "she's going to italy with the raeburns. she's a connection of theirs, somehow, and miss raeburn's taken a fancy to her lately--and her mother's treated me like dirt ever since they asked her to go to italy--and naturally a fellow sees what _that_ means--and what her mother's after. i don't believe betty _would_; he's too old for her, isn't he? oh, my goodness!"--this time he smote his knee in real desperation--"now i _have_ done it. i'm simply _bursting_ always with the thing i'd rather cut my head off than say. why they make 'em like me i don't know!" "you mean," said marcella, with impatience--"that her mother wants her to marry mr. raeburn?" he looked round at his companion. she was lying back in a deep chair, her hands lightly clasped on her knee. something in her attitude, in the pose of the tragic head, in the expression of the face stamped to-night with a fatigue which was also a dignity, struck a real compunction into his mood of vanity and excitement. he had simply not been able to resist the temptation to talk to her. she reminded him of the raeburns, and the raeburns were in his mind at the present moment by day and by night. he knew that he was probably doing an indelicate and indiscreet thing, but all the same his boyish egotism would not be restrained from the headlong pursuit of his own emotions. there was in him too such a burning curiosity as to how she would take it--what she would say. now however he felt a genuine shrinking. his look changed. drawing his chair close up to her he began a series of penitent and self-contradictory excuses which marcella soon broke in upon. "i don't know why you talk like that," she said, looking at him steadily. "do you suppose i can go on all my life without hearing mr. raeburn's name mentioned? and don't apologise so much! it really doesn't matter what i suppose--that _you_ think--about my present state of mind. it is very simple. i ought never to have accepted mr. raeburn. i behaved badly. i know it--and everybody knows it. still one has to go on living one's life somehow. the point is that i am rather the wrong person for you to come to just now, for if there is one thing i ardently wish about mr. raeburn, it is that he should get himself married." frank leven looked at her in bewildered dismay. "i never thought of that," he said. "well, you might, mightn't you?" for another short space there was silence between them, while the rush of talk in the centre of the room was still loud and unspent. then she rated herself for want of sympathy. frank sat beside her shy and uncomfortable, his confidence chilled away. "so you think miss raeburn has views?" she asked him, smiling, and in her most ordinary voice. the boy's eye brightened again with the implied permission to go on chattering. "i know she has! betty's brother as good as told me that she and mrs. macdonald--that's betty's mother--she hasn't got a father--had talked it over. and now betty's going with them to italy, and aldous is going too for ten days--and when i go to the macdonalds mrs. macdonald treats me as if i were a little chap in jackets, and betty worries me to death. it's sickening!" "and how about mr. raeburn?" "oh, aldous seems to like her very much," he said despondently. "she's always teasing and amusing him. when she's there she never lets him alone. she harries him out. she makes him read to her and ride with her. she makes him discuss all sorts of things with her you'd _never_ think aldous would discuss--her lovers and her love affairs, and being in love!--it's extraordinary the way she drives him round. at easter she and her mother were staying at the court, and one night betty told me she was bored to death. it was a very smart party, but everything was so flat and everybody was so dull. so she suddenly got up and ran across to aldous. 'now look here, mr. aldous,' she said; 'this'll never do! you've got to come and dance with me, and _push_ those chairs and tables aside'--i can fancy the little stamp she'd give--'and make those other people dance too.' and she made him--she positively made him. aldous declared he didn't dance, and she wouldn't have a word of it. and presently she got to all her tricks, skirt-dancing and the rest of it--and of course the evening went like smoke." marcella's eyes, unusually wide open, were somewhat intently fixed on the speaker. "and mr. raeburn liked it?" she asked in a tone that sounded incredulous. "didn't he just? she told me they got regular close friends after that, and he told her everything--oh, well," said the lad, embarrassed, and clutching at his usual formula--"of course, i didn't mean that. and she's fearfully flattered, you can see she is, and she tells me that she adores him--that he's the only great man she's ever known--that i'm not fit to black his boots, and ought to be grateful whenever he speaks to me--and all that sort of rot. and now she's going off with them. i shall have to shoot myself--i declare i shall!" "well, not yet," said marcella, in a soothing voice; "the case isn't clear enough. wait till they come back. shall we move? i'm going over there to listen to that talk. but--first--come and see me whenever you like-- to . , brown's buildings, maine street--and tell me how this goes on?" she spoke with a careless lightness, laughing at him with a half sisterly freedom. she had risen from her seat, and he, whose thoughts had been wrapped up for months in one of the smallest of the sex, was suddenly struck with her height and stately gesture as she moved away from him. "by jove! why didn't she stick to aldous," he said to himself discontentedly as his eyes followed her. "it was only her cranks, and of course she'll get rid of _them_. just like my luck!" * * * * * meanwhile marcella took a seat next to miss hallin, who looked up from her knitting to smile at her. the girl fell into the attitude of listening; but for some minutes she was not listening at all. she was reflecting how little men knew of each other!--even the most intimate friends--and trying to imagine what aldous raeburn would be like, married to such a charmer as frank had sketched. his friendship for her meant, of course, the attraction of contraries--one of the most promising of all possible beginnings. on the whole, she thought frank's chances were poor. then, unexpectedly, her ear was caught by wharton's name, and she discovered that what was going on beside her was a passionate discussion of his present position and prospects in the labour party--a discussion, however, mainly confined to wilkins and the two workmen. bennett had the air of the shrewd and kindly spectator who has his own reasons for treating a situation with reserve; and hallin was lying back in his chair flushed and worn out. the previous debate, which had now merged in these questions of men and personalities, had made him miserable; he had no heart for anything more. miss hallin observed him anxiously, and made restless movements now and then, as though she had it in her mind to send all her guests away. the two socialist workmen were talking strongly in favour of an organised and distinct labour party, and of wharton's leadership. they referred constantly to parnell, and what he had clone for "those irish fellows." the only way to make labour formidable in the house was to learn the lesson of unionism and of parnellism, to act together and strike together, to make of the party a "two-handed engine," ready to smite tory and liberal impartially. to this end a separate organisation, separate place in the house, separate whips--they were ready, nay clamorous, for them all. and they were equally determined on harry wharton as a leader. they spoke of the _clarion_ with enthusiasm, and declared that its owner was already an independent power, and was, moreover, as "straight" as he was sharp. the contention and the praise lashed wilkins into fury. after making one or two visible efforts at a sarcastic self-control which came to nothing, he broke out into a flood of invective which left the rest of the room staring. marcella found herself indignantly wondering who this big man, with his fierce eyes, long, puffy cheeks, coarse black hair, and north-country accent, might be. why did he talk in this way, with these epithets, this venom? it was intolerable! hallin roused himself from his fatigue to play the peace-maker. but some of the things wilkins had been saying had put up the backs of the two workmen, and the talk flamed up unmanageably--wilkins's dialect getting more pronounced with each step of the argument. "well, if i'd ever ha' thowt that i war coomin' to lunnon to put myself and my party oonder the heel o' muster harry wharton, i'd ha' stayed at _home_, i tell tha," cried wilkins, slapping his knee. "if it's to be the people's party, why, in the name o' god, must yo put a yoong ripstitch like yon at the head of it? a man who'll just mak _use_ of us all, you an' me, and ivery man jack of us, for his own advancement, an' ull kick us down when he's done with us! why shouldn't he? what is he? is he a man of _us_--bone of our bone? he's a _landlord_, and an aristocrat, i tell tha! what have the likes of him ever been but thorns in our side? when have the landlords ever gone with the people? have they not been the blight and the curse of the country for hun'erds of years? and you're goin' to tell me that a man bred out o' _them_--living on his rent and interest--grinding the faces of the poor, i'll be bound if the truth were known, as all the rest of them do--is goin' to lead _me_, an' those as'll act with me to the pullin' down of the landlords! why are we to go lickspittlin' to any man of his sort to do our work for us? let him go to his own class--i'm told mr. wharton is mighty fond of countesses, and they of him!--or let him set up as the friend of the working man just as he likes--i'm quite agreeable!--i shan't make any bones about takin' his _vote_; but i'm not goin' to make him master over me, and give him the right to speak for my mates in the house of commons. i'd cut my hand off fust!" leven grinned in the background. bennett lay back in his chair with a worried look. wilkins's crudities were very distasteful to him both in and out of the house. the younger of the socialist workmen, a mason, with a strong square face, incongruously lit somehow with the eyes of the religious dreamer, looked at wilkins contemptuously. "there's none of you in the house will take orders," he said quickly, "and that's the ruin of us. we all know that. where do you think we'd have been in the struggle with the employers, if we'd gone about our business as you're going about yours in the house of commons?" "i'm not saying we shouldn't _organise_," said wilkins, fiercely. "what i'm sayin' is, get a man of the working class--a man who has the _wants_ of the working class--a man whom the working class can get a hold on--to do your business for you, and not any bloodsucking landlord or capitalist. it's a slap i' the face to ivery honest working man i' the coontry, to mak' a labour party and put harry wharton at t' head of it!" the young socialist looked at him askance. "of course you'd like it yourself!" was what he was thinking. "but they'll take a man as can hold his own with the swells--and quite right too!" "and if mr. wharton _is_ a landlord he's a good sort!" exclaimed the shoemaker--a tall, lean man in a well-brushed frock coat. "there's many on us knows as have been to hear him speak, what he's tried to do about the land, and the co-operative farming. e's _straight_ is mr. wharton. we 'aven't got socialism yet--an' it isn't 'is fault bein' a landlord. ee was born it." "i tell tha he's playin' for his own hand!" said wilkins, doggedly, the red spot deepening on his swarthy cheek--"he's runnin' that paper for his own hand--haven't i had experience of him? i know it--and i'll prove it some day! he's one for featherin' his own nest is mr. wharton--and when he's doon it by makkin' fools of us, he'll leave us to whistle for any good we're iver likely to get out o' _him. he_ go agen the landlords when it coom to the real toossle,--i know 'em--i tell tha--i know 'em!" a woman's voice, clear and scornful, broke into the talk. "it's a little strange to think, isn't it, that while we in london go on groaning and moaning about insanitary houses, and making our small attempts here and there, half of the country poor of england have been re-housed in our generation by these same landlords--no fuss about it--and rents for five-roomed cottages, somewhere about one and fourpence a week!" hallin swung his chair round and looked at the speaker--amazed! wilkins also stared at her under his eyebrows. he did not like women--least of all, ladies. he gruffly replied that if they had done anything like as much as she said--which, he begged her pardon, but he didn't believe--it was done for the landlords' own purposes, either to buy off public opinion, or just for show and aggrandisement. people who had prize pigs and prize cattle must have prize cottages of course--"with a race of slaves inside 'em!" marcella, bright-eyed, erect, her thin right hand hanging over her knee, went avengingly into facts--the difference between landlords' villages and "open" villages; the agrarian experiments made by different great landlords; the advantage to the community, even from the socialist point of view of a system which had preserved the land in great blocks, for the ultimate use of the state, as compared with a system like the french, which had for ever made socialism impossible. hallin's astonishment almost swept away his weariness. "where in the world did she get it all from, and is she standing on her head or am i?" after an animated little debate, in which bennett and the two workmen joined, while wilkins sat for the most part in moody, contemptuous silence, and marcella, her obstinacy roused, carried through her defence of the landlords with all a woman's love of emphasis and paradox, everybody rose simultaneously to say good-night. "you ought to come and lead a debate down at our limehouse club," said bennett pleasantly to marcella, as she held out her hand to him; "you'd take a lot of beating." "yet i'm a venturist, you know," she said, laughing; "i _am_." he shook his head, laughed too, and departed. when the four had gone, marcella turned upon hallin. "are there many of these labour members like _that_?" her tone was still vibrating and sarcastic. "he's not much of a talker, our nehemiah," said hallin, smiling; "but he has the most extraordinary power as a speaker over a large popular audience that i have ever seen. the man's honesty is amazing,--it's his tempers and his jealousies get in his way. you astonished him; but, for the matter of that, you astonished frank and me still more!" and as he fell back into his chair, marcella caught a flash of expression, a tone that somehow put her on her defence. "i was not going to listen to such unjust stuff without a word. politics is one thing--slanderous abuse is another!" she said, throwing back her head with a gesture which instantly brought back to hallin the scene in the mellor drawing-room, when she had denounced the game-laws and wharton had scored his first point. he was silent, feeling a certain inner exasperation with women and their ways. "'she only did it to annoy,'" cried frank leven; "'because she knows it teases.' _we_ know very well what she thinks of us. but where did you get it all from, miss boyce? i just wish you'd tell me. there's a horrid radical in the house i'm always having rows with--and upon my word i didn't know there was half so much to be said for us!" marcella flushed. "never mind where i got it!" she said. in reality, of course, it was from those agricultural reports she had worked through the year before under wharton's teaching, with so much angry zest, and to such different purpose. * * * * * when the door closed upon her and upon frank leven, who was to escort her home, hallin walked quickly over to the table, and stood looking for a moment in a sort of bitter reverie at raeburn's photograph. his sister followed him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. "do go to bed, edward! i am afraid that talk has tired you dreadfully." "it would be no good going to bed, dear," he said, with a sigh of exhaustion. "i will sit and read a bit, and see if i can get myself into sleeping trim. but you go, alice--good-night." when she had gone he threw himself into his chair again with the thought--"she must contradict here as she contradicted there! _she_--and justice! if she could have been just to a landlord for one hour last year--" he spent himself for a while in endless chains of recollection, oppressed by the clearness of his own brain, and thirsting for sleep. then from the affairs of raeburn and marcella, he passed with a fresh sense of strain and effort to his own. that discussion with those four men which had filled the first part of the evening weighed upon him in his weakness of nerve, so that suddenly in the phantom silence of the night, all life became an oppression and a terror, and rest, either to-night or in the future, a thing never to be his. he had come to the moment of difficulty, of tragedy, in a career which so far, in spite of all drawbacks of physical health and cramped activities, had been one of singular happiness and success. ever since he had discovered his own gifts as a lecturer to working men, content, cheerfulness, nay, a passionate interest in every hour, had been quite compatible for him with all the permanent limitations of his lot. the study of economical and historical questions; the expression through them of such a hunger for the building of a "city of god" among men, as few are capable of; the evidence not to be ignored even by his modesty, and perpetually forthcoming over a long period of time, that he had the power to be loved, the power to lead, among those toilers of the world on whom all his thoughts centred--these things had been his joy, and had led him easily through much self-denial to the careful husbanding of every hour of strength and time in the service of his ideal end. and now he had come upon opposition--the first cooling of friendships, the first distrust of friends that he had ever known. early in the spring of this year a book called _to-morrow and the land_ had appeared in london, written by a young london economist of great ability, and dealing with the nationalisation of the land. it did not offer much discussion of the general question, but it took up the question as it affected england specially and london in particular. it showed--or tried to show--in picturesque detail what might be the consequences for english rural or municipal life of throwing all land into a common or national stock, of expropriating the landlords, and transferring all rent to the people, to the effacement of taxation and the indefinite enrichment of the common lot. the book differed from _progress and poverty_, which also powerfully and directly affected the english working class, in that it suggested a financial scheme, of great apparent simplicity and ingenuity, for the compensation of the landlords; it was shorter, and more easily to be grasped by the average working man; and it was written in a singularly crisp and taking style, and--by the help of a number of telling illustrations borrowed directly from the circumstances of the larger english towns, especially of london--treated with abundant humour. the thing had an enormous success--in popular phrase, "caught on." soon hallin found, that all the more active and intelligent spirits in the working-class centres where he was in vogue as a lecturer were touched--nay, possessed--by it. the crowd of more or less socialistic newspapers which had lately sprung up in london were full of it; the working men's clubs rang with it. it seemed to him a madness--an infection; and it spread like one. the book had soon reached an immense sale, and was in every one's hands. to hallin, a popular teacher, interested above all in the mingled problems of ethics and economics, such an incident was naturally of extreme importance. but he was himself opposed by deepest conviction, intellectual and moral, to the book and its conclusions. the more its success grew, the more eager and passionate became his own desire to battle with it. his platform, of course, was secured to him; his openings many. hundreds and thousands of men all over england were keen to know what he had to say about the new phenomenon. and he had been saying his say--throwing into it all his energies, all his finest work. with the result that--for the first time in eleven years--he felt his position in the working-class movement giving beneath his feet, and his influence beginning to drop from his hand. coldness in place of enthusiasm; critical aloofness in place of affection; readiness to forget and omit him in matters where he had always hitherto belonged to the inner circle and the trusted few--these bitter ghosts, with their hard, unfamiliar looks, had risen of late in his world of idealist effort and joy, and had brought with them darkness and chill. he could not give way, for he had a singular unity of soul--it had been the source of his power--and every economical or social conviction was in some way bound up with the moral and religious passion which was his being--his inmost nature. and his sensitive state of nerve and brain, his anchorite's way of life, did not allow him the distractions of other men. the spread of these and other similar ideas seemed to him a question of the future of england; and he had already begun to throw himself into the unequal struggle with a martyr's tenacity, and with some prescience of the martyr's fate. even bennett! as he sat there alone in the dim lamp-light, his head bent over his knees, his hands hanging loosely before him, he thought bitterly of the defection of that old friend who had stood by him through so many lesser contests. it was _impossible_ that bennett should think the schemes of that book feasible! yet he was one of the honestest of men, and, within a certain range, one of the most clear-headed. as for the others, they had been all against him. intellectually, their opinion did not matter to him; but morally it was so strange to him to find himself on the side of doubt and dissent, while all his friends were talking language which was almost the language of a new faith! he had various lecturing engagements ahead, connected with this great debate which was now surging throughout the labour world of london. he had accepted them with eagerness; in these weary night hours he looked forward to them with terror, seeing before him perpetually thousands of hostile faces, living in a nightmare of lost sympathies and broken friendships. oh, for _sleep_--for the power to rest--to escape this corrosion of an ever active thought, which settled and reconciled nothing! "_the tragedy of life lies in the conflict between the creative will of man and the hidden wisdom of the world, which seems to thwart it_." these words, written by one whose thought had penetrated deep into his own, rang in his ears as he sat brooding there. not the hidden fate, or the hidden evil, but the hidden _wisdom_. could one die and still believe it? yet what else was the task of faith? chapter vi. "so i understand you wish me to go down at once?" said louis craven. "this is friday--say monday?" wharton nodded. he and craven were sitting in marcella's little sitting-room. their hostess and edith craven had escaped through the door in the back kitchen communicating with the hurds' tenement, so that the two men might be left alone a while. the interview between them had gone smoothly, and louis craven had accepted immediate employment on the _labour clarion_, as the paper's correspondent in the midlands, with special reference to the important strike just pending. wharton, whose tendency in matters of business was always to go rather further than he had meant to go, for the sake generally of making an impression on the man with whom he was dealing, had spoken of a two years' engagement, and had offered two hundred a year. so far as that went, craven was abundantly satisfied. "and i understand from you," he said, "that the paper _goes in_ for the strike, that you will fight it through?" he fixed his penetrating greenish eyes on his companion. louis craven was now a tall man with narrow shoulders, a fine oval head and face, delicate features, and a nervous look of short sight, producing in appearance and manner a general impression of thin grace and of a courtesy which was apt to pass unaccountably into sarcasm. wharton had never felt himself personally at ease with him, either now, or in the old days of venturist debates. "certainly, we shall fight it through," wharton replied, with emphasis--"i have gone through the secretary's statement, which i now hand over to you, and i never saw a clearer case. the poor wretches have been skinned too long; it is high time the public backed them up. there are two of the masters in the house. denny, i should say, belonged quite to the worst type of employer going." he spoke with light venom, buttoning his coat as he spoke with the air of the busy public man who must not linger over an appointment. "oh! denny!" said craven, musing; "yes, denny is a hard man, but a just one according to his lights. there are plenty worse than he." wharton was disagreeably reminded of the venturist habit of never accepting anything that was said quite as it stood--of not, even in small things, "swearing to the words" of anybody. he was conscious of the quick passing feeling that his judgment, with regard to denny, ought to have been enough for craven. "one thing more," said craven suddenly, as wharton looked for his stick--"you see there is talk of arbitration." "oh yes, i know!" said wharton impatiently; "a mere blind. the men have been done by it twice before. they get some big-wig from the neighbourhood--not in the trade, indeed, but next door to it--and, of course, the award goes against the men." "then the paper will not back arbitration?" craven took out a note-book. "no!--the quarrel itself is as plain as a pikestaff. the men are asking for a mere pittance, and must get it if they are to live. it's like all these home industries, abominably ground down. we must go for them! i mean to go for them hot and strong. poor devils! did you read the evidence in that bluebook last year? arbitration? no, indeed! let them live first!" craven looked up absently. "and i think," he said, "you gave me mr. thorpe's address?" mr. thorpe was the secretary. again wharton gulped down his annoyance. if he chose to be expansive, it was not for craven to take no notice. craven, however, except in print, where he could be as vehement as anybody else, never spoke but in the driest way of those workman's grievances, which in reality burnt at the man's heart. a deep disdain for what had always seemed to him the cheapest form of self-advertisement, held him back. it was this dryness, combined with an amazing disinterestedness, which had so far stood in his way. wharton repeated the address, following it up by some rather curt directions as to the length and date of articles, to which craven gave the minutest attention. "may we come in?" said marcella's voice. "by all means," said wharton, with a complete change of tone. "business is up and i am off!" he took up his hat as he spoke. "not at all! tea is just coming, without which no guest departs," said marcella, taking as she spoke a little tray from the red-haired daisy who followed her, and motioning to the child to bring the tea-table. wharton looked at her irresolute. he had spent half an hour with her _tête-à-tête_ before louis craven arrived, and he was really due at the house. but now that she was on the scene again, he did not find it so easy to go away. how astonishingly beautiful she was, even in this disguise! she wore her nurse's dress; for her second daily round began at half-past four, and her cloak, bonnet, and bag were lying ready on a chair beside her. the dress was plain brown holland, with collar and armlets of white linen; but, to wharton's eye, the dark italian head, and the long slenderness of form had never shown more finely. he hesitated and stayed. "all well?" said marcella, in a half whisper, as she passed louis craven on her way to get some cake. he nodded and smiled, and she went back to the tea-table with an eye all gaiety, pleased with herself and everybody else. the quarter of an hour that followed went agreeably enough. wharton sat among the little group, far too clever to patronise a cat, let alone a venturist, but none the less master and conscious master of the occasion, because it suited him to take the airs of equality. craven said little, but as he lounged in marcella's long cane chair with his arms behind his head, his serene and hazy air showed him contented; and marcella talked and laughed with the animation that belongs to one whose plots for improving the universe have at least temporarily succeeded. or did it betray, perhaps, a woman's secret consciousness of some presence beside her, more troubling and magnetic to her than others? "well then, friday," said wharton at last, when his time was more than spent.--"you must be there early, for there will be a crush. miss craven comes too? excellent! i will tell the doorkeeper to look out for you. good-bye!--good-bye!" and with a hasty shake of the hand to the cravens, and one more keen glance, first at marcella and then round the little workman's room in which they had been sitting, he went. he had hardly departed before anthony craven, the lame elder brother, who must have passed him on the stairs, appeared. "well--any news?" he said, as marcella found him a chair. "all right!" said louis, whose manner had entirely changed since wharton had left the room. "i am to go down on monday to report the damesley strike that is to be. a month's trial, and then a salary--two hundred a year. oh! it'll do." he fidgeted and looked away from his brother, as though trying to hide his pleasure. but in spite of him it transformed every line of the pinched and worn face. "and you and anna will walk to the registry office next week?" said anthony, sourly, as he took his tea. "it can't be next week," said edith craven's quiet voice, interposing. "anna's got to work out her shirt-making time. she only left the tailoresses and began this new business ten days ago. and she was to have a month at each." marcella's lifted eyebrows asked for explanations. she had not yet seen louis's betrothed, but she was understood to be a character, and a better authority on many labour questions than he. louis explained that anna was exploring various sweated trades for the benefit of an east end newspaper. she had earned fourteen shillings her last week at tailoring, but the feat had exhausted her so much that he had been obliged to insist on two or three days respite before moving on to shirts. shirts were now brisk, and the hours appallingly long in this heat. "it was on shirts they made acquaintance," said edith pensively. "louis was lodging on the second floor, she in the third floor back, and they used to pass on the stairs. one day she heard him imploring the little slavey to put some buttons on his shirts. the slavey tossed her head, and said she'd see about it. when he'd gone out, anna came downstairs, calmly demanded his shirts, and, having the slavey under her thumb, got them, walked off with them, and mended them all. when louis came home he discovered a neat heap reposing on his table. of course he wept--whatever he may say. but next morning miss anna found her shoes outside her door, blacked as they had never been blacked before, with a note inside one of them. affecting! wasn't it? thenceforward, as long as they remained in those lodgings, anna mended and louis blacked. naturally, anthony and i drew our conclusions." marcella laughed. "you must bring her to see me," she said to louis. "i will," said louis, with some perplexity; "if i can get hold of her. but when she isn't stitching she's writing, or trying to set up unions. she does the work of six. she'll earn nearly as much as i do when we're married. oh! we shall swim!" anthony surveyed his radiant aspect--so unlike the gentle or satirical detachment which made his ordinary manner--with a darkening eye, as though annoyed by his effusion. "two hundred a year?" he said slowly; "about what mr. harry wharton spends on his clothes, i should think. the labour men tell me he is superb in that line. and for the same sum that he spends on his clothes, he is able to buy _you_, louis, body and soul, and you seem inclined to be grateful." "never mind," said louis recklessly. "he didn't buy some one else--and i _am_ grateful!" "no; by heaven, you shan't be!" said anthony, with a fierce change of tone. "_you_ the dependent of that charlatan! i don't know how i'm to put up with it. you know very well what i think of him, and of your becoming dependent on him." marcella gave an angry start. louis protested. "nonsense!" said anthony doggedly; "you'll have to bear it from me, i tell you--unless you muzzle me too with an anna." "but i don't see why _i_ should bear it," said marcella, turning upon him. "i think you know that i owe mr. wharton a debt. please remember it!" anthony looked at her an instant in silence. a question crossed his mind concerning her. then he made her a little clumsy bow. "i am dumb," he said. "my manners, you perceive, are what they always were." "what do you mean by such a remark," cried marcella, fuming. "how can a man who has reached the position he has in so short a time--in so many different worlds--be disposed of by calling him an ugly name? it is more than unjust--it is absurd! besides, what can you know of him?" "you forget," said anthony, as he calmly helped himself to more bread and butter, "that it is some three years since master harry wharton joined the venturists and began to be heard of at all. i watched his beginnings, and if i didn't know him well, my friends and louis's did. and most of them--as he knows!--have pretty strong opinions by now about the man." "come, come, anthony!" said louis, "nobody expects a man of that type to be the pure-eyed patriot. but neither you nor i can deny that he has done some good service. am i asked to take him to my bosom? not at all! he proposes a job to me, and offers to pay me. i like the job, and mean to use him and his paper, both to earn some money that i want, and do a bit of decent work." "_you_--use harry wharton!" said the cripple, with a sarcasm that brought the colour to louis's thin cheek and made marcella angrier than before. she saw nothing in his attack on wharton, except personal prejudice and ill-will. it was natural enough, that a man of anthony craven's type--poor, unsuccessful, and embittered--should dislike a popular victorious personality. "suppose we leave mr. wharton alone?" she said with emphasis, and anthony, making her a little proud gesture of submission, threw himself back in his chair, and was silent. it had soon become evident to marcella, upon the renewal of her friendship with the cravens, that anthony's temper towards all men, especially towards social reformers and politicians, had developed into a mere impotent bitterness. while louis had renounced his art, and devoted himself to journalism, unpaid public work and starvation, that he might so throw himself the more directly into the socialist battle, anthony had remained an artist, mainly employed as before in decorative design. yet he was probably the more fierce venturist and anticapitalist of the two. only what with louis was an intoxication of hope, was on the whole with anthony a counsel of despair. he loathed wealth more passionately than ever; but he believed less in the working man, less in his kind. rich men must cease to exist; but the world on any terms would probably remain a sorry spot. in the few talks that he had had with marcella since she left the hospital, she had allowed him to gather more or less clearly--though with hardly a mention of aldous raeburn's name--what had happened to her at mellor. anthony craven thought out the story for himself, finding it a fit food for a caustic temper. poor devil--the lover! to fall a victim to enthusiasms so raw, so unprofitable from any point of view, was hard. and as to this move to london, he thought he foresaw the certain end of it. at any rate he believed in her no more than before. but her beauty was more marked than ever, and would, of course, be the dominant factor in her fate. he was thankful, at any rate, that louis in this two years' interval had finally transferred his heart elsewhere. after watching his three companions for a while, he broke in upon their chat with an abrupt-- "what _is_ this job, louis?" "i told you. i am to investigate, report, and back up the damesley strike, or rather the strike that begins at damesley next week." "no chance!" said anthony shortly, "the masters are too strong. i had a talk with denny yesterday." the denny he meant, however, was not wharton's colleague in the house, but his son--a young man who, beginning life as the heir of one of the most stiff-backed and autocratic of capitalists, had developed socialist opinions, renounced his father's allowance, and was now a member of the "intellectual proletariat," as they have been called, the free-lances of the collectivist movement. he had lately joined the venturists. anthony had taken a fancy to him. louis as yet knew little or nothing of him. "ah, well!" he said, in reply to his brother, "i don't know. i think the _clarion can_ do something. the press grows more and more powerful in these things." and he repeated some of the statements that wharton had made--that wharton always did make, in talking of the _clarion_--as to its growth under his hands, and increasing influence in labour disputes. "bunkum!" interrupted anthony drily; "pure bunkum! my own belief is that the _clarion_ is a rotten property, and that he knows it!" at this both marcella and louis laughed out. extravagance after a certain point becomes amusing. they dropped their vexation, and anthony for the next ten minutes had to submit to the part of the fractious person whom one humours but does not argue with. he accepted the part, saying little, his eager, feverish eyes, full of hostility, glancing from one to the other. however, at the end, marcella bade him a perfectly friendly farewell. it was always in her mind that anthony craven was lame and solitary, and her pity no less than her respect for him had long since yielded him the right to be rude. "how are you getting on?" he said to her abruptly as he dropped her hand. "oh, very well! my superintendent leaves me almost alone now, which is a compliment. there is a parish doctor who calls me 'my good woman,' and a sanitary inspector who tells me to go to him whenever i want advice. those are my chief grievances, i think." "and you are as much in love with the poor as ever?" she stiffened at the note of sarcasm, and a retaliatory impulse made her say:-- "i see a great deal more happiness than i expected." he laughed. "how like a woman! a few ill-housed villagers made you a democrat. a few well-paid london artisans will carry you safely back to your class. your people were wise to let you take this work." "do you suppose i nurse none but well-paid artisans?" she asked him, mocking. "and i didn't say 'money' or 'comfort,' did i? but 'happiness.' as for my 'democracy,' you are not perhaps the best judge." she stood resting both hands on a little table behind her, in an attitude touched with the wild freedom which best became her, a gleam of storm in her great eyes. "why are you still a venturist?" he asked her abruptly. "because i have every right to be! i joined a society, pledged to work 'for a better future.' according to my lights, i do what poor work i can in that spirit." "_you_ are not a socialist. half the things you say, or imply, show it. and we _are_ socialists." she hesitated, looking at him steadily. "no!--so far as socialism means a political system--the trampling out of private enterprise and competition, and all the rest of it--i find myself slipping away from it more and more. no!--as i go about among these wage-earners, the emphasis--do what i will--comes to lie less and less on possession--more and more on character. i go to two tenements in the same building. one is hell--the other heaven. why? both belong to well-paid artisans with equal opportunities. both, so far as i can see, might have a decent and pleasant life of it. but one is a man--the other, with all his belongings, will soon be a vagabond. that is not all, i know--oh! don't trouble to tell me so!--but it is more than i thought. no!--my sympathies in this district where i work are not so much with the socialists that i know here--saving your presence! but--with the people, for instance, that slave at charity organisation! and get all the abuse from all sides." anthony laughed scornfully. "it is always the way with a woman," he said; "she invariably prefers the tinkers to the reformers." "and as to your socialism," she went on, unheeding, the thought of many days finding defiant expression--"it seems to me like all other interesting and important things--destined to help something else! christianity begins with the poor and division of goods--it becomes the great bulwark of property and the feudal state. the crusades--they set out to recover the tomb of the lord!--what they did was to increase trade and knowledge. and so with socialism. it talks of a new order--what it _will_ do is to help to make the old sound!" anthony clapped her ironically. "excellent! when the liberty and property defence people have got hold of you--ask me to come and hear!" meanwhile, louis stood behind, with his hands on his sides, a smile in his blinking eyes. he really had a contempt for what a handsome half-taught girl of twenty-three might think. anthony only pretended or desired to have it. nevertheless, louis said good-bye to his hostess with real, and, for him, rare effusion. two years before, for the space of some months, he had been in love with her. that she had never responded with anything warmer than liking and comradeship he knew; and his anna now possessed him wholly. but there was a deep and gentle chivalry at the bottom of all his stern social faiths; and the woman towards whom he had once felt as he had towards marcella boyce could never lose the glamour lent her by that moment of passionate youth. and now, so kindly, so eagerly!--she had given him his anna. when they were all gone marcella threw herself into her chair a moment to think. her wrath with anthony was soon dismissed. but louis's thanks had filled her with delicious pleasure. her cheek, her eye had a child's brightness. the old passion for ruling and influencing was all alive and happy. "i will see it is all right," she was saying to herself. "i will look after them." what she meant was, "i will see that mr. wharton looks after them!" and through the link of thought, memory flew quickly back to that _tête-à-tête_ with him which had preceded the cravens' arrival. how changed he was, yet how much the same! he had not sat beside her for ten minutes before each was once more vividly, specially conscious of the other. she felt in him the old life and daring, the old imperious claim to confidence, to intimacy--on the other hand a new atmosphere, a new gravity, which suggested growing responsibilities, the difficulties of power, a great position--everything fitted to touch such an imagination as marcella's, which, whatever its faults, was noble, both in quality and range. the brow beneath the bright chestnut curls had gained lines that pleased her--lines that a woman marks, because she thinks they mean experience an i mastery. altogether, to have met him again was pleasure; to think of him was pleasure; to look forward to hearing him speak in parliament was pleasure; so too was his new connection with her old friends. and a pleasure which took nothing from self-respect; which was open, honourable, eager. as for that ugly folly of the past, she frowned at the thought of it, only to thrust the remembrance passionately away. that _he_ should remember or allude to it, would put an end to friendship. otherwise friends they would and should be; and the personal interest in his public career should lift her out of the cramping influences that flow from the perpetual commerce of poverty and suffering. why not? such equal friendships between men and women grow more possible every day. while, as for hallin's distrust, and anthony craven's jealous hostility, why should a third person be bound by either of them? could any one suppose that such a temperament as wharton's would be congenial to hallin or to craven--or--to yet another person, of whom she did not want to think? besides, who wished to make a hero of him? it was the very complexity and puzzle of the character that made its force. * * * * * so with a reddened cheek, she lost herself a few minutes in this pleasant sense of a new wealth in life; and was only roused from the dreamy running to and fro of thought by the appearance of minta, who came to clear away the tea. "why, it is close on the half-hour!" cried marcella, springing up. "where are my things?" she looked down the notes of her cases, satisfied herself that her bag contained all she wanted, and then hastily tied on her bonnet and cloak. suddenly--the room was empty, for minta had just gone away with the tea--by a kind of subtle reaction, the face in that photograph on hallin's table flashed into her mind--its look--the grizzled hair. with an uncontrollable pang of pain she dropped her hands from the fastenings of her cloak, and wrung them together in front of her--a dumb gesture of contrition and of grief. she!--she talk of social reform and "character," she give her opinion, as of right, on points of speculation and of ethics, she, whose main achievement so far had been to make a good man suffer! something belittling and withering swept over all her estimate of herself, all her pleasant self-conceit. quietly, with downcast eyes, she went her way. chapter vii. her first case was in brown's buildings itself--a woman suffering from bronchitis and heart complaint, and tormented besides by an ulcerated foot which marcella had now dressed daily for some weeks. she lived on the top floor of one of the easterly blocks, with two daughters and a son of eighteen. when marcella entered the little room it was as usual spotlessly clean and smelt of flowers. the windows were open, and a young woman was busy shirt-ironing on a table in the centre of the room. both she and her mother looked up with smiles as marcella entered. then, they introduced her with some ceremony to a "lady," who was sitting beside the patient, a long-faced melancholy woman employed at the moment in marking linen handkerchiefs, which she did with extraordinary fineness and delicacy. the patient and her daughter spoke of marcella to their friend as "the young person," but all with a natural courtesy and charm that could not have been surpassed. marcella knelt to undo the wrappings of the foot. the woman, a pale transparent creature, winced painfully as the dressing was drawn off; but between each half stifled moan of pain she said something eager and grateful to her nurse. "i never knew any one, nurse, do it as gentle as you--" or--"i _do_ take it kind of you, nurse, to do it so _slow_--oh! there were a young person before you--" or "hasn't she got nice hands, mrs. burton? they don't never seem to _jar_ yer." "poor foot! but i think it is looking better," said marcella, getting up at last from her work, when all was clean and comfortable and she had replaced the foot on the upturned wooden box that supported it--for its owner was not in bed, but sitting propped up in an old armchair. "and how is your cough, mrs. jervis?" "oh! it's very bad, nights," said mrs. jervis, mildly--"disturbs emily dreadful. but i always pray every night, when she lifts me into bed, as i may be took before the morning, an' god ull do it soon." "mother!" cried emily, pausing in her ironing, "you know you oughtn't to say them things." mrs. jervis looked at her with a sly cheerfulness. her emaciated face was paler than usual because of the pain of the dressing, but from the frail form there breathed an indomitable air of _life_, a gay courage indeed which had already struck marcella with wonder. "well, yer not to take 'em to heart, em'ly. it ull be when it will be--for the lord likes us to pray, but he'll take his own time--an' she's got troubles enough of her own, nurse. d'yer see as she's leff off her ring?" marcella looked at emily's left hand, while the girl flushed all over, and ironed with a more fiery energy than before. "i've 'eerd such things of 'im, nurse, this last two days," she said with low vehemence--"as i'm _never_ goin' to wear it again. it 'ud burn me!" emily was past twenty. some eighteen months before this date she had married a young painter. after nearly a year of incredible misery her baby was born. it died, and she very nearly died also, owing to the brutal ill-treatment of her husband. as soon as she could get on her feet again, she tottered home to her widowed mother, broken for the time in mind and body, and filled with loathing of her tyrant. he made no effort to recover her, and her family set to work to mend if they could what he had done. the younger sister of fourteen was earning seven shillings a week at paper-bag making; the brother, a lad of eighteen, had been apprenticed by his mother, at the cost of heroic efforts some six years before, to the leather-currying trade, in a highly skilled branch of it, and was now taking sixteen shillings a week with the prospect of far better things in the future. he at once put aside from his earnings enough to teach emily "the shirt-ironing," denying himself every indulgence till her training was over. then they had their reward. emily's colour and spirits came back; her earnings made all the difference to the family between penury and ease; while she and her little sister kept the three tiny rooms in which they lived, and waited on their invalid mother, with exquisite cleanliness and care. marcella stood by the ironing-table a moment after the girl's speech. "poor emily!" she said softly, laying her hand on the ringless one that held down the shirt on the board. emily looked up at her in silence. but the girl's eyes glowed with things unsaid and inexpressible--the "eternal passion, eternal pain," which in half the human race have no voice. "he was a very rough man was em'ly's husband," said mrs. jervis, in her delicate thoughtful voice--"a very uncultivated man." marcella turned round to her, startled and amused by the adjective. but the other two listeners took it quite quietly. it seemed to them apparently to express what had to be said. "it's a sad thing is want of edication," mrs. jervis went on in the same tone. "now there's that lady there"--with a little courtly wave of her hand towards mrs. burton--"she can't read yer know, nurse, and i'm that sorry for her! but i've been reading to her, an' emily--just while my cough's quiet--one of my ole tracks." she held up a little paper-covered tract worn with use. it was called "a pennorth of grace, or a pound of works?" marcella looked at it in respectful silence as she put on her cloak. such things were not in her line. "i do _love_ a track!" said mrs. jervis, pensively. "that's why i don't like these buildings so well as them others, em'ly. here you never get no tracks; and there, what with one person and another, there was a new one most weeks. but"--her voice dropped, and she looked timidly first at her friend, and then at marcella--"she isn't a christian, nurse. isn't it sad?" mrs. burton, a woman of a rich mahogany complexion, with a black "front," and a mouth which turned down decisively at the corners, looked up from her embroidery with severe composure. "no, nurse, i'm not a christian," she said in the tone of one stating a disagreeable fact for which they are noways responsible. "my brother is--and my sisters--real good christian people. one of my sisters married a gentleman up in wales. she 'as two servants, an' fam'ly prayers reg'lar. but i've never felt no 'call,' and i tell 'em i can't purtend. an' mrs. jervis here, she don't seem to make me see it no different." she held her head erect, however, as though the unusually high sense of probity involved, was, after all, some consolation. mrs. jervis looked at her with pathetic eyes. but emily coloured hotly. emily was a churchwoman. "of course you're a christian, mrs. burton," she said indignantly. "what she means, nurse, is she isn't a 'member' of any chapel, like mother. but she's been baptised and confirmed, for i asked her. and of course she's a christian." "em'ly!" said mrs. jervis, with energy. emily looked round trembling. the delicate invalid was sitting bolt upright, her eyes sparkling, a spot of red on either hollow cheek. the glances of the two women crossed; there seemed to be a mute struggle between them. then emily laid down her iron, stepped quickly across to her mother, and kneeling beside her, threw her arms around her. "have it your own way, mother," she said, while her lip quivered; "i wasn't a-goin' to cross you." mrs. jervis laid her waxen cheek against her daughter's tangle of brown hair with a faint smile, while her breathing, which had grown quick and panting, gradually subsided. emily looked up at marcella with a terrified self-reproach. they all knew that any sudden excitement might kill out the struggling flame of life. "you ought to rest a little, mrs. jervis," said marcella, with gentle authority. "you know the dressing must tire you, though you won't confess it. let me put you comfortable. there; aren't the pillows easier so? now rest--and good-bye." but mrs. jervis held her, while emily slipped away. "i shall rest soon," she said significantly. "an' it hurts me when emily talks like that. it's the only thing that ever comes atween us. she thinks o' forms an' ceremonies; an' _i_ think o' _grace_." her old woman's eyes, so clear and vivid under the blanched brow, searched marcella's face for sympathy. but marcella stood, shy and wondering in the presence of words and emotions she understood so little. so narrow a life, in these poor rooms, under these crippling conditions of disease!--and all this preoccupation with, this passion over, the things not of the flesh, the thwarted, cabined flesh, but of the spirit--wonderful! * * * * * on coming out from brown's buildings, she turned her steps reluctantly towards a street some distance from her own immediate neighbourhood, where she had a visit to pay which filled her with repulsion and an unusual sense of helplessness. a clergyman who often availed himself of the help of the st. martin's nurses had asked the superintendent to undertake for him "a difficult case." would one of their nurses go regularly to visit a certain house, ostensibly for the sake of a little boy of five just come back from the hospital, who required care at home for a while, _really_ for the sake of his young mother, who had suddenly developed drinking habits and was on the road to ruin? marcella happened to be in the office when the letter arrived. she somewhat unwillingly accepted the task, and she had now paid two or three visits, always dressing the child's sore leg, and endeavouring to make acquaintance with the mother. but in this last attempt she had not had much success. mrs. vincent was young and pretty, with a flighty, restless manner. she was always perfectly civil to marcella, and grateful to her apparently for the ease she gave the boy. but she offered no confidences; the rooms she and her husband occupied showed them to be well-to-do; marcella had so far found them well-kept; and though the evil she was sent to investigate was said to be notorious, she had as yet discovered nothing of it for herself. it seemed to her that she must be either stupid, or that there must be something about her which made mrs. vincent more secretive with her than with others; and neither alternative pleased her. to-day, however, as she stopped at the vincents' door, she noticed that the doorstep, which was as a rule shining white, was muddy and neglected. then nobody came to open, though she knocked and rang repeatedly. at last a neighbour, who had been watching the strange nurse through her own parlour window, came out to the street. "i think, miss," she said, with an air of polite mystery, "as you'd better walk in. mrs. vincent 'asn't been enjyin' very good 'ealth this last few days." marcella turned the handle, found it yielded, and went in. it was after six o'clock, and the evening sun streamed in through a door at the back of the house. but in the vincents' front parlour the blinds were all pulled down, and the only sound to be heard was the fretful wailing of a child. marcella timidly opened the sitting-room door. the room at first seemed to her dark. then she perceived mrs. vincent sitting by the grate, and the two children on the floor beside her. the elder, the little invalid, was simply staring at his mother in a wretched silence; but the younger, the baby of three, was restlessly throwing himself hither and thither, now pulling at the woman's skirts, now crying lustily, now whining in a hungry voice, for "máma! din-din! máma! din-din!" mrs. vincent neither moved nor spoke, even when marcella came in. she sat with her hands hanging over her lap in a desolation incapable of words. she was dirty and unkempt; the room was covered with litter; the breakfast things were still on the table; and the children were evidently starving. marcella, seized with pity, and divining what had happened, tried to rouse and comfort her. but she got no answer. then she asked for matches. mrs. vincent made a mechanical effort to find them, but subsided helpless with a shake of the head. at last marcella found them herself, lit a tire of some sticks she discovered in a cupboard, and put on the kettle. then she cut a slice of bread and dripping for each of the children--the only eatables she could find--and after she had dressed bertie's leg she began to wash up the tea things and tidy the room, not knowing very well what to be at, but hoping minute by minute to get mrs. vincent to speak to her. in the midst of her labours, an elderly woman cautiously opened the door and beckoned to her. marcella went out into the passage. "i'm her mother, miss! i 'eered you were 'ere, an' i follered yer. oh! such a business as we 'ad, 'er 'usband an' me, a gettin' of 'er 'ome last night. there's a neighbour come to me, an' she says: 'mrs. lucas, there's your daughter a drinkin' in that public 'ouse, an' if i was you i'd go and fetch her out; for she's got a lot o' money, an' she's treatin' everybody all round.' an' charlie--that's 'er 'usband--ee come along too, an' between us we got holt on her. an' iver sence we brought her 'ome last night, she set there in that cheer, an' niver a word to nobody! not to me 't any rate, nor the chillen. i believe 'er 'usband an' 'er 'ad words this mornin'. but she won't tell me nothin'. she sits there--just heart-broke"--the woman put up her apron to her eyes and began crying. "she ain't eatin' nothink all day, an' i dursen't leave the 'ouse out o' me sight--i lives close by, miss--for fear of 'er doing 'erself a mischief." "how long has she been like this?" said marcella, drawing the door cautiously to behind her. "about fourteen month," said the woman, hopelessly. "an' none of us knows why. she was such a neat, pretty girl when she married 'im--an' ee such a steady fellow. an' i've done _my_ best. i've talked to 'er, an' i've 'id 'er 'at an' her walking things, an' taken 'er money out of 'er pockets. an', bless yer, she's been all right now for seven weeks--till last night. oh, deary, deary, me! whatever 'ull become o' them--'er, an' 'im, an' the children!" the tears coursed down the mother's wrinkled face. "leave her to me a little longer," said marcella, softly; "but come back to me in about half an hour, and don't let her be alone." the woman nodded, and went away. mrs. vincent turned quickly round as marcella came back again, and spoke for the first time: "that was my mother you were talkin' to?" "yes," said marcella, quietly, as she took the kettle off the fire. "now i do want you to have a cup of tea, mrs. vincent. will you, if i make it?" the poor creature did not speak, but she followed marcella's movements with her weary eyes. at last when marcella knelt down beside her holding out a cup of tea and some bread and butter, she gave a sudden cry. marcella hastily put down what she carried, lest it should be knocked out of her hand. "he struck me this morning!--charlie did--the first time in seven years. look here!" she pulled up her sleeve, and on her white, delicate arm she showed a large bruise. as she pointed to it her eyes filled with miserable tears; her lips quivered; anguish breathed in every feature. yet even in this abasement marcella was struck once more with her slim prettiness, her refined air. this woman drinking and treating in a low public-house at midnight!--rescued thence by a decent husband! she soothed her as best she could, but when she had succeeded in making the wretched soul take food, and so in putting some physical life into her, she found herself the recipient of an outburst of agony before which she quailed. the woman clung to her, moaning about her husband, about the demon instinct that had got hold of her, she hardly knew how--by means it seemed originally of a few weeks of low health and small self-indulgences--and she felt herself powerless to fight; about the wreck she had brought upon her home, the shame upon her husband, who was the respected, well-paid foreman of one of the large shops of the neighbourhood. all through it came back to him. "we had words, nurse, this morning, when he went out to his work. he said he'd nearly died of shame last night; that he couldn't bear it no more; that he'd take the children from me. and i was all queer in the head still, and i sauced him--and then--he looked like a devil--and he took me by the arm--and _threw_ me down--as if i'd been a sack. an' he never, _never,_--touched me--before--in all his life. an' he's never come in all day. an' perhaps i shan't ever see him again. an' last time--but it wasn't so bad as this--he said he'd try an' love me again if i'd behave. an' he did try--and i tried too. but now it's no good, an' perhaps he'll not come back. oh, what shall i do? what shall i do!" she flung her arms above her head. "won't _anybody_ find him? won't _anybody_ help me?" she dropped a hand upon marcella's arm, clutching it, her wild eyes seeking her companion's. but at the same moment, with the very extremity of her own emotion, a cloud of impotence fell upon marcella. she suddenly felt that she could do nothing--that there was nothing in her adequate to such an appeal--nothing strong enough to lift the weight of a human life thus flung upon her. she was struck with a dryness, a numbness, that appalled her. she tried still to soothe and comfort, but nothing that she said went home--took hold. between the feeling in her heart which might have reached and touched this despair, and the woman before her, there seemed to be a barrier she could not break. or was it that she was really barren and poor in soul, and had never realised it before? a strange misery rose in her too, as she still knelt, tending and consoling, but with no efficacy--no power. at last mrs. vincent sank into miserable quiet again. the mother came in, and silently began to put the children to bed. marcella pressed the wife's cold hand, and went out hanging her head. she had just reached the door when it opened, and a man entered. a thrill passed through her at the sight of his honest, haggard face, and this time she found what to say. "i have been sitting by your wife, mr. vincent. she is very ill and miserable, and very penitent. you will be kind to her?" the husband looked at her, and then turned away. "god help us!" he said; and marcella went without another word, and with that same wild, unaccustomed impulse of prayer rilling her being which had first stirred in her at mellor at the awful moment of hurd's death. * * * * * she was very silent and distracted at tea, and afterwards--saying that she must write some letters and reports--she shut herself up, and bade good-night to minta and the children. but she did not write or read. she hung at the window a long time, watching the stars come out, as the summer light died from the sky, and even the walls and roofs and chimneys of this interminable london spread out before her took a certain dim beauty. and then, slipping down on the floor, with her head against a chair--an attitude of her stormy childhood--she wept with an abandonment and a passion she had not known for years. she thought of mrs. jervis--the saint--so near to death, so satisfied with "grace," so steeped in the heavenly life; then of the poor sinner she had just left and of the agony she had no power to stay. both experiences had this in common--that each had had some part in plunging her deeper into this darkness of self-contempt. what had come to her? daring the past weeks there had been something wrestling in her--some new birth--some "conviction of sin," as mrs. jervis would have said. as she looked back over all her strenuous youth she hated it. what was wrong with her? her own word to anthony craven returned upon her, mocked her--made now a scourge for her own pride, not a mere, measure of blame for others. aldous raeburn, her father and mother, her poor--one and all rose against her--plucked at her--reproached her. "aye! what, indeed, are wealth and poverty?" cried a voice, which was the voice of them all; "what are opinions--what is influence, beauty, cleverness?--what is anything worth but _character_--but _soul?_" and character--soul--can only be got by self-surrender; and self-surrender comes not of knowledge but of love. a number of thoughts and phrases, hitherto of little meaning to her, floated into her mind--sank and pressed there. that strange word "grace" for instance! a year ago it would not have smitten or troubled her. after her first inevitable reaction against the evangelical training of her school years, the rebellious cleverness of youth had easily decided that religion was played out, that socialism and science were enough for mankind. but nobody could live in hospital--nobody could go among the poor--nobody could share the thoughts and hopes of people like edward hallin and his sister, without understanding that it is still here in the world--this "grace" that "sustaineth"--however variously interpreted, still living and working, as it worked of old, among the little galilean towns, in jerusalem, in corinth. to edward hallin it did not mean the same, perhaps, as it meant to the hard-worked clergymen she knew, or to mrs. jervis. but to all it meant the motive power of life--something subduing, transforming, delivering--something that to-night she envied with a passion and a yearning that amazed herself. how many things she craved, as an eager child craves them! first some moral change, she knew not what--then aldous raeburn's pardon and friendship--then and above all, the power to lose herself--the power to _love_. dangerous significant moment in a woman's life--moment at once of despair and of illusion! chapter viii. wharton was sitting in a secluded corner of the library of the house of commons. he had a number of loose sheets of paper on a chair beside him, and others in his hand and on his knee. it was friday afternoon; questions were going on in the house; and he was running rapidly for the last time through the notes of his speech, pencilling here and there, and every now and then taking up a volume of hansard that lay near that he might verify a quotation. an old county member, with a rugged face and eye-glasses, who had been in parliament for a generation, came to the same corner to look up a speech. he glanced curiously at wharton, with whom he had a familiar house-of-commons acquaintance. "nervous, eh?" he said, as he put on his eye-glasses to inspect first wharton, then the dates on the backs of the reports. wharton put his papers finally together, and gave a long stretch. "not particularly." "well, it's a beastly audience!" said the other, carrying off his book. wharton, lost apparently in contemplation of the ceiling, fell into a dreamy attitude. but his eye saw nothing of the ceiling, and was not at all dreamy. he was not thinking of his speech, nor of the other man's remark. he was thinking of marcella boyce. when he left her the other day he had been conscious, only more vividly and intensely, more possessively as it were, than she, of the same general impression that had been left upon her. a new opening for pleasure--their meeting presented itself to him, too, in the same way. what had he been about all this time? _forget_?--such a creature? why, it was the merest wantonness! as if such women--with such a brow, such vitality, such a gait--passed in every street! what possessed him now was an imperious eagerness to push the matter, to recover the old intimacy--and as to what might come out of it, let the gods decide! he could have had but a very raw appreciation of her at mellor. it seemed to him that she had never forced him to think of her then in absence, as he had thought of her since the last meeting. as for the nursing business, and the settlement in brown's buildings, it was, of course, mere play-acting. no doubt when she emerged she would be all the more of a personage for having done it. but she must emerge soon. to rule and shine was as much her _métier_ as it was the _métier_ of a bricklayer's labourer to carry hods. by george! what would not lady selina give for beauty of such degree and kind as that! they must be brought together. he already foresaw that the man who should launch marcella boyce in london would play a stroke for himself as well as for her. and she must be launched in london. let other people nurse, and pitch their tents in little workmen's flats, and _live_ democracy instead of preaching it. her fate was fixed for her by her physique. _il ne faut pas sortir de son caractère_. the sight of bennett approaching distracted him. bennett's good face showed obvious vexation. "he sticks to it," he said, as wharton jumped up to meet him. "talks of his conscience--and a lot of windy stuff. he seems to have arranged it with the whips. i dare say he won't do much harm." "except to himself," said wharton, with dry bitterness. "goodness! let's leave him alone!" he and bennett lingered a few minutes discussing points of tactics. wilkins had, of course, once more declared himself the _enfant terrible_ of a party which, though still undefined, was drawing nearer day by day to organised existence and separate leadership. the effect of to-night's debate might be of far-reaching importance. wharton's resolution, pledging the house to a legal eight hours' day for all trades, came at the end of a long and varied agitation, was at the moment in clear practical relation to labour movements all over the country, and had in fact gained greatly in significance and interest since it was first heard of in public, owing to events of current history. workable proposals--a moderate tone--and the appearance, at any rate, of harmony and a united front among the representatives of labour--if so much at least could be attained to-night, both wharton and bennett believed that not only the cause itself, but the importance of the labour party in the house would be found to have gained enormously. "i hope i shall get my turn before dinner," said bennett, as he was going; "i want badly to get off for an hour or so. the division won't be till half-past ten at earliest." wharton stood for a moment in a brown study, with his hands in his pockets, after bennett left him. it was by no means wholly clear to him what line bennett would take--with regard to one or two points. after a long acquaintance with the little man, wharton was not always, nor indeed generally, at his ease with him. bennett had curious reserves. as to his hour off, wharton felt tolerably certain that he meant to go and hear a famous revivalist preacher hold forth at a public hall not far from the house. the streets were full of placards. well!--to every man his own excitements! what time? he looked first at his watch, then at the marked question paper bennett had left behind him. the next minute he was hurrying along passages and stairs, with his springing, boyish step, to the ladies' gallery. the magnificent doorkeeper saluted him with particular deference. wharton was in general a favourite with officials. "the two ladies are come, sir. you'll find them in the front--oh! not very full yet, sir--will be directly." wharton drew aside the curtain of the gallery, and looked in. yes!--there was the dark head bent forward, pressed indeed against the grating which closes the front of the den into which the house of commons puts its ladies--as though its owner were already absorbed in what was passing before her. she looked up with an eager start, as she heard his voice in her ear. "oh! now, come and tell us everything--and who everybody is. why don't we see the speaker?--and which is the government side?--oh, yes, i see. and who's this speaking now?" "why, i thought you knew everything," said wharton as, with a greeting to miss craven, he slipped in beside them and took a still vacant chair for an instant. "how shall i instruct a speaker's great-niece?" "why, of course i feel as if the place belonged to me!" said marcella, impatiently; "but that somehow doesn't seem to help me to people's names. where's mr. gladstone? oh, i see. look, look, edith!--he's just come in!--oh, don't be so superior, though you _have_ been here before--you couldn't tell me heaps of people!" her voice had a note of joyous excitement like a child's. "that's because i'm short-sighted," said edith craven, calmly; "but it's no reason why you should show me mr. gladstone." "oh, my dear, my dear!--do be quiet! now, mr. wharton, where are the irishmen? oh! i wish we could have an irish row! and where do you sit?--i see--and there's mr. bennett--and that black-faced man, mr. wilkins, i met at the hallins--you don't like him, do you?" she said, drawing back and looking at him sharply. "who? wilkins? perhaps you'd better ask me that question later on!" said wharton, with a twist of the lip; "he's going to do his best to make a fool of himself and us to-night--we shall see! it's kind of you to wish us an irish row!--considering that if i miss my chance to-night i shall never get another!" "then for heaven's sake don't let's wish it!" she said decidedly. "oh, that's the irish secretary answering now, is it?"--a pause--"dear me, how civil everybody is. i don't think this is a good place for a democrat, mr. wharton--i find myself terribly in love with the government. but who's that?" she craned her neck. wharton was silent. the next instant she drew hurriedly back. "i didn't see," she murmured; "it's so confusing." a tall man had risen from the end of the government bench, and was giving an answer connected with the home secretary's department. for the first time since their parting in the mellor drawing-room marcella saw aldous raeburn. she fell very silent, and leant back in her chair. yet wharton's quick glance perceived that she both looked and listened intently, so long as the somewhat high-pitched voice was speaking. "he does those things very well," he said carelessly, judging it best to take the bull by the horns. "never a word too much--they don't get any change out of him. do you see that old fellow in the white beard under the gallery? he is one of the chartered bores. when he gets up to-night the house will dine. i shall come up and look for you, and hand you over to a friend if i may--a staffordshire member, who has his wife here--mrs. lane. i have engaged a table, and i can start with you. unfortunately i mustn't be long out of the house, as it's my motion; but they will look after you." the girls glanced a little shyly at each other. nothing had been said about dining; but wharton took it for granted; and they yielded. it was marcella's "day off," and she was a free woman. "good-bye, then," he said, getting up. "i shall be on in about twenty minutes. wish me well through!" marcella looked round and smiled. but her vivacity had been quenched for the moment; and wharton departed not quite so well heartened for the fray as he could have wished to be. it was hard luck that the raeburn ghost should walk this particular evening. marcella bent forward again when he had gone, and remained for long silent, looking down into the rapidly filling house. aldous raeburn was lying back on the treasury bench, his face upturned. she knew very well that it was impossible he should see her; yet every now and then she shrank a little away as though he must. the face looked to her older and singularly blanched; but she supposed that must be the effect of the light; for she noticed the same pallor in many others. "_all that my life can do to pour good measure_--_down_--_running over_--_into yours, i vowed you then!_" the words stole into her memory, throbbing there like points of pain. was it indeed this man under her eyes--so listless, so unconscious--who had said them to her with a passion of devotion it shamed her to think of. and now--never so much as an ordinary word of friendship between them again? "on the broad seas of life enisled"--separate, estranged, for ever? it was like the touch of death--the experience brought with it such a chill--such a sense of irreparable fact, of limitations never to be broken through. then she braced herself. the "things that are behind" must be left. to have married him after all would have been the greatest wrong. nor, in one sense, was what she had done irreparable. she chose to believe frank leven, rather than edward hallin. of course he must and should marry! it was absurd to suppose that he should not. no one had a stronger sense of family than he. and as for the girl--the little dancing, flirting girl!--why the thing happened every day. _his_ wife should not be too strenuous, taken up with problems and questions of her own. she should cheer, amuse, distract him. marcella endeavoured to think of it all with the dry common-sense her mother would have applied to it. one thing at least was clear to her--the curious recognition that never before had she considered aldous raeburn, _in and for himself_, as an independent human being. "he was just a piece of furniture in my play last year," she said to herself with a pang of frank remorse. "he was well quit of me!" but she was beginning to recover her spirits, and when at last raeburn, after a few words with a minister who had just arrived, disappeared suddenly behind the speaker's chair, the spectacle below her seized her with the same fascination as before. the house was filling rapidly. questions were nearly over, and the speech of the evening, on which considerable public expectation both inside and outside parliament had been for some time concentrated, was fast approaching. peers were straggling into the gallery; the reporters were changing just below her: and some "crack hands" among them, who had been lounging till now, were beginning to pay attention and put their paper in order. the irish benches, the opposition, the government--all were full, and there was a large group of members round the door. "there he is!" cried marcella, involuntarily, with a pulse of excitement, as wharton's light young figure made its way through the crowd. he sat down on a corner seat below the gangway and put on his hat. in five minutes more he was on his feet, speaking to an attentive and crowded house in a voice--clear, a little hard, but capable of the most accomplished and subtle variety--which for the first moment sent a shudder of memory through marcella. then she found herself listening with as much trepidation and anxiety as though some personal interest and reputation depended for her, too, on the success of the speech. her mind was first invaded by a strong, an _irritable_ sense of the difficulty of the audience. how was it possible for any one, unless he had been trained to it for years, to make any effect upon such a crowd!--so irresponsive, individualist, unfused--so lacking, as it seemed to the raw spectator, in the qualities and excitements that properly belong to multitude! half the men down below, under their hats, seemed to her asleep; the rest indifferent. and were those languid, indistinguishable murmurs what the newspapers call "_cheers_"? but the voice below flowed on; point after point came briskly out; the atmosphere warmed; and presently this first impression passed into one wholly different--nay, at the opposite pole. gradually the girl's ardent sense--informed, perhaps, more richly than most women's with the memories of history and literature, for in her impatient way she had been at all times a quick, omnivorous reader--awoke to the peculiar conditions, the special thrill, attaching to the place and its performers. the philosopher derides it; the man of letters out of the house talks of it with a smile as a "ship of fools"; both, when occasion offers, passionately desire a seat in it; each would give his right hand to succeed in it. why? because here after all is power--here is the central machine. here are the men who, both by their qualities and their defects, are to have for their span of life the leading--or the wrecking?--of this great fate-bearing force, this "weary titan" we call our country. here things are not only debated, but done--lamely or badly, perhaps, but still _done_--which will affect our children's children; which link us to the past; which carry us on safely or dangerously to a future only the gods know. and in this passage, this chequered, doubtful passage from thinking to doing, an infinite savour and passion of life is somehow disengaged. it penetrates through the boredom, through all the failure, public and personal; it enwraps the spectacle and the actors; it carries and supports patriot and adventurer alike. ideas, perceptions of this kind--the first chill over--stole upon and conquered marcella. presently it was as though she had passed into wharton's place, was seeing with his eyes, feeling with his nerves. it would be a success this speech--it was a success! the house was gained, was attentive. a case long familiar to it in portions and fragments, which had been spoilt by violence and discredited by ignorance, was being presented to it with all the resources of a great talent--with brilliancy, moderation, practical detail--moderation above all! from the slight historical sketch, with which the speech opened, of the english "working day," the causes and the results of the factory acts--through the general description of the present situation, of the workman's present hours, opportunities and demands, the growth of the desire for state control, the machinery by which it was to be enforced, and the effects it might be expected to have on the workman himself, on the great army of the "unemployed," on wages, on production, and on the economic future of england--the speaker carried his thread of luminous speech, without ever losing his audience for an instant. at every point he addressed himself to the smoothing of difficulties, to the propitiation of fears; and when, after the long and masterly handling of detail, he came to his peroration, to the bantering of capitalist terrors, to the vindication of the workman's claim to fix the conditions of his labour, and to the vision lightly and simply touched of the regenerate working home of the future, inhabited by free men, dedicated to something beyond the first brutal necessities of the bodily life, possessed indeed of its proper share of the human inheritance of leisure, knowledge, and delight--the crowded benches before and behind him grudged him none of it. the house of commons is not tolerant of "flights," except from its chartered masters. but this young man had earned his flight; and they heard him patiently. for the rest, the government had been most attractively wooed; and the liberal party in the midst of much plain speaking had been treated on the whole with a deference and a forbearance that had long been conspicuously lacking in the utterances of the labour men. "'the mildest mannered man' _et cetera!_" said a smiling member of the late government to a companion on the front opposition bench, as wharton sat down amid the general stir and movement which betoken the break-up of a crowded house, and the end of a successful speech which people are eager to discuss in the lobbies. "a fine performance, eh? great advance on anything last year." "bears about as much relation to facts as i do to the angels!" growled the man addressed. "what! as bad as that?" said the other, laughing. "look! they have put up old denny. i think i shall stay and hear him." and he laid down his hat again which he had taken up. meanwhile marcella in the ladies' gallery had thrown herself back in her chair with a long breath. "how can one listen to anything else!" she said; and for a long time she sat staring at the house without hearing a word of what the very competent, caustic, and well-informed manufacturer on the government side was saying. every dramatic and aesthetic instinct she possessed--and she was full of them--had been stirred and satisfied by the speech and the speaker. but more than that. he had spoken for the toiler and the poor; his peroration above all had contained tones and accents which were in fact the products of something perfectly sincere in the speaker's motley personality; and this girl, who in her wild way had given herself to the poor, had followed him with all her passionate heart. yet, at the same time, with an amount of intellectual dissent every now and then as to measures and methods, a scepticism of detail which astonished herself! a year before she had been as a babe beside him, whether in matters of pure mind or of worldly experience. now she was for the first time conscious of a curious growth--independence. but the intellectual revolt, such as it was, was lost again, as soon as it arose, in the general impression which the speech had left upon her--in this warm quickening of the pulses, this romantic interest in the figure, the scene, the young emerging personality. edith craven looked at her with wondering amusement. she and her brothers were typical venturists--a little cynical, therefore, towards all the world, friend or foe. a venturist is a socialist minus cant, and a cause which cannot exist at all without a passion of sentiment lays it down--through him--as a first law, that sentiment in public is the abominable thing. edith craven thought that after all marcella was little less raw and simple now than she had been in the old days. "there!" said marcella, with relief, "that's done. now, who's this? that man _wilkins_!" her tone showed her disgust. wilkins had sprung up the instant wharton's conservative opponent had given the first decisive sign of sitting down. another man on the same side was also up, but wilkins, black and frowning, held his own stubbornly, and his rival subsided. with the first sentences of the new speech the house knew that it was to have an emotion, and men came trooping in again. and certainly the short stormy utterance was dramatic enough. dissent on the part of an important north-country union from some of the most vital machinery of the bill which had been sketched by wharton--personal jealousy and distrust of the mover of the resolution--denial of his representative place, and sneers at his kid-gloved attempts to help a class with which he had nothing to do--the most violent protest against the servility with which he had truckled to the now effete party of free contract and political enfranchisement--and the most passionate assertion that between any labour party, worthy of the name, and either of the great parties of the past there lay and must lie a gulf of hatred, unfathomable and unquenchable, till labour had got its rights, and landlord, employer, and dividend-hunter were trampled beneath its heel--all these ugly or lurid things emerged with surprising clearness from the torrent of north-country speech. for twenty minutes nehemiah wilkins rioted in one of the best "times" of his life. that he was an orator thousands of working men had borne him witness again and again; and in his own opinion he had never spoken better. the house at first enjoyed its sensation. then, as the hard words rattled on, it passed easily into the stage of amusement. lady cradock's burly husband bent forward from the front opposition bench, caught wharton's eye, and smiled, as though to say: "what!--you haven't even been able to keep up appearances so far!" and wilkins's final attack upon the liberals--who, after ruining their own chances and the chances of the country, were now come cap in hand to the working man whining for his support as their only hope of recovery--was delivered to a mocking chorus of laughter and cheers, in the midst of which, with an angry shake of his great shoulders, he flung himself down on his seat. meanwhile wharton, who had spent the first part of wilkins's speech in a state of restless fidget, his hat over his eyes, was alternately sitting erect with radiant looks, or talking rapidly to bennett, who had come to sit beside him. the home secretary got up after wilkins had sat down, and spent a genial forty minutes in delivering the government _non possumus_, couched, of course, in the tone of deference to king labour which the modern statesman learns at his mother's knee, but enlivened with a good deal of ironical and effective perplexity as to which hand to shake and whose voice to follow, and winding up with a tribute of compliment to wharton, mixed with some neat mock condolence with the opposition under the ferocities of some others of its nominal friends. altogether, the finished performance of the old stager, the _habitué_. while it was going on, marcella noticed that aldous raeburn had come back again to his seat next to the speaker, who was his official chief. every now and then the minister turned to him, and raeburn handed him a volume of hansard or the copy of some parliamentary return whence the great man was to quote. marcella watched every movement; then from the government bench her eye sped across the house to wharton sitting once more buried in his hat, his arms folded in front of him. a little shiver of excitement ran through her. the two men upon whom her life had so far turned were once more in presence of, pitted against, each other--and she, once more, looking on! when the home secretary sat down, the house was growing restive with thoughts of dinner, and a general movement had begun--when it was seen that bennett was up. again men who had gone out came back, and those who were still there resigned themselves. bennett was a force in the house, a man always listened to and universally respected, and the curiosity felt as to the relations between him and this new star and would-be leader had been for some time considerable. when bennett sat down, the importance of the member for west brookshire, both in the house and in the country, had risen a hundred per cent. a man who over a great part of the north was in labour concerns the unquestioned master of many legions, and whose political position had hitherto been one of conspicuous moderation, even to his own hurt, had given wharton the warmest possible backing; had endorsed his proposals, to their most contentious and doubtful details, and in a few generous though still perhaps ambiguous words had let the house see what he personally thought of the services rendered to labour as a whole during the past five years, and to the weak and scattered group of labour members in particular, since his entrance into parliament, by the young and brilliant man beside him. bennett was no orator. he was a plain man, ennobled by the training of religious dissent, at the same time indifferently served often by an imperfect education. but the very simplicity and homeliness of its expression gave additional weight to this first avowal of a strong conviction that the time had come when the labour party _must_ have separateness and a leader if it were to rise out of insignificance; to this frank renunciation of whatever personal claims his own past might have given him; and to the promise of unqualified support to the policy of the younger man, in both its energetic and conciliatory aspects. he threw out a little not unkindly indignation, if one may be allowed the phrase, in the direction of wilkins--who in the middle of the speech abruptly walked out--and before he sat down, the close attention, the looks, the cheers, the evident excitement of the men sitting about him,--amongst whom were two-thirds of the whole labour representation in parliament--made it clear to the house that the speech marked an epoch not only in the career of harry wharton, but in the parliamentary history of the great industrial movement. the white-bearded bore under the gallery, whom wharton had pointed out to marcella, got up as bennett subsided. the house streamed out like one man. bennett, exhausted by the heat and the effort, mopped his brow with his red handkerchief, and, in the tension of fatigue, started as he felt a touch upon his arm. wharton was bending over to him--perfectly white, with a lip he in vain tried to steady. "i can't thank you," he said; "i should make a fool of myself." bennett nodded pleasantly, and presently both were pressing into the out-going crowd, avoiding each other with the ineradicable instinct of the englishman. wharton did not recover his self-control completely till, after an ordeal of talk and handshaking in the lobby, he was on his way to the ladies' gallery. then in a flash he found himself filled with the spirits, the exhilaration, of a schoolboy. this wonderful experience behind him!--and upstairs, waiting for him, those eyes, that face! how could he get her to himself somehow for a moment--and dispose of that craven girl? "well!" he said to her joyously, as she turned round in the darkness of the gallery. but she was seized with sudden shyness, and he felt, rather than saw, the glow of pleasure and excitement which possessed her. "don't let's talk here," she said. "can't we go out? i am melted!" "yes, of course! come on to the terrace. it's a divine evening, and we shall find our party there. well, miss craven, were you interested?" edith smiled demurely. "i thought it a good debate," she said. "confound these venturist prigs!" was wharton's inward remark as he led the way. chapter ix. "how enchanting!" cried marcella, as they emerged on the terrace, and river, shore, and sky opened upon them in all the thousand-tinted light and shade of a still and perfect evening. "oh, how hot we were--and how badly you treat us in those dens!" those confident eyes of wharton's shone as they glanced at her. she wore a pretty white dress of some cotton stuff--it seemed to him he remembered it of old--and on the waving masses of hair lay a little bunch of black lace that called itself a bonnet, with black strings tied demurely under the chin. the abundance of character and dignity in the beauty which yet to-night was so young and glowing--the rich arresting note of the voice--the inimitable carriage of the head--wharton realised them all at the moment with peculiar vividness, because he felt them in some sort as additions to his own personal wealth. to-night she was in his power, his possession. the terrace was full of people, and alive with a babel of talk. yet, as he carried his companions forward in search of mrs. lane, he saw that marcella was instantly marked. every one who passed them, or made way for them, looked and looked again. the girl, absorbed in her pleasant or agitating impressions, knew nothing of her own effect. she was drinking in the sunset light--the poetic mystery of the river--the lovely line of the bridge--the associations of the place where she stood, of this great building overshadowing her. every now and then she started in a kind of terror lest some figure in the dusk should be aldous raeburn; then when a stranger showed himself she gave herself up again to her young pleasure in the crowd and the spectacle. but wharton knew that she was observed; wharton caught the whisper that followed her. his vanity, already so well-fed this evening, took the attention given to her as so much fresh homage to itself; and she had more and more glamour for him in the reflected light of this publicity, this common judgment. "ah, here are the lanes!" he said, detecting at last a short lady in black amid a group of men. marcella and edith were introduced. then edith found a friend in a young london member who was to be one of the party, and strolled off with him till dinner should be announced. "i will just take miss boyce to the end of the terrace," said wharton to mr. lane; "we shan't get anything to eat yet awhile. what a crowd! the alresfords not come yet, i see." lane shrugged his shoulders as he looked round. "raeburn has a party to-night. and there are at least three or four others besides ourselves. i should think food and service will be equally scarce!" wharton glanced quickly at marcella. but she was talking to mrs. lane, and had heard nothing. "let me just show you the terrace," he said to her. "no chance of dinner for another twenty minutes." they strolled away together. as they moved along, a number of men waylaid the speaker of the night with talk and congratulations--glancing the while at the lady on his left. but presently they were away from the crowd which hung about the main entrance to the terrace, and had reached the comparatively quiet western end, where were only a few pairs and groups walking up and down. "shall i see mr. bennett?" she asked him eagerly, as they paused by the parapet, looking down upon the grey-brown water swishing under the fast incoming tide. "i want to." "i asked him to dine, but he wouldn't. he has gone to a prayer-meeting--at least i guess so. there is a famous american evangelist speaking in westminster to-night--i am as certain as i ever am of anything that bennett is there--dining on moody and sankey. men are a medley, don't you think?--so you liked his speech?" "how coolly you ask!" she said, laughing. "did _you_?" he was silent a moment, his smiling gaze fixed on the water. then he turned to her. "how much gratitude do you think i owe him?" "as much as you can pay," she said with emphasis. "i never heard anything more complete, more generous." "so you were carried away?" she looked at him with a curious, sudden gravity--a touch of defiance. "no!--neither by him, nor by you. i don't believe in your bill--and i am _sure_ you will never carry it!" wharton lifted his eyebrows. "perhaps you'll tell me where you are," he said, "that i may know how to talk? when we last discussed these things at mellor, i _think_--you were a socialist?" "what does it matter what i was last year?" she asked him gaily, yet with a final inflection of the voice which was not gay; "i was a baby! _now_ perhaps i have earned a few poor, little opinions--but they are a ragged bundle--and i have never any time to sort them." "have you left the venturists?" "no!--but i am full of perplexities; and the cravens, i see, will soon be for turning me out. you understand--i _know_ some working folk now!" "so you did last year." "no!"--she insisted, shaking her head--"that was all different. but now i am _in_ their world--i live with them--and they talk to me. one evening in the week i am 'at home' for all the people i know in our buildings--men and women. mrs. hurd--you know who i mean?"--her brow contracted a moment--"she comes with her sewing to keep me company; so does edith craven; and sometimes the little room is packed. the men smoke--when we can have the windows open!--and i believe i shall soon smoke too--it makes them talk better. we get all sorts--socialists, conservatives, radicals--" "--and you don't think much of the socialists?" "well! they are the interesting, dreamy fellows," she said, laughing, "who don't save, and muddle their lives. and as for argument, the socialist workman doesn't care twopence for facts--that don't suit him. it's superb the way he treats them!" "i should like to know who does care!" said wharton, with a shrug. then he turned with his back to the parapet, the better to command her. he had taken off his hat for coolness, and the wind played with the crisp curls of hair. "but tell me"--he went on--"who has been tampering with you? is it hallin? you told me you saw him often." "perhaps. but what if it's everything?--_living?_--saving your presence! a year ago at any rate the world was all black--_or_ white--to me. now i lie awake at night, puzzling my head about the shades between--which makes the difference. a compulsory eight hours' day for all men in all trades!" her note of scorn startled him. "you _know_ you won't get it! and all the other big exasperating things you talk about--public organisation of labour, and the rest--you won't get them till all the world is a new jerusalem--and when the world is a new jerusalem nobody will want them!" wharton made her an ironical bow. "nicely said!--though we have heard it before. upon my word, you have marched!--or edward hallin has carried you. so now you think the poor are as well off as possible, in the best of all possible worlds--is that the result of your nursing? you agree with denny, in fact? the man who got up after me?" his tone annoyed her. then suddenly the name suggested to her a recollection that brought a frown. "that was the man, then, you attacked in the _clarion_ this morning!" "ah! you read me!" said wharton, with sudden pleasure. "yes--that opened the campaign. as you know, of course, craven has gone down, and the strike begins next week. soon we shall bring two batteries to bear, he letting fly as correspondent, and i from the office. i enjoyed writing that article." "so i should think," she said drily; "all i know is, it made _one_ reader passionately certain that there was another side to the matter! there may not be. i dare say there isn't; but on me at least that was the effect. why is it"--she broke out with vehemence--"that not a single labour paper is ever capable of the simplest justice to an opponent?" "you think any other sort of paper is any better?" he asked her scornfully. "i dare say not. but that doesn't matter to me! it is _we_ who talk of justice, of respect, and sympathy from man to man, and then we go and blacken the men who don't agree with us--whole classes, that is to say, of our fellow-countrymen, not in the old honest slashing style, tartuffes that we are!--but with all the delicate methods of a new art of slander, pursued almost for its own sake. we know so much better--always--than our opponents, we hardly condescend even to be angry. one is only 'sorry'--'obliged to punish'--like the priggish governess of one's childhood!" in spite of himself, wharton flushed. "my best thanks!" he said. "anything more? i prefer to take my drubbing all at once." she looked at him steadily. "why did you write, or allow that article on the west brookshire landlords two days ago?" wharton started. "well! wasn't it true?" "no!" she said with a curling lip; "and i think you know it wasn't true." "what! as to the raeburns? upon my word, i should have imagined," he said slowly, "that it represented your views at one time with tolerable accuracy." her nerve suddenly deserted her. she bent over the parapet, and, taking up a tiny stone that lay near, she threw it unsteadily into the river. he saw the hand shake. "look here," he said, turning round so that he too leant over the river, his arms on the parapet, his voice close to her ear. "are you always going to quarrel with me like this? don't you know that there is no one in the world i would sooner please if i could?" she did not speak. "in the first place," he said, laughing, "as to my speech, do you suppose that i believe in that bill which i described just now?" "i don't know," she said indignantly, once more playing with the stones on the wall. "it sounded like it." "that is my gift--my little _carillon_, as renan would say. but do you imagine i want you or any one else to tell me that we shan't get such a bill for generations? of course we shan't!" "then why do you make farcical speeches, bamboozling your friends and misleading the house of commons?" he saw the old storm-signs with glee--the lightning in the eye, the rose on the cheek. she was never so beautiful as when she was angry. "because, my dear lady--_we must generate our force_. steam must be got up--i am engaged in doing it. we shan't get a compulsory eight hours' day for all trades--but in the course of the agitation for that precious illusion, and by the help of a great deal of beating of tom-toms, and gathering of clans, we shall get a great many other things by the way that we _do_ want. hearten your friends, and frighten your enemies--there is no other way of scoring in politics--and the particular score doesn't matter. now don't look at me as if you would like to impeach me!--or i shall turn the tables. _i_ am still fighting for my illusions in my own way--_you_, it seems, have given up yours!" but for once he had underrated her sense of humour. she broke into a low merry laugh which a little disconcerted him. "you mock me?" he said quickly--"think me insincere, unscrupulous?--well, i dare say! but you have no right to mock me. last year, again and again, you promised me guerdon. now it has come to paying--and i claim!" his low distinct voice in her ear had a magnetising effect upon her. she slowly turned her face to him, overcome by--yet fighting against--memory. if she had seen in him the smallest sign of reference to that scene she hated to think of, he would have probably lost this hold upon her on the spot. but his tact was perfect. she saw nothing but a look of dignity and friendship, which brought upon her with a rush all those tragic things they had shared and fought through, purifying things of pity and fear, which had so often seemed to her the atonement for, the washing away of that old baseness. he saw her face tremble a little. then she said proudly-- "i promised to be grateful. so i am." "no, no!" he said, still in the same low tone. "you promised me a friend. where is she?" she made no answer. her hands were hanging loosely over the water, and her eyes were fixed on the haze opposite, whence emerged the blocks of the great hospital and the twinkling points of innumerable lamps. but his gaze compelled her at last, and she turned back to him. he saw an expression half hostile, half moved, and pressed on before she could speak. "why do you bury yourself in that nursing life?" he said drily. "it is not the life for you; it does not fit you in the least." "you test your friends!" she cried, her cheek flaming again at the provocative change of voice. "what possible right have you to that remark?" "i know you, and i know the causes you want to serve. you can't serve them where you are. nursing is not for you; you are wanted among your own class--among your equals--among the people who are changing and shaping england. it is absurd. you are masquerading." she gave him a little sarcastic nod. "thank you. i am doing a little honest work for the first time in my life." he laughed. it was impossible to tell whether he was serious or posing. "you are just what you were in one respect--terribly in the right! be a little humble to-night for a change. come, condescend to the classes! do you see mr. lane calling us?" and, in fact, mr. lane, with his arm in the air, was eagerly beckoning to them from the distance. "do you know lady selina farrell?" he asked her, as they walked quickly back to the dispersing crowd. "no; who is she?" wharton laughed. "providence should contrive to let lady selina overhear that question once a week--in your tone! well, she is a personage--lord alresford's daughter--unmarried, rich, has a _salon_, or thinks she has--manipulates a great many people's fortunes and lives, or thinks she does, which, after all, is what matters--to lady selina. she wants to know you, badly. do you think you can be kind to her? there she is--you will let me introduce you? she dines with us." in another moment marcella had been introduced to a tall, fair lady in a very fashionable black and pink bonnet, who held out a gracious hand. "i have heard so much of you!" said lady selina, as they walked along the passage to the dining-room together. "it must be so wonderful, your nursing!" marcella laughed rather restively. "no, i don't think it is," she said; "there are so many of us." "oh, but the things you do--mr. wharton told me--so interesting!" marcella said nothing, and as to her looks the passage was dark. lady selina thought her a very handsome but very _gauche_ young woman. still, _gauche_ or no, she had thrown over aldous raeburn and thirty thousand a year; an act which, as lady selina admitted, put you out of the common run. "do you know most of the people dining?" she enquired in her blandest voice. "but no doubt you do. you are a great friend of mr. wharton's, i think?" "he stayed at our house last year," said marcella, abruptly. "no, i don't know anybody." "then shall i tell you? it makes it more interesting, doesn't it? it ought to be a pleasant little party." and the great lady lightly ran over the names. it seemed to marcella that most of them were very "smart" or very important. some of the smart names were vaguely known to her from miss raeburn's talk of last year; and, besides, there were a couple of tory cabinet ministers and two or three prominent members. it was all rather surprising. at dinner she found herself between one of the cabinet ministers and the young and good-looking private secretary of the other. both men were agreeable, and very willing, besides, to take trouble with this unknown beauty. the minister, who knew the raeburns very well, was discussing with himself all the time whether this was indeed the miss boyce of that story. his suspicion and curiosity were at any rate sufficiently strong to make him give himself much pains to draw her out. her own conversation, however, was much distracted by the attention she could not help giving to her host and his surroundings. wharton had lady selina on his right, and the young and distinguished wife of marcella's minister on his left. at the other end of the table sat mrs. lane, doing her duty spasmodically to lord alresford, who still, in a blind old age, gave himself all the airs of the current statesman and possible premier. but the talk, on the whole, was general--a gay and careless give-and-take of parliamentary, social, and racing gossip, the ball flying from one accustomed hand to another. and marcella could not get over the astonishment of wharton's part in it. she shut her eyes sometimes for an instant and tried to see him as her girl's fancy had seen him at mellor--the solitary, eccentric figure pursued by the hatreds of a renounced patricianate--bringing the enmity of his own order as a pledge and offering to the plebs he asked to lead. where even was the speaker of an hour ago? chat of ascot and of newmarket; discussion with lady selina or with his left-hand neighbour of country-house "sets," with a patter of names which sounded in her scornful ear like a paragraph from the _world_; above all, a general air of easy comradeship, which no one at this table, at any rate, seemed inclined to dispute, with every exclusiveness and every amusement of the "idle rich," whereof--in the popular idea--he was held to be one of the very particular foes!-- no doubt, as the dinner moved on, this first impression changed somewhat. she began to distinguish notes that had at first been lost upon her. she caught the mocking, ambiguous tone under which she herself had so often fumed; she watched the occasional recoil of the women about him, as though they had been playing with some soft-pawed animal, and had been suddenly startled by the gleam of its claws. these things puzzled, partly propitiated her. but on the whole she was restless and hostile. how was it possible--from such personal temporising--such a frittering of the forces and sympathies--to win the single-mindedness and the power without which no great career is built? she wanted to talk with him--reproach him! "well--i must go--worse luck," said wharton at last, laying down his napkin and rising. "lane, will you take charge? i will join you outside later." "if he ever finds us!" said her neighbour to marcella. "i never saw the place so crowded. it is odd how people enjoy these scrambling meals in these very ugly rooms." marcella, smiling, looked down with him over the bare coffee-tavern place, in which their party occupied a sort of high table across the end, while two other small gatherings were accommodated in the space below. "are there any other rooms than this?" she asked idly. "one more," said a young man across the table, who had been introduced to her in the dusk outside, and had not yet succeeded in getting her to look at him, as he desired. "but there is another big party there to-night--raeburn--you know," he went on innocently, addressing the minister; "he has got the winterbournes and the macdonalds--quite a gathering--rather an unusual thing for him." the minister glanced quickly at his companion. but she had turned to answer a question from lady selina, and thenceforward, till the party rose, she gave him little opportunity of observing her. as the outward-moving stream of guests was once more in the corridor leading to the terrace, marcella hurriedly made her way to mrs. lane. "i think," she said--"i am afraid--we ought to be going--my friend and i. perhaps mr. lane--perhaps he would just show us the way out; we can easily find a cab." there was an imploring, urgent look in her face which struck mrs. lane. but mr. lane's loud friendly voice broke in from behind. "my dear miss boyce!--we can't possibly allow it--no! no--just half an hour--while they bring us our coffee--to do your homage, you know, to the terrace--and the river--and the moon!--and then--if you don't want to go back to the house for the division, we will see you safely into your cab. look at the moon!--and the tide"--they had come to the wide door opening on the terrace--"aren't they doing their very best for you?" marcella looked behind her in despair. _where_ was edith? far in the rear!--and fully occupied apparently with two or three pleasant companions. she could not help herself. she was carried on, with mr. lane chatting beside her--though the sight of the shining terrace, with its moonlit crowd of figures, breathed into her a terror and pain she could hardly control. "come and look at the water," she said to mr. lane; "i would rather not walk up and down if you don't mind." he thought she was tired, and politely led her through the sitting or promenading groups till once more she was leaning over the parapet, now trying to talk, now to absorb herself in the magic of bridge, river, and sky, but in reality listening all the time with a shrinking heart for the voices and the footfalls that she dreaded. lady winterbourne, above all! how unlucky! it was only that morning that she had received a forwarded letter from that old friend, asking urgently for news and her address. "well, how did you like the speech to-night--_the_ speech?" said mr. lane, a genial gladstonian member, more heavily weighted with estates than with ideas. "it was splendid, wasn't it?--in the way of speaking. speeches like that are a safety-valve--that's my view of it. have 'em out--all these ideas--get 'em discussed!"--with a good-humoured shake of the head for emphasis. "does nobody any harm and may do good. i can tell you, miss boyce, the house of commons is a capital place for taming these clever young men!--you must give them their head--and they make excellent fellows after a bit. why--who's this?--my dear lady winterbourne!--this _is_ a sight for sair een!" and the portly member with great effusion grasped the hand of a stately lady in black, whose abundant white hair caught the moonlight. "_marcella_!" cried a woman's voice. yes--there he was!--close behind lady winterbourne. in the soft darkness he and his party had run upon the two persons talking over the wall without an idea--a suspicion. she hurriedly withdrew herself from lady winterbourne, hesitated a second, then held out her hand to him. the light was behind him. she could not see his face in the darkness; but she was suddenly and strangely conscious of the whole scene--of the great dark building with its lines of fairy-lit gothic windows--the blue gulf of the river crossed by lines of wavering light--the swift passage of a steamer with its illuminated saloon and crowded deck--of the wonderful mixture of moonlight and sunset in the air and sky--of this dark figure in front of her. their hands touched. was there a murmured word from him? she did not know; she was too agitated, too unhappy to hear it if there was. she threw herself upon lady winterbourne, in whom she divined at once a tremor almost equal to her own. "oh! do come with me--come away!--i want to talk to you!" she said incoherently under her breath, drawing lady winterbourne with a strong hand. lady winterbourne yielded, bewildered, and they moved along the terrace. "oh, my dear, my dear!" cried the elder lady--"to think of finding _you_ here! how astonishing--how--how dreadful! no!--i don't mean that. of course you and he must meet--but it was only yesterday he told me he had never seen you again--since--and it gave me a turn. i was very foolish just now. there now--stay here a moment--and tell me about yourself." and again they paused by the river, the girl glancing nervously behind her as though she were in a company of ghosts. lady winterbourne recovered herself, and marcella, looking at her, saw the old tragic severity of feature and mien blurred with the same softness, the same delicate tremor. marcella clung to her with almost a daughter's feeling. she took up the white wrinkled hand as it lay on the parapet, and kissed it in the dark so that no one saw. "i _am_ glad to see you again," she said passionately, "so glad!" lady winterbourne was surprised and moved. "but you have never written all these months, you unkind child! and i have heard so little of you--your mother never seemed to know. when will you come and see me--or shall i come to you? i can't stay now, for we were just going; my daughter, ermyntrude welwyn, has to take some one to a ball. how _strange_"--she broke off--"how very strange that you and he should have met to-night! he goes off to italy to-morrow, you know, with lord maxwell." "yes, i had heard," said marcella, more steadily. "will you come to tea with me next week?--oh, i will write.--and we must go too--where _can_ my friend be?" she looked round in dismay, and up and down the terrace for edith. "i will take you back to the lanes, anyway," said lady winterbourne; "or shall we look after you?" "no! no! take me back to the lanes." "mamma, are you coming?" said a voice like a softened version of lady winterbourne's. then something small and thin ran forward, and a girl's voice said piteously: "_dear_ lady winterbourne, my frock and my hair take so long to do! _i_ shall be cross with my maid, and look like a fiend. ermyntrude will be sorry she ever knew me. _do_ come!" "don't cry, betty. i certainly shan't take you if you do!" said lady ermyntrude, laughing. "mamma, is this miss boyce--_your_ miss boyce?" she and marcella shook hands, and they talked a little, lady ermyntrude under cover of the darkness looking hard and curiously at the tall stranger whom, as it happened, she had never seen before. marcella had little notion of what she was saying. she was far more conscious of the girlish form hanging on lady winterbourne's arm than she was of her own words, of "betty's" beautiful soft eyes--also shyly and gravely fixed upon herself--under that marvellous cloud of fair hair; the long, pointed chin; the whimsical little face. "well, none of _you_ are any good!" said betty at last, in a tragic voice. "i shall have to walk home my own poor little self, and 'ask a p'leeceman.' mr. raeburn!" he disengaged himself from a group behind and came--with no alacrity. betty ran up to him. "mr. raeburn! ermyntrude and lady winterbourne are going to sleep here, if you don't mind making arrangements. but _i_ want a hansom." at that very moment marcella caught sight of edith strolling along towards her with a couple of members, and chatting as though the world had never rolled more evenly. "oh! there she is--there is my friend!" cried marcella to lady winterbourne. "good-night--good-night!" she was hurrying off when she saw aldous raeburn was standing alone a moment. the exasperated betty had made a dart from his side to "collect" another straying member of the party. an impulse she could not master scattered her wretched discomfort--even her chafing sense of being the observed of many eyes. she walked up to him. "will you tell me about lord maxwell?" she said in a tremulous hurry. "i am so sorry he is ill--i hadn't heard--i--" she dared not look up. was that _his_ voice answering? "thank you. we have been very anxious about him; but the doctors to-day give a rather better report. we take him abroad to-morrow." "marcella! at last!" cried edith craven, catching hold of her friend; "you lost me? oh, nonsense; it was all the other way. but look, there is mr. wharton coming out. i must go--come and say good-night--everybody is departing." aldous raeburn lifted his hat. marcella felt a sudden rush of humiliation--pain--sore resentment. that cold, strange tone--those unwilling words!--she had gone up to him--as undisciplined in her repentance as she had been in aggression--full of a passionate yearning to make friends--somehow to convey to him that she "was sorry," in the old child's phrase which her self-willed childhood had used so little. there could be no misunderstanding possible! he of all men knew best how irrevocable it all was. but why, when life has brought reflection, and you realise at last that you have vitally hurt, perhaps maimed, another human being, should it not be possible to fling conventions aside, and go to that human being with the frank confession which by all the promises of ethics and religion _ought_ to bring peace--peace and a soothed conscience? but she had been repulsed--put aside, so she took it--and by one of the kindest and most generous of men! she moved along the terrace in a maze, seeing nothing, biting her lip to keep back the angry tears. all that obscure need, that new stirring of moral life within her--which had found issue in this little futile advance towards a man who had once loved her and could now, it seemed, only despise and dislike, her--was beating and swelling stormlike within her. she had taken being loved so easily, so much as a matter of course! how was it that it hurt her now so much to have lost love, and power, and consideration? she had never felt any passion for aldous raeburn--had taken him lightly and shaken him off with a minimum of remorse. yet to-night a few cold words from him--the proud manner of a moment--had inflicted a smart upon her she could hardly bear. they had made her feel herself so alone, unhappy, uncared for! but, on the contrary, she _must_ be happy!--_must_ be loved! to this, and this only, had she been brought by the hard experience of this strenuous year. * * * * * "oh, mrs. lane, _be_ an angel!" exclaimed wharton's voice. "just one turn--five minutes! the division will be called directly, and then we will all thank our stars and go to bed!" in another instant he was at marcella's side, bare-headed, radiant, reckless even, as he was wont to be in moments of excitement. he had seen her speak to raeburn as he came out on the terrace, but his mind was too full for any perception of other people's situations--even hers. he was absorbed with himself, and with her, as she fitted his present need. the smile of satisfied vanity, of stimulated ambition, was on his lips; and his good-humour inclined him more than ever to marcella, and the pleasure of a woman's company. he passed with ease from triumph to homage; his talk now audacious, now confiding, offered her a deference, a flattery, to which, as he was fully conscious, the events of the evening had lent a new prestige. she, too, in his eyes, had triumphed--had made her mark. his ears were full of the comments made upon her to-night by the little world on the terrace. if it were not for money--_hateful_ money!--what more brilliant wife could be desired for any rising man? so the five minutes lengthened into ten, and by the time the division was called, and wharton hurried off, marcella, soothed, taken out of herself, rescued from the emptiness and forlornness of a tragic moment, had given him more conscious cause than she had ever given him yet to think her kind and fair. chapter x. "my dear ned, do be reasonable! your sister is in despair, and so am i. why do you torment us by staying on here in the heat, and taking all these engagements, which you know you are no more fit for than--" "a sick grasshopper," laughed hallin. "healthy wretch! did heaven give you that sun-burn only that you might come home from italy and twit us weaklings? do you think i _want_ to look as rombustious as you? 'nothing too much,' my good friend!" aldous looked down upon the speaker with an anxiety quite untouched by hallin's "chaff." "miss hallin tells me," he persisted, "that you are wearing yourself out with this lecturing campaign, that you don't sleep, and that she is more unhappy about you than she has been for months. why not give it up now, rest, and begin again in the winter?" hallin smiled a little as he sat with the tips of his fingers lightly joined in front of him. "i doubt whether i shall live through the winter," he said quietly. raeburn started. hallin in general spoke of his health, when he allowed it to be mentioned at all, in the most cheerful terms. "why you should behave as though you _wished_ to make such a prophecy true i can't conceive!" he said in impatient pain. hallin offered no immediate answer, and raeburn, who was standing in front of him, leaning against the wood-work of the open window, looked unhappily at the face and form of his friend. in youth that face had possessed a greek serenity and blitheness, dependent perhaps on its clear aquiline feature, the steady transparent eyes--_coeli lucida templa_--the fresh fairness of the complexion, and the boyish brow under its arch of pale brown hair. and to stronger men there had always been something peculiarly winning in the fragile grace of figure and movements, suggesting, as they did, sad and perpetual compromise between the spirit's eagerness and the body's weakness. "don't make yourself unhappy, my dear boy," said hallin at last, putting up a thin hand and touching his friend--"i _shall_ give up soon. moreover, it will give me up. workmen want to do something else with their evenings in july than spend them in listening to stuffy lectures. i shall go to the lakes. but there are a few engagements still ahead, and--i confess i am more restless than i used to be. the night cometh when no man can work." they fell into a certain amount of discursive talk--of the political situation, working-class opinion, and the rest. raeburn had been alive now for some time to a curious change of balance in his friend's mind. hallin's buoyant youth had concerned itself almost entirely with positive crusades and enthusiasms. of late he seemed rather to have passed into a period of negations, of strong opposition to certain current _isms_ and faiths; and the happy boyish tone of earlier years had become the "stormy note of men contention-tost," which belongs, indeed, as truly to such a character as the joy of young ideals. he had always been to some extent divided from raeburn and others of his early friends by his passionate democracy--his belief in, and trust of, the multitude. for hallin, the divine originating life was realised and manifested through the common humanity and its struggle, as a whole; for raeburn, only in the best of it, morally or intellectually; the rest remaining an inscrutable problem, which did not, indeed, prevent faith, but hung upon it like a dead weight. such divisions, however, are among the common divisions of thinking men, and had never interfered with the friendship of these two in the least. but the developing alienation between hallin and hundreds of his working-men friends was of an infinitely keener and sorer kind. since he had begun his lecturing and propagandist life, socialist ideas of all kinds had made great way in england. and, on the whole, as the prevailing type of them grew stronger, hallin's sympathy with them had grown weaker and weaker. property to him meant "self-realisation"; and the abuse of property was no more just ground for a crusade which logically aimed at doing away with it, than the abuse of other human powers or instincts would make it reasonable to try and do away with--say love, or religion. to give property, and therewith the fuller human opportunity, to those that have none, was the inmost desire of his life. and not merely common property--though like all true soldiers of the human cause he believed that common property will be in the future enormously extended--but in the first place, and above all, to distribute the discipline and the trust of personal and private possession among an infinitely greater number of hands than possess them already. and that not for wealth's sake--though a more equal distribution of property, and therewith of capacity, must inevitably tend to wealth--but for the soul's sake, and for the sake of that continuous appropriation by the race of its moral and spiritual heritage. how is it to be done? hallin, like many others, would have answered--"for england--mainly by a fresh distribution of the land." not, of course, by violence--which only means the worst form of waste known to history--but by the continuous pressure of an emancipating legislation, relieving land from shackles long since struck off other kinds of property--by the assertion, within a certain limited range, of communal initiative and control--and above all by the continuous private effort in all sorts of ways and spheres of "men of good will." for all sweeping uniform schemes he had the natural contempt of the student--or the moralist. to imagine that by nationalising sixty annual millions of rent for instance you could make england a city of god, was not only a vain dream, but a belittling of england's history and england's task. a nation is not saved so cheaply!--and to see those energies turned to land nationalisation or the scheming of a collectivist millennium, which might have gone to the housing, educating, and refining of english men, women, and children of to-day, to moralising the employer's view of his profit, and the landlord's conception of his estate--filled him with a growing despair. the relation of such a habit of life and mind to the collectivist and socialist ideas now coming to the front in england, as in every other european country, is obvious enough. to hallin the social life, the community, was everything--yet to be a "socialist" seemed to him more and more to be a traitor! he would have built his state on the purified will of the individual man, and could conceive no other foundation for a state worth having. but for purification there must be effort, and for effort there must be freedom. socialism, as he read it, despised and decried freedom, and placed the good of man wholly in certain external conditions. it was aiming at a state of things under which the joys and pains, the teaching and the risks of true possession, were to be for ever shut off from the poor human will, which yet, according to him, could never do without them, if man was to be man. so that he saw it all _sub specie aeternitatis_, as a matter not of economic theory, but rather of religion. raeburn, as they talked, shrank in dismay from the burning intensity of mood underlying his controlled speech. he spoke, for instance, of bennett's conversion to harry wharton's proposed bill, or of the land nationalising scheme he was spending all his slender stores of breath and strength in attacking, not with anger or contempt, but with, a passionate sorrow which seemed to raeburn preposterous! intolerable!--to be exhausting in him the very springs and sources of a too precarious life. there rose in aldous at last an indignant protest which yet could hardly find itself words. what help to have softened the edge and fury of religious war, only to discover new antagonisms of opinion as capable of devastating heart and affections as any _homoousion_ of old? had they not already cost him love? were they also, in another fashion, to cost him his friend? * * * * * "ah, dear old fellow--enough!" said hallin at last--"take me back to italy! you have told me so little--such a niggardly little!" "i told you that we went and i came back in a water-spout," said aldous; "the first rain in northern italy for four months--worse luck! 'rain at reggio, rain at parma.--at lodi rain, piacenza rain!'--that might about stand for my diary, except for one radiant day when my aunt, betty macdonald, and i descended on milan, and climbed the duomo." "did miss betty amuse you?" aldous laughed. "well, at least she varied the programme. the greater part of our day in milan aunt neta and i spent in rushing after her like its tail after a kite. first of all, she left us in the duomo square, running like a deer, and presently, to aunt neta's horror, we discovered that she was pursuing a young italian officer in a blue cloak. when we came up with the pair she was inquiring, in her best italian, where the 'signor' got his cloak, because positively she must have one like it, and he, cap in hand, was explaining to the signorina that if she would but follow him round the corner to his military tailor's, she could be supplied on the spot. so there we all went, miss betty insisting. you can imagine aunt neta. she bought a small shipload of stuff--and then positively skipped for joy in the street outside--the amazed officer looking on. and as for her career over the roof of the duomo--the agitation of it nearly brought my aunt to destruction--and even i heaved a sigh of relief when i got them both down safe." "is the creature all tricks?" said hallin, with a smile. "as you talk of her to me i get the notion of a little monkey just cut loose from a barrel organ." "oh! but the monkey has so much heart," said aldous, laughing again, as every one was apt to laugh who talked about betty macdonald, "and it makes friends with every sick and sorry creature it comes across, especially with old maids! it amounts to genius, betty's way with old maids. you should see her in the middle of them in the hotel _salon_ at night--a perfect ring of them--and the men outside, totally neglected, and out of temper. i have never seen betty yet in a room with somebody she thought ill at ease, or put in the shade--a governess, or a schoolgirl, or a lumpish boy--that she did not devote herself to that somebody. it is a pretty instinct; i have often wondered whether it is nature or art." he fell silent, still smiling. hallin watched him closely. perhaps the thought which had risen in his mind revealed itself by some subtle sign or other to aldous. for suddenly raeburn's expression changed; the over-strenuous, harassed look, which of late had somewhat taken the place of his old philosopher's quiet, reappeared. "i did not tell you, hallin," he began, in a low voice, raising his eyes to his friend, "that i had seen her again." hallin paused a moment. then he said: "no. i knew she went to the house to hear wharton's speech, and that she dined there. i supposed she might just have come across you--but she said nothing." "of course, i had no idea," said aldous; "suddenly lady winterbourne and i came across her on the terrace. then i saw she was with that man's party. she spoke to me afterwards--i believe now--she meant to be kind"--his voice showed the difficulty he had in speaking at all--"but i saw him coming up to talk to her. i am ashamed to think of my own manner, but i could not help myself." his face and eye took, as he spoke, a peculiar vividness and glow. raeburn had not for months mentioned to him the name of marcella boyce, but hallin had all along held two faiths about the matter: first, that aldous was still possessed by a passion which had become part of his life; secondly, that the events of the preceding year had produced in him an exceedingly bitter sense of ill-usage, of a type which hallin had not perhaps expected. "did you see anything to make you suppose," he asked quietly, after a pause, "that she is going to marry him?" "no--no," aldous repeated slowly; "but she is clearly on friendly, perhaps intimate, terms with him. and just now, of course, she is more likely to be influenced by him than ever. he made a great success--of a kind--in the house a fortnight ago. people seem to think he may come rapidly to the front." "so i understand. i don't believe it. the jealousies that divide that group are too unmanageable. if he _were_ a parnell! but he lacks just the qualities that matter--the reticence, the power of holding himself aloof from irrelevant things and interests, the hard self-concentration." aldous raised his shoulders. "i don't imagine there is any lack of that! but certainly he holds himself aloof from nothing and nobody! i hear of him everywhere." "what!--among the smart people?" aldous nodded. "a change of policy by all accounts," said hallin, musing. "he must do it with intention. he is not the man to let himself be be-capua-ed all at once." "oh dear, no!" said aldous, drily. "he does it with intention. nobody supposes him to be the mere toady. all the same i think he may very well overrate the importance of the class he is trying to make use of, and its influence. have you been following the strike 'leaders' in the _clarion?_" "no!" cried hallin, flushing. "i would not read them for the world! i might not be able to go on giving to the strike." aldous fell silent, and hallin presently saw that his mind had harked back to the one subject that really held the depths of it. the truest friendship, hallin believed, would be never to speak to him of marcella boyce--never to encourage him to dwell upon her, or upon anything connected with her. but his yearning, sympathetic instinct would not let him follow his own conviction. "miss boyce, you know, has been here two or three times while you have been away," he said quickly, as he got up to post a letter. aldous hesitated; then he said-- "do you gather that her nursing life satisfies her?" hallin made a little face. "since when has she become a person likely to be 'satisfied' with anything? she devotes to it a splendid and wonderful energy. when she comes here i admire her with all my heart, and pity her so much that i could cry over her!" aldous started. "i don't know what you mean," he said, as he too rose and laid his hand on hallin's for a moment. "but don't tell me! it's best for me not to talk of her. if she were associated in my mind with any other man than wharton, i think somehow i could throw the whole thing off. but this--this--" he broke off; then resumed, while he pretended to look for a parcel he had brought with him, by way of covering an agitation he could not suppress. "a person you and i know said to me the other day, 'it may sound unromantic, but i could never think of a woman who had thrown me over except _with ill-will._' the word astonished me, but sometimes i understand it. i find myself full of _anger_ to the most futile, the most ridiculous degree!" he drew himself up nervously, already scorning his own absurdity, his own breach of reticence. hallin laid his hands on the taller man's shoulders, and there was a short pause. "never mind, old fellow," said hallin, simply, at last, as his hands dropped; "let's go and do our work. what is it you're after?--i forget." aldous found his packet and his hat, explaining himself again, meanwhile, in his usual voice. he had dropped in on hallin for a morning visit, meaning to spend some hours before the house met in the investigation of some small workshops in the neighbourhood of drury lane. the home office had been called upon for increased inspection and regulation; there had been a great conflict of evidence, and aldous had finally resolved in his student's way to see for himself the state of things in two or three selected streets. it was a matter on which hallin was also well-informed, and felt strongly. they stayed talking about it a few minutes, hallin eagerly directing raeburn's attention to the two or three points where he thought the government could really do good. then raeburn turned to go. "i shall come and drag you out to-morrow afternoon," he said, as he opened the door. "you needn't," said hallin, with a smile; "in fact, don't; i shall have my jaunt." whereby aldous understood that he would be engaged in his common saturday practice of taking out a batch of elder boys or girls from one or other of the schools of which he was manager, for a walk or to see some sight. "if it's your boys," he said, protesting, "you're not fit for it. hand them over to me." "nothing of the sort," said hallin, gaily, and turned him out of the room. * * * * * raeburn found the walk from hallin's bloomsbury quarters to drury lane hot and airless. the planes were already drooping and yellowing in the squares, the streets were at their closest and dirtiest, and the traffic of holborn and its approaches had never seemed to him more bewildering in its roar and volume. july was in, and all freshness had already disappeared from the too short london summer. for raeburn on this particular afternoon there was a curious forlornness in the dry and tainted air. his slack mood found no bracing in the sun or the breeze. everything was or seemed distasteful to a mind out of tune--whether this work he was upon, which only yesterday had interested him considerably, or his parliamentary occupations, or some tiresome estate business which would have to be looked into when he got home. he was oppressed, too, by the last news of his grandfather. the certainty that this dear and honoured life, with which his own had been so closely intertwined since his boyhood, was drawing to its close weighed upon him now heavily and constantly. the loss itself would take from him an object on which affection--checked and thwarted elsewhere--was still free to spend itself in ways peculiarly noble and tender; and as for those other changes to which the first great change must lead--his transference to the upper house, and the extension for himself of all the ceremonial side of life--he looked forward to them with an intense and resentful repugnance, as to aggravations, perversely thrust on him from without, of a great and necessary grief. few men believed less happily in democracy than aldous raeburn; on the other hand, few men felt a more steady distaste for certain kinds of inequality. he was to meet a young inspector at the corner of little queen street, and they were to visit together a series of small brush-drawing and box-making workshops in the drury lane district, to which the attention of the department had lately been specially drawn. aldous had no sooner crossed holborn than he saw his man waiting for him, a tall strip of a fellow, with a dark bearded face, and a manner which shyness had made a trifle morose. aldous, however, knew him to be not only a capital worker, but a man of parts, and had got much information and some ideas out of him already. mr. peabody gave the under-secretary a slight preoccupied smile in return for his friendly greeting, and the two walked on together talking. the inspector announced that he proposed to take his companion first of all to a street behind drury lane, of which many of the houses were already marked for demolition--a "black street," bearing a peculiarly vile reputation in the neighbourhood. it contained on the whole the worst of the small workshops which he desired to bring to raeburn's notice, besides a variety of other horrors, social and sanitary. after ten minutes' walking they turned into the street. with its condemned houses, many of them shored up and windowless, its narrow roadway strewn with costers' refuse--it was largely inhabited by costers frequenting covent garden market--its filthy gutters and broken pavements, it touched, indeed, a depth of sinister squalor beyond most of its fellows. the air was heavy with odours which, in this july heat, seemed to bear with them the inmost essences of things sickening and decaying; and the children, squatting or playing amid the garbage of the street, were further than most of their kind from any tolerable human type. a policeman was stationed near the entrance of the street. after they had passed him, mr. peabody ran back and said a word in his ear. "i gave him your name," he said briefly, in answer to raeburn's interrogative look, when he returned, "and told him what we were after. the street is not quite as bad as it was; and there are little oases of respectability in it you would never expect. but there is plenty of the worst thieving and brutality left in it still. of course, now you see it at its dull moment. to-night the place will swarm with barrows and stalls, all the people will be in the street, and after dark it will be as near pandemonium as may be. i happen to know the school board visitor of these parts; and a city missionary, too, who is afraid of nothing." and standing still a moment, pointing imperceptibly to right and left, he began in his shy, monotonous voice to run through the inhabitants of some of the houses and a few typical histories. this group was mainly peopled by women of the very lowest class and their "bullies"--that is to say, the men who aided them in plundering, sometimes in murdering, the stranger who fell into their claws; in that house a woman had been slowly done to death by her husband and his brutal brothers under every circumstance of tragic horror; in the next a case of flagrant and revolting cruelty to a pair of infant children had just been brought to light. in addition to its vice and its thievery, the wretched place was, of course, steeped in drink. there were gin-palaces at all the corners; the women drank, in proportion to their resources, as badly as the men, and the children were fed with the stuff in infancy, and began for themselves as early as they could beg or steal a copper of their own. when the dismal catalogue was done, they moved on towards the further end of the street, and a house on the right hand side. behind the veil of his official manner aldous's shrinking sense took all it saw and heard as fresh food for a darkness and despondency of soul already great enough. but his companion--a young enthusiast, secretly very critical of "big-wigs"--was conscious only of the trained man of affairs, courteous, methodical, and well-informed, putting a series of preliminary questions with unusual point and rapidity. suddenly, under the influence of a common impression, both men stood still and looked about them. there was a stir in the street. windows had been thrown open, and scores of heads were looking out. people emerged from all quarters, seemed to spring from the ground or drop from the skies, and in a few seconds, as it were, the street, so dead-alive before, was full of a running and shouting crowd. "it's a fight!" said peabody, as the crowd came up with them. "listen!" shrieks--of the most ghastly and piercing note, rang through the air. the men and women who rushed past the two strangers--hustling them, yet too excited to notice them--were all making for a house some ten or twelve yards in front of them, to their left. aldous had turned white. "it is a woman!" he said, after an instant's listening, "and it sounds like murder. you go back for that policeman!" and without another word he threw himself on the crowd, forcing his way through it by the help of arms and shoulders which, in years gone by, had done good service for the trinity eight. drink-sodden men and screaming women gave way before him. he found himself at the door of the house, hammering upon it with two or three other men who were there before him. the noise from within was appalling--cries, groans, uproar--all the sounds of a deadly struggle proceeding apparently on the second floor of the house. then came a heavy fall--then the sound of a voice, different in quality and accent from any that had gone before, crying piteously and as though in exhaustion--"help!" almost at the same moment the door which aldous and his companions were trying to force was burst open from within, and three men seemed to be shot out from the dark passage inside--two wrestling with the third, a wild beast in human shape, maddened apparently with drink, and splashed with blood. "ee's done for her!" shouted one of the captors; "an' for the sister too!" "the sister!" shrieked a woman behind aldous--it's the nuss he means! i sor her go in when i wor at my window half an hour ago. oh! yer _blackguard_, you!"--and she would have fallen upon the wretch, in a frenzy, had not the bystanders caught hold of her. "stand back!" cried a policeman. three of them had come up at peabody's call. the man was instantly secured, and the crowd pushed back. aldous was already upstairs. "which room?" he asked of a group of women crying and cowering on the first landing--for all sounds from above had ceased. "third floor front," cried one of them. "we all of us _begged_ and _implored_ of that young person, sir, not to go a-near him! didn't we, betsy?--didn't we, doll?" aldous ran up. on the third floor, the door of the front room was open. a woman lay on the ground, apparently beaten to death. by her side, torn, dishevelled, and gasping, knelt marcella boyce. two or three other women were standing by in helpless terror and curiosity. marcella was bending over the bleeding victim before her. her own left arm hung as though disabled by her side; but with the right hand she was doing her best to staunch some of the bleeding from the head. her bag stood open beside her, and one of the chattering women was handing her what she asked for. the sight stamped itself in lines of horror on raeburn's heart. in such an exaltation of nerve _she_ could be surprised at nothing. when she saw raeburn enter the room, she did not even start. "i think," she said, as he stooped down to her--speaking with pauses, as though to get her breath--"he has--killed her. but there--is a chance. are the--police there--and a stretcher?" two constables entered as she spoke, and the first of them instantly sent his companion back for a stretcher. then, noticing marcella's nursing dress and cloak, he came up to her respectfully. "did you see it, miss?" "i--i tried to separate them," she replied, still speaking with the same difficulty, while she silently motioned to aldous, who was on the other side of the unconscious and apparently dying woman, to help her with the bandage she was applying. "but he was--such a great--powerful brute." aldous, hating the clumsiness of his man's fingers, knelt down and tried to help her. her trembling hand touched, mingled with his. "i was downstairs," she went on, while the constable took out his note-book, "attending a child--that's ill--when i heard the screams. they were on the landing; he had turned her out of the room--then rushed after her--i _think_--to throw her downstairs--i stopped that. then he took up something--oh! there it is!" she shuddered, pointing to a broken piece of a chair which lay on the floor. "he was quite mad with drink--i couldn't--do much." her voice slipped into a weak, piteous note. "isn't your arm hurt?" said aldous, pointing to it. "it's not broken--it's wrenched; i can't use it. there--that's all we can do--till she gets--to hospital." then she stood up, pale and staggering, and asked the policeman if he could put on a bandage. the man had got his ambulance certificate, and was proud to say that he could. she took a roll out of her bag, and quietly pointed to her arm. he did his best, not without skill, and the deep line of pain furrowing the centre of the brow relaxed a little. then she sank down on the floor again beside her patient, gazing at the woman's marred face--indescribably patient in its deep unconsciousness--at the gnarled and bloodstained hands, with their wedding-ring; at the thin locks of torn grey hair--with tears that ran unheeded down her cheeks, in a passion of anguished pity, which touched a chord of memory in raeburn's mind. he had seen her look so once before--beside minta hurd, on the day of hurd's capture. at the same moment he saw that they were alone. the policeman had cleared the room, and was spending the few minutes that must elapse before his companion returned with the stretcher, in taking the names and evidence of some of the inmates of the house, on the stairs outside. "you can't do anything more," said aldous, gently, bending over her. "won't you let me take you home?--you want it sorely. the police are trained to these things, and i have a friend here who will help. they will remove her with every care--he will see to it." then for the first time her absorption gave way. she remembered who he was--where they were--how they had last met. and with the remembrance came an extraordinary leap of joy, flashing through pain and faintness. she had the childish feeling that he could not look unkindly at her anymore--after this! when at the white house she had got herself into disgrace, and could not bring her pride to ask pardon, she would silently set up a headache or a cut finger that she might be pitied, and so, perforce, forgiven. the same tacit thought was in her mind now. no!--after this he _must_ be friends with her. "i will just help to get her downstairs," she said, but with a quivering, appealing accent--and so they fell silent. aldous looked round the room--at the miserable filthy garret with its begrimed and peeling wall-paper, its two or three broken chairs, its heap of rags across two boxes that served for a bed; its empty gin-bottles here and there--all the familiar, one might almost say conventionalised, signs of human ruin and damnation--then at this breathing death between himself and her. perhaps his strongest feeling was one of fierce and natural protest against circumstance--against her mother!--against a reckless philanthropy that could thus throw the finest and fragilest things of a poorly-furnished world into such a hopeless struggle with devildom. "i have been here several times before," she said presently, in a faint voice, "and there has never been any trouble. by day the street is not much worse than others--though, of course, it has a bad name. there is a little boy on the next floor very ill with typhoid. many of the women in the house are very good to him and his mother. this poor thing--used to come in and out--when i was nursing him--oh, i wish--i _wish_ they would come!" she broke off in impatience, looking at the deathly form--"every moment is of importance!" as aldous went to the door to see if the stretcher was in sight, it opened, and the police came in. marcella, herself helpless, directed the lifting of the bloodstained head; the police obeyed her with care and skill. then raeburn assisted in the carrying downstairs, and presently the police with their burden, and accompanied apparently by the whole street, were on their way to the nearest hospital. then aldous, to his despair and wrath, saw that an inspector of police, who had just come up, was talking to marcella, no doubt instructing her as to how and where she was to give her evidence. she was leaning against the passage wall, supporting her injured arm with her hand, and seemed to him on the point of fainting. "get a cab at once, will you!" he said peremptorily to peabody; then going up to the inspector he drew him forward. they exchanged a few words, the inspector lifted his cap, and aldous went back to marcella. "there is a cab here," he said to her. "come, please, directly. they will not trouble you any more for the present." he led her out through the still lingering crowd and put her into the cab. as they drove along, he felt every jolt and roughness of the street as though he were himself in anguish. she was some time before she recovered the jar of pain caused her by the act of getting into the cab. her breath came fast, and he could see that she was trying hard to control herself and not to faint. he, too, restrained himself so far as not to talk to her. but the exasperation, the revolt within, was in truth growing unmanageably. was this what her new career--her enthusiasms--meant, or might mean! twenty-three!--in the prime of youth, of charm! horrible, unpardonable waste! he could not bear it, could not submit himself to it. oh! let her marry wharton, or any one else, so long as it were made impossible for her to bruise and exhaust her young bloom amid such scenes--such gross physical abominations. amazing!--how meanly, passionately timorous the man of raeburn's type can be for the woman! he himself may be morally "ever a fighter," and feel the glow, the stern joy of the fight. but she!--let her leave the human brute and his unsavoury struggle alone! it cannot be borne--it was never meant--that she should dip her delicate wings, of her own free will at least, in such a mire of blood and tears. it was the feeling that had possessed him when mrs. boyce told him of the visit to the prison, the night in the cottage. in her whirl of feverish thought, she divined him very closely. presently, as he watched her--hating the man for driving and the cab for shaking--he saw her white lips suddenly smile. "i know," she said, rousing herself to look at him; "you think nursing is all like that!" "i hope not!" he said, with effort, trying to smile too. "i never saw a fight before," she said, shutting her eyes again. "nobody is ever rude to us--i often pine for experiences!" how like her old, wild tone! his rigid look softened involuntarily. "well, you have got one now," he said, bending over to her. "does your arm hurt you much?" "yes,--but i can bear it. what vexes me is that i shall have to give up work for a bit.--mr. raeburn!" "yes." his heart beat. "we may meet often--mayn't we?--at lady winterbourne's--or in the country? couldn't we be friends? you don't know how often--" she turned away her weary head a moment--gathered strength to begin again--"--how often i have regretted--last year. i see now--that i behaved--more unkindly"--her voice was almost a whisper--"than i thought then. but it is all done with--couldn't we just be good friends--understand each other, perhaps, better than we ever did?" she kept her eyes closed, shaken with alternate shame and daring. as for him, he was seized with overpowering dumbness and chill. what was really in his mind was the terrace--was wharton's advancing figure. but her state--the moment--coerced him. "we could not be anything but friends," he said gently, but with astonishing difficulty; and then could find nothing more to say. she knew his reserve, however, and would not this time be repelled. she put out her hand. "no!" she said, looking at it and withdrawing it with a shudder; "oh no!" then suddenly a passion of tears and trembling overcame her. she leant against the side of the cab, struggling in vain to regain her self-control, gasping incoherent things about the woman she had not been able to save. he tried to soothe and calm her, his own heart wrung. but she hardly heard him. at last they turned into maine street, and she saw the gateway of brown's buildings. "here we are," she said faintly, summoning all her will; "do you know you will have to help me across that court, and upstairs--then i shan't be any more trouble." so, leaning on raeburn's arm, marcella made her slow progress across the court of brown's buildings and through the gaping groups of children. then at the top of her flight of steps she withdrew herself from him with a wan smile. "now i am home," she said. "good-bye!" aldous looked round him well at brown's buildings as he departed. then he got into a hansom, and drove to lady winterbourne's house, and implored her to fetch and nurse marcella boyce, using her best cleverness to hide all motion of his in the matter. after which he spent--poor aldous!--one of the most restless and miserable nights of his life. chapter xi. marcella was sitting in a deep and comfortable chair at the open window of lady winterbourne's drawing-room. the house--in james street, buckingham gate--looked out over the exercising ground of the great barracks in front, and commanded the greenery of st. james's park to the left. the planes lining the barrack railings were poor, wilted things, and london was as hot as ever. still the charm of these open spaces of sky and park, after the high walls and innumerable windows of brown's buildings, was very great; marcella wanted nothing more but to lie still, to dally with a book, to dream as she pleased, and to be let alone. lady winterbourne and her married daughter, lady ermyntrude, were still out, engaged in the innumerable nothings of the fashionable afternoon. marcella had her thoughts to herself. but they were not of a kind that any one need have wished to share. in the first place, she was tired of idleness. in the early days after lady winterbourne had carried her off, the soft beds and sofas, the trained service and delicate food of this small but luxurious house had been so pleasant to her that she had scorned herself for a greedy sybaritic temper, delighted by any means to escape from plain living. but she had been here a fortnight, and was now pining to go back to work. her mood was too restless and transitional to leave her long in love with comfort and folded hands. she told herself that she had no longer any place among the rich and important people of this world; far away beyond these parks and palaces, in the little network of dark streets she knew, lay the problems and the cares that were really hers, through which her heart was somehow wrestling--must somehow wrestle--its passionate way. but her wrenched arm was still in a sling, and was, moreover, under-going treatment at the hands of a clever specialist; and she could neither go home, as her mother had wished her to do, nor return to her nursing--a state of affairs which of late had made her a little silent and moody. on the whole she found her chief pleasure in the two weekly visits she paid to the woman whose life, it now appeared, she _had_ saved--probably at some risk of her own. the poor victim would go scarred and maimed through what remained to her of existence. but she lived; and--as marcella and lady winterbourne and raeburn had abundantly made up their minds--would be permanently cared for and comforted in the future. alas! there were many things that stood between marcella and true rest. she had been woefully disappointed, nay wounded, as to the results of that tragic half-hour which for the moment had seemed to throw a bridge of friendship over those painful, estranging memories lying between her and aldous raeburn. he had called two or three times since she had been with lady winterbourne; he had done his best to make her inevitable appearance as a witness in the police-court, as easy to her as possible; the man who had stood by her through such a scene could do no less, in common politeness and humanity. but each time they met his manner had been formal and constrained; there had been little conversation; and she had been left to the bitterness of feeling that she had made a strange if not unseemly advance, of which he must think unkindly, since he had let it count with him so little. childishly, angrily--_she wanted him to be friends!_ why shouldn't he? he would certainly marry betty macdonald in time, whatever mr. hallin might say. then why not put his pride away and be generous? their future lives must of necessity touch each other, for they were bound to the same neighbourhood, the same spot of earth. she knew herself to be her father's heiress. mellor must be hers some day; and before that day, whenever her father's illness, of which she now understood the incurable though probably tedious nature, should reach a certain stage, she must go home and take up her life there again. why embitter such a situation?--make it more difficult for everybody concerned? why not simply bury the past and begin again? in her restlessness she was inclined to think herself much wiser and more magnanimous than he. meanwhile in the winterbourne household she was living among people to whom aldous raeburn was a dear and familiar companion, who admired him with all their hearts, and felt a sympathetic interest alike in his private life and his public career. their circle, too, was his circle; and by means of it she now saw aldous in his relations to his equals and colleagues, whether in the ministry or the house. the result was a number of new impressions which she half resented, as we may resent the information that some stranger will give us upon a subject we imagined ourselves better acquainted with than anybody else. the promise of raeburn's political position struck her quick mind with a curious surprise. she could not explain it as she had so often tacitly explained his place in brookshire--by the mere accidents of birth. after all, aristocratic as we still are, no party can now afford to choose its men by any other criterion than personal profitableness. and a man nowadays is in the long run personally profitable, far more by what he is than by what he has--so far at least has "progress" brought us. she saw then that this quiet, strong man, with his obvious defects of temperament and manner, had already gained a remarkable degree of "consideration," using the word in its french sense, among his political contemporaries. he was beginning to be reckoned upon as a man of the future by an inner circle of persons whose word counted and carried; while yet his name was comparatively little known to the public. marcella, indeed, had gathered her impression from the most slight and various sources--mostly from the phrases, the hints, the manner of men already themselves charged with the most difficult and responsible work of england. above all things did she love and admire power--the power of personal capacity. it had been the secret, it was still half the secret, of wharton's influence with her. she saw it here under wholly different conditions and accessories. she gave it recognition with a kind of unwillingness. all the same, raeburn took a new place in her imagination. then--apart from the political world and its judgments--the intimacy between him and the winterbourne family showed her to him in many new aspects. to lady winterbourne, his mother's dear and close friend, he was almost a son; and nothing could be more charming than the affectionate and playful tolerance with which he treated her little oddities and weaknesses. and to all her children he was bound by the memories and kindnesses of many years. he was the godfather of lady ermyntrude's child; the hero and counsellor of the two sons, who were both in parliament, and took his lead in many things; while there was no one with whom lord winterbourne could more comfortably discuss county or agricultural affairs. in the old days marcella had somehow tended to regard him as a man of few friends. and in a sense it was so. he did not easily yield himself; and was often thought dull and apathetic by strangers. but here, amid these old companions, his delicacy and sweetness of disposition had full play; and although, now that marcella was in their house, he came less often, and was less free with them than usual, she saw enough to make her wonder a little that they were all so kind and indulgent to _her_, seeing that they cared so much for him and all that affected him. well! she was often judged, humbled, reproached. yet there was a certain irritation in it. was it all her own fault that in her brief engagement she had realised him so little? her heart was sometimes oddly sore; her conscience full of smart; but there were moments when she was as combative as ever. nor had certain other experiences of this past fortnight been any more soothing to this sore craving sense of hers. it appeared very soon that nothing would have been easier for her had she chosen than to become the lion of the later season. the story of the batton street tragedy had, of course, got into the papers, and had been treated there with the usual adornments of the "new journalism." the world which knew the raeburns or knew of them--comparatively a large world--fell with avidity on the romantic juxtaposition of names. to lose your betrothed as aldous raeburn had lost his, and then to come across her again in this manner and in these circumstances--there was a dramatic neatness about it to which the careless fate that governs us too seldom attains. london discussed the story a good deal; and would have liked dearly to see and to exhibit the heroine. mrs. lane in particular, the hostess of the house of commons dinner, felt that she had claims, and was one of the first to call at lady winterbourne's and see her guest. she soon discovered that marcella had no intention whatever of playing the lion; and must, in fact, avoid excitement and fatigue. but she had succeeded in getting the girl to come to her once or twice of an afternoon to meet two or three people. it was better for the wounded arm that its owner should walk than drive; and mrs. lane lived at a convenient distance, at a house in piccadilly, just across the green park. here then, as in james street, marcella had met in discreet succession a few admiring and curious persons, and had tasted some of the smaller sweets of fame. but the magnet that drew her to the lanes' house had been no craving for notoriety; at the present moment she was totally indifferent to what perhaps constitutionally she might have liked; the attraction had been simply the occasional presence there of harry wharton. he excited, puzzled, angered, and commanded her more than ever. she could not keep herself away from the chance of meeting him. and lady winterbourne neither knew him, nor apparently wished to know him--a fact which probably tended to make marcella obstinate. yet what pleasure had there been after all in these meetings! again and again she had seen him surrounded there by pretty and fashionable women, with some of whom he was on amazingly easy terms, while with all of them he talked their language, and so far as she could see to a great extent lived their life. the contradiction of the house of commons evening returned upon her perpetually. she thought she saw in many of his new friends a certain malicious triumph in the readiness with which the young demagogue had yielded to their baits. no doubt they were at least as much duped as he. like hallin, she did not believe, that at bottom he was the man to let himself be held by silken bonds if it should be to his interest to break them. but, meanwhile, his bearing among these people--the claims they and their amusement made upon his time and his mind--seemed to this girl, who watched them, with her dark, astonished eyes, a kind of treachery to his place and his cause. it was something she had never dreamed of; and it roused her contempt and irritation. then as to herself. he had been all eagerness in his enquiries after her from mrs. lane; and he never saw her in the piccadilly drawing-room that he did not pay her homage, often with a certain extravagance, a kind of appropriation, which mrs. lane secretly thought in bad taste, and marcella sometimes resented. on the other hand, things jarred between them frequently. from day to day he varied. she had dreamt of a great friendship; but instead, it was hardly possible to carry on the thread of their relation from meeting to meeting with simplicity and trust. on the terrace he had behaved, or would have behaved, if she had allowed him, as a lover. when they met again at mrs. lane's he would be sometimes devoted in his old paradoxical, flattering vein; sometimes, she thought, even cool. nay, once or twice he was guilty of curious little neglects towards her, generally in the presence of some great lady or other. on one of these occasions she suddenly felt herself flushing from brow to chin at the thought--"he does not want any one to suppose for a moment that he wishes to marry me!" it had taken wharton some difficult hours to subdue in her the effects of that one moment's fancy. till then it is the simple truth to say that she had never seriously considered the possibility of marrying him. when it _did_ enter her mind, she saw that it had already entered his--and that he was full of doubts! the perception had given to her manner an increasing aloofness and pride which had of late piqued wharton into efforts from which vanity, and, indeed, something else, could not refrain, if he was to preserve his power. so she was sitting by the window this afternoon, in a mood which had in it neither simplicity nor joy. she was conscious of a certain dull and baffled feeling--a sense of humiliation--which hurt. moreover, the scene of sordid horror she had gone through haunted her imagination perpetually. she was unstrung, and the world weighed upon her--the pity, the ugliness, the confusion of it. * * * * * the muslin curtain beside her suddenly swelled out in a draught of air, and she put out her hand quickly to catch the french window lest it should swing to. some one had opened the door of the room. "_did_ i blow you out of window?" said a girl's voice; and there behind her, in a half-timid attitude, stood betty macdonald, a vision of white muslin, its frills and capes a little tossed by the wind, the pointed face and golden hair showing small and elf-like under the big shady hat. "oh, do come in!" said marcella, shyly; "lady winterbourne will be in directly." "so panton told me," said betty, sinking down on a high stool beside marcella's chair, and taking off her hat; "and panton doesn't tell _me_ any stories _now_--i've trained him. i wonder how many he tells in the day? don't you think there will be a special little corner of purgatory for london butlers? i hope panton will get off easy!" then she laid her sharp chin on her tiny hand, and studied marcella. miss boyce was in the light black dress that minta approved; her pale face and delicate hands stood out from it with a sort of noble emphasis. when betty had first heard of marcella boyce as the heroine of a certain story, she had thought of her as a girl one would like to meet, if only to prick her somehow for breaking the heart of a good man. now that she saw her close she felt herself near to falling in love with her. moreover, the incident of the fight and of miss boyce's share in it had thrilled a creature all susceptibility and curiosity; and the little merry thing would sit hushed, looking at the heroine of it, awed by the thought of what a girl only two years older than herself must have already seen of sin and tragedy, envying her with all her heart, and by contrast honesty despising--for the moment--that very happy and popular person, betty macdonald! "do you like being alone?" she asked marcella, abruptly. marcella coloured. "well, i was just getting very tired of my own company," she said. "i was very glad to see you come in." "were you?" said betty, joyously, with a little gleam in her pretty eyes. then suddenly the golden head bent forward. "may i kiss you?" she said, in the wistfullest, eagerest voice. marcella smiled, and, laying her hand on betty's, shyly drew her. "that's better!" said betty, with a long breath. "that's the second milestone; the first was when i saw you on the terrace. couldn't you mark all your friendships by little white stones? i could. but the horrid thing is when you have to mark them back again! nobody ever did that with you!" "because i have no friends," said marcella, quickly; then, when betty clapped her hands in amazement at such a speech, she added quickly with a smile, "except a few i make poultices for." "there!" said betty, enviously, "to think of being really _wanted_--for poultices--or, anything! i never was wanted in my life! when i die they'll put on my poor little grave-- "she's buried here--that hizzie betty; she did na gude--so don't ee fret ye! "--oh, there they are!"--she ran to the window--"lady winterbourne and ermyntrude. doesn't it make you laugh to see lady winterbourne doing her duties? she gets into her carriage after lunch as one might mount a tumbril. i expect to hear her tell the coachman to drive to the scaffold at hyde park corner.' she looks the unhappiest woman in england--and all the time ermyntrude declares she likes it, and wouldn't do without her season for the world! she gives ermyntrude a lot of trouble, but she _is_ a dear--a naughty dear--and mothers are _such_ a chance! ermyntrude! _where_ did you get that bonnet? you got it without me--and my feelings won't stand it!" lady ermyntrude and betty threw themselves on a sofa together, chattering and laughing. lady winterbourne came up to marcella and enquired after her. she was still slowly drawing off her gloves, when the drawing-room door opened again. "tea, panton!" said lady winterbourne, without turning her head, and in the tone of lady macbeth. but the magnificent butler took no notice. "lady selina farrell!" he announced in a firm voice. lady winterbourne gave a nervous start; then, with the air of a person cut out of wood, made a slight advance, and held out a limp hand to her visitor. "won't you sit down?" she said. anybody who did not know her would have supposed that she had never seen lady selina before. in reality she and the alresfords were cousins. but she did not like lady selina, and never took any pains to conceal it--a fact which did not in the smallest degree interfere with the younger lady's performance of her family duties. lady selina found a seat with easy aplomb, put up her bejewelled fingers to draw off her veil, and smilingly prepared herself for tea. she enquired of betty how she was enjoying herself, and of lady ermyntrude how her husband and baby in the country were getting on without her. the tone of this last question made the person addressed flush and draw herself up. it was put as banter, but certainly conveyed that lady ermyntrude was neglecting her family for the sake of dissipations. betty meanwhile curled herself up in a corner of the sofa, letting one pretty foot swing over the other, and watching the new-comer with a malicious eye, which instantly and gleefully perceived that lady selina thought her attitude ungraceful. marcella, of course, was greeted and condoled with--lady selina, however, had seen her since the tragedy--and then lady winterbourne, after every item of her family news, and every symptom of her own and her husband's health had been rigorously enquired into, began to attempt some feeble questions of her own--how, for instance, was lord alresford's gout? lady selina replied that he was well, but much depressed by the political situation. no doubt ministers had done their best, but he thought two or three foolish mistakes had been made during the session. certain blunders ought at all hazards to have been avoided. he feared that the party and the country might have to pay dearly for them. but _he_ had done his best. lady winterbourne, whose eldest son was a junior whip, had been the recipient, since the advent of the new cabinet, of so much rejoicing over the final exclusion of "that vain old idiot, alresford," from any further chances of muddling a public department, that lady selina's talk made her at once nervous and irritable. she was afraid of being indiscreet; yet she longed to put her visitor down. in her odd disjointed way, too, she took a real interest in politics. her craving idealist nature--mated with a cheery sportsman husband who laughed at her, yet had made her happy--was always trying to reconcile the ends of eternal justice with the measures of the tory party. it was a task of sisyphus; but she would not let it alone. "i do not agree with you," she said with cold shyness in answer to lady selina's concluding laments--"i am told--our people say--we are doing very well--except that the session is likely to be dreadfully long." lady selina raised both her eyebrows and her shoulders. "_dear_ lady winterbourne! you really mean it?" she said with the indulgent incredulity one shows to the simple-minded--"but just think! the session will go on, every one says, till _quite_ the end of september. isn't that enough of itself to make a party discontented? _all_ our big measures are in dreadful arrears. and my father believes so _much_ of the friction might have been avoided. he is all in favour of doing more for labour. he thinks these labour men might have been easily propitiated without anything revolutionary. it's no good supposing that these poor starving people will wait for ever!" "oh!" said lady winterbourne, and sat staring at her visitor. to those who knew its author well, the monosyllable could not have been more expressive. lady winterbourne's sense of humour had no voice, but inwardly it was busy with lord alresford as the "friend of the poor." _alresford_!--the narrowest and niggardliest tyrant alive, so far as his own servants and estate were concerned. and as to lady selina, it was well known to the winterbourne cousinship that she could never get a maid to stay with her six months. "what did _you_ think of mr. wharton's speech the other night?" said lady selina, bending suavely across the tea-table to marcella. "it was very interesting," said marcella, stiffly--perfectly conscious that the name had pricked the attention of everybody in the room, and angry with her cheeks for reddening. "wasn't it?" said lady selina, heartily. "you can't _do_ those things, of course! but you should show every sympathy to the clever enthusiastic young men--the men like that--shouldn't you? that's what my father says. he says we've got to win them. we've got somehow to make them feel us their friends--or we shall _all_ go to ruin! they have the voting power--and we are the party of education, of refinement. if we can only lead that kind of man to see the essential justice of our cause--and at the same time give them our help--in reason--show them we want to be their friends--wouldn't it be best? i don't know whether i put it rightly--you know so much about these things! but we can't undo ' --can we? we must get round it somehow--mustn't we? and my father thinks ministers so unwise! but perhaps"--and lady selina drew herself back with a more gracious smile than ever--"i ought not to be saying these things to you--of course i know you _used_ to think us conservatives very bad people--but mr. wharton tells me, perhaps you don't think _quite_ so hardly of us as you used?" lady selina's head in its paris bonnet fell to one side in a gentle interrogative sort of way. something roused in marcella. "our cause?" she repeated, while the dark eye dilated--"i wonder what you mean?" "well, i mean--" said lady selina, seeking for the harmless word, in the face of this unknown explosive-looking girl--"i mean, of course, the cause of the educated--of the people who have made the country." "i think," said marcella, quietly, "you mean the cause of the rich, don't you?" "marcella!" cried lady winterbourne, catching at the tone rather than words--"i thought you didn't feel like that any more--not about the distance between the poor and the rich--and our tyranny--and its being hopeless--and the poor always hating us--i thought you changed." and forgetting lady selina, remembering only the old talks at mellor, lady winterbourne bent forward and laid an appealing hand on marcella's arm. marcella turned to her with an odd look. "if you only knew," she said, "how much more possible it is to think well of the rich, when you are living amongst the poor!" "ah! you must be at a distance from us to do us justice?" enquired lady selina, settling her bracelets with a sarcastic lip. "_i_ must," said marcella, looking, however, not at her, but at lady winterbourne. "but then, you see,"--she caressed her friend's hand with a smile--"it is so easy to throw some people into opposition!" "dreadfully easy!" sighed lady winterbourne. the flush mounted again in the girl's cheek. she hesitated, then felt driven to explanations. "you see--oddly enough"--she pointed away for an instant to the north-east through the open window--"it's when i'm over there--among the people who have nothing--that it does me good to remember that there are persons who live in james street, buckingham gate!" "my dear! i don't understand," said lady winterbourne, studying her with her most perplexed and tragic air. "well, isn't it simple?" said marcella, still holding her hand and looking up at her. "it comes, i suppose, of going about all day in those streets and houses, among people who live in one room--with not a bit of prettiness anywhere--and no place to be alone in, or to rest in. i come home and _gloat_ over all the beautiful dresses and houses and gardens i can think of!" "but don't you _hate_ the people that have them?" said betty, again on her stool, chin in hand. "no! it doesn't seem to matter to me then what kind of people they are. and i don't so much want to take from them and give to the others. i only want to be sure that the beauty, and the leisure, and the freshness are _some_where--not lost out of the world." "how strange!--in a life like yours--that one should think so much of the _ugliness_ of being poor--more than of suffering or pain," said betty, musing. "well--in some moods--you do--_i_ do!" said marcella; "and it is in those moods that i feel least resentful of wealth. if i say to myself that the people who have all the beauty and the leisure are often selfish and cruel--after all they die out of their houses and their parks, and their pictures, in time, like the shell-fish out of its shell. the beauty and the grace which they created or inherited remain. and why should one be envious of _them_ personally? they have had the best chances in the world and thrown them away--are but poor animals at the end! at any rate i can't hate them--they seem to have a function--when i am moving about drury lane!" she added with a smile. "but how can one help being ashamed?" said lady winterbourne, as her eyes wandered over her pretty room, and she felt herself driven somehow into playing devil's advocate. "no! no!" said marcella, eagerly, "don't be ashamed! as to the people who make beauty more beautiful--who share it and give it--i often feel as if i could say to them on my knees, never, _never_ be ashamed merely of being rich--of living with beautiful things, and having time to enjoy them! one might as well be ashamed of being strong rather than a cripple, or having two eyes rather than one!" "oh, but, my dear!" cried lady winterbourne, piteous and bewildered, "when one has all the beauty and the freedom--and other people must _die_ without any--" "oh, i know, i _know_!" said marcella, with a quick gesture of despair; "that's what makes the world the world. and one begins with thinking it can be changed--that it _must_ and _shall_ be changed!--that everybody could have wealth--could have beauty and rest, and time to think, that is to say--if things were different--if one could get socialism--if one could beat down the capitalist--if one could level down, and level up, till everybody had _l._ a year. one turns and fingers the puzzle all day long. it seems so _near_ coming right--one guesses a hundred ways in which it might be done! then after a while one stumbles upon doubt--one begins to see that it never _will_, never _can_ come right--not in any mechanical way of that sort--that _that_ isn't what was meant!" her voice dropped drearily. betty macdonald gazed at her with a girl's nascent adoration. lady winterbourne was looking puzzled and unhappy, but absorbed like betty in marcella. lady selina, studying the three with smiling composure, was putting on her veil, with the most careful attention to fringe and hairpins. as for ermyntrude, she was no longer on the sofa; she had risen noiselessly, finger on lip, almost at the beginning of marcella's talk, to greet a visitor. she and he were standing at the back of the room, in the opening of the conservatory, unnoticed by any of the group in the bow window. "don't you think," said lady selina, airily, her white fingers still busy with her bonnet, "that it would be a very good thing to send all the radicals--the well-to-do radicals i mean--to live among the poor? it seems to teach people such extremely useful things!" marcella straightened herself as though some one had touched her impertinently. she looked round quickly. "i wonder what you suppose it teaches?" "well," said lady selina, a little taken aback and hesitating; "well! i suppose it teaches a person to be content--and not to cry for the moon!" "you _think_," said marcella, slowly, "that to live among the poor can teach any one--any one that's _human_--to be _content_!" her manner had the unconscious intensity of emphasis, the dramatic force that came to her from another blood than ours. another woman could hardly have fallen into such a tone without affectation--without pose. at this moment certainly betty, who was watching her, acquitted her of either, and warmly thought her a magnificent creature. lady selina's feeling simply was that she had been roughly addressed by her social inferior. she drew herself up. "as i understand you," she said stiffly, "you yourself confessed that to live with poverty had led you to think more reasonably of wealth." suddenly a movement of lady ermyntrude's made the speaker turn her head. she saw the pair at the end of the room, looked astonished, then smiled. "why, mr. raeburn! where have you been hiding yourself during this great discussion? most consoling, wasn't it--on the whole--to us west end people?" she threw back a keen glance at marcella. lady ermyntrude and raeburn came forward. "i made him be quiet," said ermyntrude, not looking, however, quite at her ease; "it would have been a shame to interrupt." "i think so, indeed!" said lady selina, with emphasis. "good-bye, dear lady winterbourne; good-bye, miss boyce! you have comforted me very much! of _course_ one is sorry for the poor; but it is a great thing to hear from anybody who knows as much about it as _you_ do, that--after all--it is no crime--to possess a little!" she stood smiling, looking from the girl to the man--then, escorted by raeburn in his very stiffest manner, she swept out of the room. when aldous came back, with a somewhat slow and hesitating step, he approached marcella, who was standing silent by the window, and asked after the lame arm. he was sorry, he said, to see that it was still in its sling. his tone was a little abrupt. only lady winterbourne saw the quick nervousness of the eyes, "oh! thank you," said marcella, coldly, "i shall get back to work next week." she stooped and took up her book. "i must please go and write some letters," she said, in answer to lady winterbourne's flurried look. and she walked away. betty and lady ermyntrude also went to take off their things. "aldous!" said lady winterbourne, holding out her hand to him. he took it, glanced unwillingly at her wistful, agitated face, pressed the hand, and let it go. "isn't it sad," said his old friend, unable to help herself, "to see her battling like this with life--with thought--all alone? isn't it sad, aldous?" "yes," he said. then, after a pause, "why _doesn't_ she go home? my patience gives out when i think of mrs. boyce." "oh! it isn't mrs. boyce's fault," said lady winterbourne, hopelessly. "and i don't know why one should be sorry for her particularly--why one should want her to change her life again. she does it splendidly. only i never, _never_ feel that she is a bit happy in it." it was hallin's cry over again. he said nothing for a moment; then he forced a smile. "well! neither you nor i can help it, can we?" he said. the grey eyes looked at her steadily--bitterly. lady winterbourne, with the sensation of one who, looking for softness, has lit on granite, changed the subject. meanwhile, marcella upstairs was walking restlessly up and down. she could hardly keep herself from rushing off--back to brown's buildings at once. _he_ in the room while she was saying those things! lady selina's words burnt in her ears. her morbid, irritable sense was all one vibration of pride and revolt. apology--appeal--under the neatest comedy guise! of course!--now that lord-maxwell was dying, and the ill-used suitor was so much the nearer to his earldom. a foolish girl had repented her of her folly--was anxious to make those concerned understand--what more simple? her nerves were strained and out of gear. tears came in a proud, passionate gush; and she must needs allow herself the relief of them. * * * * * meanwhile, lady selina had gone home full of new and uncomfortable feelings. she could not get marcella boyce out of her head--neither as she had just seen her, under the wing of "that foolish woman, madeleine winterbourne," nor as she had seen her first, on the terrace with harry wharton. it did not please lady selina to feel herself in any way eclipsed or even rivalled by such an unimportant person as this strange and ridiculous girl. yet it crossed her mind with a stab, as she lay resting on the sofa in her little sitting-room before dinner, that never in all her thirty-five years had any human being looked into _her_ face with the same alternations of eagerness and satisfied pleasure she had seen on harry wharton's, as he and miss boyce strolled the terrace together--nor even with such a look as that silly baby betty macdonald had put on, as she sat on the stool at the heroine's feet. there was to be a small dinner-party at alresford house that night. wharton was to be among the guests. he was fast becoming one of the _habitues_ of the house, and would often stay behind to talk to lady selina when the guests were gone, and lord alresford was dozing peacefully in a deep arm-chair. lady selina lay still in the evening light, and let her mind, which worked with extraordinary shrewdness and force in the grooves congenial to it, run over some possibilities of the future. she was interrupted by the entrance of her maid, who, with the quickened breath and heightened colour she could not repress when speaking to her formidable mistress, told her that one of the younger housemaids was very ill. lady selina enquired, found that the doctor who always attended the servants had been sent for, and thought that the illness _might_ turn to rheumatic fever. "oh, send her off to the hospital at once!" said lady selina. "let mrs. stewart see dr. briggs first thing in the morning, and make arrangements. you understand?" the girl hesitated, and the candles she was lighting showed that she had been crying. "if your ladyship would but let her stay," she said timidly, "we'd all take our turns at nursing her. she comes from ireland, perhaps you'll remember, my lady. she's no friends in london, and she's frightened to death of going to the hospital." "that's nonsense!" said lady selina, sternly. "do you think i can have all the work of the house put out because some one is ill? she might die even--one never knows. just tell mrs. stewart to arrange with her about her wages, and to look out for somebody else at once." the girl's mouth set sullenly as she went about her work--put out the shining satin dress, the jewels, the hairpins, the curling-irons, the various powders and cosmetics that were wanted for lady selina's toilette, and all the time there was ringing in her ears the piteous cry of a little irish girl, clinging like a child to her only friend: "o marie! dear marie! do get her to let me stay--i'll do everything the doctor tells me--i'll make _haste_ and get well--i'll give no trouble. and it's all along of the work--and the damp up in these rooms--the doctor said so." an hour later lady selina was in the stately drawing-room of alresford house, receiving her guests. she was out of sorts and temper, and though wharton arrived in due time, and she had the prospect to enliven her during dinner--when he was of necessity parted from her by people of higher rank--of a _tête-à-tête_ with him before the evening was over, the dinner went heavily. the duke on her right hand, and the dean on her left, were equally distasteful to her. neither food nor wine had savour; and once, when in an interval of talk she caught sight of her father's face and form at the further end, growing more vacant and decrepit week by week, she was seized with a sudden angry pang of revolt and repulsion. her father wearied and disgusted her. life was often triste and dull in the great house. yet, when the old man should have found his grave, she would be a much smaller person than she was now, and the days would be so much the more tedious. wharton, too, showed less than his usual animation. she said to herself at dinner that he had the face of a man in want of sleep. his young brilliant look was somewhat tarnished, and there was worry in the restless eye. and, indeed, she knew that things had not been going so favourably for him in the house of late--that the stubborn opposition of the little group of men led by wilkins was still hindering that concentration of the party and definition of his own foremost place in it which had looked so close and probable a few weeks before. she supposed he had been exhausting himself, too, over that shocking midland strike. the _clarion_ had been throwing itself into the battle of the men with a monstrous violence, for which she had several times reproached him. when all the guests had gone but wharton, and lord alresford, duly placed for the sake of propriety in his accustomed chair, was safely asleep, lady selina asked what was the matter. "oh, the usual thing!" he said, as he leant against the mantelpiece beside her. "the world's a poor place, and my doll's stuffed with sawdust. did you ever know any doll that wasn't?" she looked up at him a moment without speaking. "which means," she said, "that you can't get your way in the house?" "no," said wharton, meditatively, looking down at his boots. "no--not yet." "you think you will get it some day?" he raised his eyes. "oh yes!" he said; "oh dear, yes!--some day." she laughed. "you had better come over to us." "well, there is always that to think of, isn't there? you can't deny you want all the new blood you can get!" "if you only understood your moment and your chance," she said quickly, "you would make the opportunity and do it at once." he looked at her aggressively. "how easy it comes to you tories to rat!" he said. "thank you! it only means that we are the party of common sense. well, i have been talking to your miss boyce." he started. "where?" "at lady winterbourne's. aldous raeburn was there. your beautiful socialist was very interesting--and rather surprising. she talked of the advantages of wealth; said she had been converted--by living among the poor--had changed her mind, in fact, on many things. we were all much edified--including mr. raeburn. how long do you suppose that business will remain 'off'? to my mind i never saw a young woman more eager to undo a mistake." then she added slowly, "the accounts of lord maxwell get more and more unsatisfactory." wharton stared at her with sparkling eyes. "how little you know her!" he said, not without a tone of contempt. "oh! very well," said lady selina, with the slightest shrug of her white shoulders. he turned to the mantelpiece and began to play with some ornaments upon it. "tell me what she said," he enquired presently. lady selina gave her own account of the conversation. wharton recovered himself. "dear me!" he said, when she stopped. "yes--well--we may see another act. who knows? well, good-night, lady selina." she gave him her hand with her usual aristocrat's passivity, and he went. but it was late indeed that night before she ceased to speculate on what the real effect of her words had been upon him. as for wharton, on his walk home he thought of marcella boyce and of raeburn with a certain fever of jealous vanity which was coming, he told himself, dangerously near to passion. he did not believe lady selina, but nevertheless he felt that her news might drive him into rash steps he could ill afford, and had indeed been doing his best to avoid. meanwhile it was clear to him that the mistress of alresford house had taken an envious dislike to marcella. how plain she had looked to-night in spite of her gorgeous dress! and how intolerable lord alresford grew! chapter xii. but what right had wharton to be thinking of such irrelevant matters as women and love-making at all? he had spoken of public worries to lady selina. in reality his public prospects in themselves were, if anything, improved. it was his private affairs that were rushing fast on catastrophe, and threatening to drag the rest with them. he had never been so hard pressed for money in his life. in the first place his gambling debts had mounted up prodigiously of late. his friends were tolerant and easy-going. but the more tolerant they were the more he was bound to frequent them. and his luck for some time had been monotonously bad. before long these debts must be paid, and some of them--to a figure he shrank from dwelling upon--were already urgent. then as to the _clarion_, it became every week a heavier burden. the expenses of it were enormous; the returns totally inadequate. advertisements were falling off steadily; and whether the working cost were cut down, or whether a new and good man like louis craven, whose letters from the strike district were being now universally read, were put on, the result financially seemed to be precisely the same. it was becoming even a desperate question how the weekly expenses were to be met; so that wharton's usual good temper now deserted him entirely as soon as he had crossed the _clarion_ threshold; bitterness had become the portion of the staff, and even the office boys walked in gloom. yet, at the same time, withdrawing from the business, was almost as difficult as carrying it on. there were rumours in the air which had, already seriously damaged the paper as a saleable concern. wharton, indeed, saw no prospect whatever of selling except at ruinous loss. meanwhile, to bring the paper to an abrupt end would have not only precipitated a number of his financial obligations; it would have been politically, a dangerous confession of failure made at a very critical moment. for what made the whole thing the more annoying was that the _clarion_ had never been so important politically, never so much read by the persons on whom wharton's parliamentary future depended, as it was at this moment. the advocacy of the damesley strike had been so far a stroke of business for wharton as a labour member. it was now the seventh week of the strike, and wharton's "leaders," craven's letters from the seat of war, and the _clarion_ strike fund, which articles and letters had called into existence, were as vigorous as ever. the struggle itself had fallen into two chapters. in the first the metal-workers concerned, both men and women, had stood out for the old wages unconditionally and had stoutly rejected all idea of arbitration. at the end of three or four weeks, however, when grave suffering had declared itself among an already half-starved population, the workers had consented to take part in the appointment of a board of conciliation. this board, including the workmen's delegates, overawed by the facts of foreign competition as they were disclosed by the masters, recommended terms which would have amounted to a victory for the employers. the award was no sooner known in the district than the passionate indignation of the great majority of the workers knew no bounds. meetings were held everywhere; the men's delegates at the board were thrown over, and craven, who with his new wife was travelling incessantly over the whole strike area, wrote a letter to the _clarion_ on the award which stated the men's case with extreme ability, was immediately backed up by wharton in a tremendous "leader," and was received among the strikers with tears almost of gratitude and enthusiasm. since then all negotiations had been broken off. the _clarion_ had gone steadily against the masters, against the award, against further arbitration. the theory of the "living wage," of which more recent days have heard so much, was preached in other terms, but with equal vigour; and the columns of the _clarion_ bore witness day by day in the long lists of subscriptions to the strike fund, to the effects of its eloquence on the hearts and pockets of englishmen. meanwhile there were strange rumours abroad. it was said that the trade was really on the eve of a complete and striking revolution in its whole conditions--could this labour war be only cleared out of the way. the smaller employers had been for long on the verge of ruin; and the larger men, so report had it, were scheming a syndicate on the american plan to embrace the whole industry, cut down the costs of production, and regulate the output. but for this large capital would be wanted. could capital be got? the state of things in the trade, according to the employers, had been deplorable for years; a large part of the market had been definitely forfeited, so they declared, for good, to germany and belgium. it would take years before even a powerful syndicate could work itself into a thoroughly sound condition. let the men accept the award of the conciliation board; let there be some stable and reasonable prospect of peace between masters and men, say, for a couple of years; and a certain group of bankers would come forward; and all would be well. the men under the syndicate would in time get more than their old wage. _but the award first_; otherwise the plan dropped, and the industry must go its own way to perdition. "'will you walk into my parlour?'" said wharton, scornfully, to the young conservative member who, with a purpose, was explaining these things to him in the library of the house of commons, "the merest trap! and, of course, the men will see it so. who is to guarantee them even the carrying through, much less the success, of your precious syndicate? and, in return for your misty millennium two years hence, the men are to join at once in putting the employers in a stronger position than ever? thank you! the 'rent of ability' in the present state of things is, no doubt, large. but in this particular case the _clarion_ will go on doing its best--i promise you--to nibble some of it away!" the conservative member rose in indignation. "i should be sorry to have as many starving people on my conscience as you'll have before long!" he said as he took up his papers. at that moment denny's rotund and square-headed figure passed along the corridor, to which the library door stood open. "well, if i thrive upon it as well as denny does, i shall do!" returned wharton, with his usual caustic good-humour, as his companion departed. and it delighted him to think as he walked home that denny, who had again of late made himself particularly obnoxious in the house of commons, on two or three occasions, to the owner of the _clarion_, had probably instigated the quasi-overtures he had just rejected, and must be by now aware of their result. then he sent for craven to come and confer with him. craven accordingly came up from the midlands, pale, thin, and exhausted, with the exertions and emotions of seven weeks' incessant labour. yet personally wharton found him, as before, dry and unsympathetic; and disliked him, and his cool, ambiguous manner, more than ever. as to the strike, however, they came to a complete understanding. the _clarion_, or rather the _clarion_ fund, which was doing better and better, held the key of the whole situation. if that fund could be maintained, the men could hold out. in view of the possible formation of the syndicate, craven denounced the award with more fierceness than ever, maintaining the redoubled importance of securing the men's terms before the syndicate was launched. wharton promised him with glee that he should be supported to the bitter end. _if_, that is to say--a proviso he did not discuss with craven--the _clarion_ itself could be kept going. in august a large sum, obtained two years before on the security of new "plant," would fall due. the time for repayment had already been extended; and wharton had ascertained that no further extension was possible. well! bankruptcy would be a piquant interlude in his various social and political enterprises! how was it to be avoided? he had by now plenty of rich friends in the city or elsewhere, but none, as he finally decided, likely to be useful to him at the present moment. for the amount of money that he required was large--larger, indeed, than he cared to verify with any strictness, and the security that he could offer, almost nil. as to friends in the city, indeed, the only excursion of a business kind that he had made into those regions since his election was now adding seriously to his anxieties--might very well turn out, unless the matter were skilfully managed, to be one of the blackest spots on his horizon. in the early days of his parliamentary life, when, again, mostly for the _clarion's_ sake, money happened to be much wanted, he had become director of what promised to be an important company, through the interest and good nature of a new and rich acquaintance, who had taken a liking to the young member. the company had been largely "boomed," and there had been some very profitable dealing in the original shares. wharton had made two or three thousand pounds, and contributed both point and finish to some of the early prospectuses. then, after six months, he had withdrawn from the board, under apprehensions that had been gradually realised with alarming accuracy. things, indeed, had been going very wrong indeed; there were a number of small investors; and the annual meeting of the company, to be held now in some ten days, promised a storm. wharton discovered, partly to his own amazement, for he was a man who quickly forgot, that during his directorate he had devised or sanctioned matters that were not at all likely to commend themselves to the shareholders, supposing the past were really sifted. the ill-luck of it was truly stupendous; for on the whole he had kept himself financially very clean since he had become a member; having all through a jealous eye to his political success. * * * * * as to the political situation, nothing could be at once more promising or more anxious! an important meeting of the whole labour group had been fixed for august , by which time it was expected that a great measure concerning labour would be returned from the house of lords with highly disputable amendments. the last six weeks of the session would be in many ways more critical for labour than its earlier months had been; and it would be proposed by bennett, at the meeting on the th, to appoint a general chairman of the party, in view of a campaign which would fill the remainder of the session and strenuously occupy the recess. that bennett would propose the name of the member for west brookshire was perfectly well known to wharton and his friends. that the nomination would meet with the warmest hostility from wilkins and a small group of followers was also accurately forecast. to this day, then, wharton looked forward as to the crisis of his parliamentary fortunes. all his chances, financial or social, must now be calculated with reference to it. every power, whether of combat or finesse, that he commanded must be brought to bear upon the issue. what was, however, most remarkable in the man and the situation at the moment was that, through all these gathering necessities, he was by no means continuously anxious or troubled in his mind. during these days of july he gave himself, indeed, whenever he could, to a fatalist oblivion of the annoyances of life, coupled with a passionate pursuit of all those interests where his chances were still good and the omens still with him. especially--during the intervals of ambition, intrigue, journalism, and unsuccessful attempts to raise money--had he meditated the beauty of marcella boyce and the chances and difficulties of his relation to her. as he saw her less, he thought of her more, instinctively looking to her for the pleasure and distraction that life was temporarily denying him elsewhere. at the same time, curiously enough, the stress of his financial position was reflected even in what, to himself, at any rate, he was boldly beginning to call his "passion" for her. it had come to his knowledge that mr. boyce had during the past year succeeded beyond all expectation in clearing the mellor estate. he had made skilful use of a railway lately opened on the edge of his property; had sold building land in the neighbourhood of a small country town on the line, within a convenient distance of london; had consolidated and improved several of his farms and relet them at higher rents; was, in fact, according to wharton's local informant, in a fair way to be some day, if he lived, quite as prosperous as his grandfather, in spite of old scandals and invalidism. wharton knew, or thought he knew, that he would not live, and that marcella would be his heiress. the prospect was not perhaps brilliant, but it was something; it affected the outlook. although, however, this consideration counted, it was, to do him justice, _marcella_, the creature herself, that he desired. but for her presence in his life he would probably have gone heiress-hunting with the least possible delay. as it was, his growing determination to win her, together with his advocacy of the damesley workers--amply sufficed, during the days that followed his evening talk with lady selina, to maintain his own illusions about himself and so to keep up the zest of life. yes!--to master and breathe passion into marcella boyce, might safely be reckoned on, he thought, to hurry a man's blood. and after it had gone so far between them--after he had satisfied himself that her fancy, her temper, her heart, were all more or less occupied with him--was he to see her tamely recovered by aldous raeburn--by the man whose advancing parliamentary position was now adding fresh offence to the old grievance and dislike? no! not without a dash--a throw for it! for a while, after lady selina's confidences, jealous annoyance, together with a certain reckless state of nerves, turned him almost into the pining lover. for he could not see marcella. she came no more to mrs. lane; and the house in james street was not open to him. he perfectly understood that the winterbournes did not want to know him. at last mrs. lane, a shrewd little woman with a half contemptuous liking for wharton, let him know--on the strength of a chance meeting with lady ermyntrude--that the winterbournes would be at the masterton party on the th. they had persuaded miss boyce to stay for it, and she would go back to her work the monday after. wharton carelessly replied that he did not know whether he would be able to put in an appearance at the mastertons'. he might be going out of town. mrs. lane looked at him and said, "oh, really!" with a little laugh. * * * * * lady masterton was the wife of the colonial secretary, and her grand mansion in grosvenor square was the principal rival to alresford house in the hospitalities of the party. her reception on july was to be the last considerable event of a protracted but now dying season. marcella, detained in james street day after day against her will by the weakness of the injured arm and the counsels of her doctor, had at last extracted permission to go back to work on the th; and to please betty macdonald she had promised to go with the winterbournes to the masterton party on the saturday. betty's devotion, shyly as she had opened her proud heart to it, had begun to mean a good deal to her. there was balm in it for many a wounded feeling; and, besides, there was the constant, half eager, half painful interest of watching betty's free and childish ways with aldous raeburn, and of speculating upon what would ultimately come out of them. so, when betty first demanded to know what she was going to wear, and then pouted over the dress shown her, marcella submitted humbly to being "freshened up" at the hands of lady ermyntrude's maid, bought what betty told her, and stood still while betty, who had a genius for such things, chattered, and draped, and suggested. "i wouldn't make you fashionable for the world!" cried betty, with a mouthful of pins, laying down masterly folds of lace and chiffon the while over the white satin with which marcella had provided her. "what was it worth said to me the other day?--ce qu'on porte, mademoiselle? o pas grand'chose!--presque pas de corsage, et pas du tout de manches!'--no, that kind of thing wouldn't suit you. but _distinguished_ you shall be, if i sit up all night to think it out!" in the end betty was satisfied, and could hardly be prevented from hugging marcella there and then, out of sheer delight in her own handiwork, when at last the party emerged from the cloak-room into the mastertons' crowded hall. marcella too felt pleasure in the reflections of herself as they passed up the lavishly bemirrored staircase. the chatter about dress in which she had been living for some days had amused and distracted her; for there were great feminine potentialities in her; though for eighteen months she had scarcely given what she wore a thought, and in her pre-nursing days had been wont to waver between a kind of proud neglect, which implied the secret consciousness of beauty, and an occasional passionate desire to look well. so that she played her part to-night very fairly; pinched betty's arm to silence the elf's tongue; and held herself up as she was told, that betty's handiwork might look its best. but inwardly the girl's mood was very tired and flat. she was pining for her work; pining even for minta hurd's peevish look, and the children to whom she was so easily an earthly providence. in spite of the gradual emptying of london, lady masterton's rooms were very full. marcella found acquaintances. many of the people whom she had met at mrs. lane's, the two cabinet ministers of the house of commons dinner, mr. lane himself--all were glad or eager to recall themselves to her as she stood by lady winterbourne, or made her way half absently through the press. she talked, without shyness--she had never been shy, and was perhaps nearer now to knowing what it might mean than she had been as a schoolgirl--but without heart; her black eye wandering meanwhile, as though in quest. there was a gay sprinkling of uniforms in the crowd, for the speaker was holding a _levée_, and as it grew late his guests began to set towards lady masterton. betty, who had been turning up her nose at the men she had so far smiled upon, all of whom she declared were either bald or seventy, was a little propitiated by the uniforms; otherwise, she pronounced the party very dull. "well, upon my word!" she cried suddenly, in a tone that made marcella turn upon her. the child was looking very red and very upright--was using her fan with great vehemence, and frank leven was humbly holding out his hand to her. "i don't like being startled," said betty, pettishly. "yes, you _did_ startle me--you did--you did! and then you begin to contradict before i've said a word! i'm sure you've been contradicting all the way upstairs--and why don't you say 'how do you do?' to miss boyce?" frank, looking very happy, but very nervous, paid his respects rather bashfully to marcella--she laughed to see how betty's presence subdued him--and then gave himself up wholly to betty's tender mercies. marcella observed them with an eager interest she could not wholly explain to herself. it was clear that all thought of anything or anybody else had vanished for frank leven at the sight of betty. marcella guessed, indeed knew, that they had not met for some little time; and she was touched by the agitation and happiness on the boy's handsome face. but betty? what was the secret of her kittenish, teasing ways--or was there any secret? she held her little head very high and chattered very fast--but it was not the same chatter that she gave to marcella, nor, so far as marcella could judge, to aldous raeburn. new elements of character came out in it. it was self-confident, wilful, imperious. frank was never allowed to have an opinion; was laughed at before his words were out of his mouth; was generally heckled, played with, and shaken in a way which seemed alternately to enrage and enchant him. in the case of most girls, such a manner would have meant encouragement; but, as it was betty, no one could be sure. the little thing was a great puzzle to marcella, who had found unexpected reserves in her. she might talk of her love affairs to aldous raeburn; she had done nothing of the sort with her new friend. and in such matters marcella herself was far more reserved than most modern women. "betty!" cried lady winterbourne, "i am going on into the next room." then in a lower tone she said helplessly to marcella: "do make her come on!" marcella perceived that her old friend was in a fidget. stooping her tall head, she said with a smile: "but look how she is amusing herself!" "my dear!--that's just it! if you only knew how her mother--tiresome woman--has talked to me! and the young man has behaved so beautifully till now--has given neither ermyntrude nor me any trouble." was that why betty was leading him such a life? marcella wondered,--then suddenly--was seized with a sick distaste for the whole scene--for betty's love affairs--for her own interest in them--for her own self and personality above all. her great black eyes gazed straight before them, unseeing, over the crowd, the diamonds, the lights; her whole being gave itself to a quick, blind wrestle with some vague overmastering pain, some despair of life and joy to which she could give no name. she was roused by betty's voice: "mr. raeburn! will _you_ tell me who people are? mr. leven's no more use than my fan. just imagine--i asked him who that lady in the tiara is--and he vows he doesn't know! why, it just seems that when you go to oxford, you leave the wits you had before, behind! and then--of course"--betty affected a delicate hesitation--"there's the difficulty of being quite sure that you'll ever get any new ones!--but there--look!--i'm in despair!--she's vanished--and i shall _never_ know!" "one moment!" said raeburn, smiling, "and i will take you in pursuit. she has only gone into the tea-room." his hand touched marcella's. "just a _little_ better," he said, with a sudden change of look, in answer to lady winterbourne's question. "the account to-night is certainly brighter. they begged me not to come, or i should have been off some days ago. and next week, i am thankful to say, they will be home." why should she be standing there, so inhumanly still and silent?--marcella asked herself. why not take courage again--join in--talk--show sympathy? but the words died on her lips. after to-night--thank heaven!--she need hardly see him again. he asked after herself as usual. then, just as he was turning away with betty, he came back to her, unexpectedly. "i should like to tell you about hallin," he said gently. "his sister writes to me that she is happier about him, and that she hopes to be able to keep him away another fortnight. they are at keswick." for an instant there was pleasure in the implication of common ground, a common interest--here if no-where else. then the pleasure was lost in the smart of her own strange lack of self-government as she made a rather stupid and awkward reply. raeburn's eyes rested on her for a moment. there was in them a flash of involuntary expression, which she did not notice--for she had turned away--which no one saw--except betty. then the child followed him to the tea-room, a little pale and pensive. marcella looked after them. in the midst of the uproar about her, the babel of talk fighting against the hungarian band, which was playing its wildest and loudest in the tea-room, she was overcome by a sudden rush of memory. her eyes were tracing the passage of those two figures through the crowd; the man in his black court suit, stooping his refined and grizzled head to the girl beside him, or turning every now and then to greet an acquaintance, with the manner--cordial and pleasant, yet never quite gay even when he smiled--that she, marcella, had begun to notice of late as a new thing; the girl lifting her small face to him, the gold of her hair showing against his velvet sleeve. but the inward sense was busy with a number of other impressions, past, and, as it now seemed, incredible. the little scene when aldous had given her the pearls, returned so long ago--why! she could see the fire blazing in the stone parlour, feel his arm about her!--the drive home after the gairsley meeting--that poignant moment in his sitting-room the night of the ball--his face, his anxious, tender face, as she came down the wide stairs of the court towards him on that terrible evening when she pleaded with him and his grandfather in vain:--had these things, incidents, relations, been ever a real part of the living world? impossible! why, there he was--not ten yards from her--and yet more irrevocably separate from her than if the sahara stretched between them. the note of cold distance in his courteous manner put her further from him than the merest stranger. marcella felt a sudden terror rush through her as she blindly followed lady winterbourne; her limbs trembled under her; she took advantage of a conversation between her companion and the master of the house to sink down for a moment on a settee, where she felt out of sight and notice. what was this intolerable sense of loss and folly, this smarting emptiness, this rage with herself and her life? she only knew that whereas the touch, the eye of aldous raeburn had neither compelled nor thrilled her, so long as she possessed his whole heart and life--_now_--that she had no right to either look or caress; now that he had ceased even to regard her as a friend, and was already perhaps making up that loyal and serious mind of his to ask from another woman the happiness she had denied him; now, when it was absurdly too late, she could-- could what? passionate, wilful creature that she was!--with that breath of something wild and incalculable surging through the inmost places of the soul, she went through a moment of suffering as she sat pale and erect in her corner--brushed against by silks and satins, chattered across by this person and that--such as seemed to bruise all the remaining joy and ease out of life. but only a moment! flesh and blood rebelled. she sprang up from her seat; told herself that she was mad or ill; caught sight of mr. lane coming towards them, and did her best by smile and greeting to attract him to her. "you look very white, my dear miss boyce," said that cheerful and fatherly person. "is it that tiresome arm still? now, don't please go and be a heroine any more!" chapter xiii. meanwhile, in the tea-room, betty was daintily sipping her claret-cup, while aldous stood by her. "no," said betty, calmly, looking straight at the lady in the tiara who was standing by the buffet, "she's not beautiful, and i've torn my dress running after her. there's only one beautiful person here to-night!" aldous found her a seat, and took one himself beside her, in a corner out of the press. but he did not answer her remark. "don't you think so, mr. aldous?" said betty, persisting, but with a little flutter of the pulse. "you mean miss boyce?" he said quietly, as he turned to her. "of course!" cried betty, with a sparkle in her charming eyes; "what _is_ it in her face? it excites me to be near her. one feels that she will just have lived _twice_ as much as the rest of us by the time she comes to the end. you don't mind my talking of her, mr. aldous?" there was an instant's silence on his part. then he said in a constrained voice, looking away from his companion, "i don't _mind_ it, but i am not going to pretend to you that i find it easy to talk of her." "it would be a shame of you to pretend anything," said betty, fervently, "after all i've told you! i confessed all my scrapes to you, turned out all my rubbish bag of a heart--well, nearly all"--she checked herself with a sudden flush--"and you've been as kind to me as any big brother could be. but you're dreadfully lofty, mr. aldous! you keep yourself to yourself. i don't think it's fair!" aldous laughed. "my dear miss betty, haven't you found out by now that i am a good listener and a bad talker? i don't talk of myself or"--he hesitated--"the things that have mattered most to me--because, in the first place, it doesn't come easy to me--and, in the next, i can't, you see, discuss my own concerns without discussing other people's." "oh, good gracious!" said betty, "what you must have been thinking about me! i declare i'll never tell you anything again!"--and, beating her tiny foot upon the ground, she sat, scarlet, looking down at it. aldous made all the smiling excuses he could muster. he had found betty a most beguiling and attaching little companion, both at the court in the easter recess, and during the italian journey. her total lack of reserve, or what appeared so, had been first an amazement to him, and then a positive pleasure and entertainment. to make a friend of him--difficult and scrupulous as he was, and now more than ever--a woman must be at the cost of most of the advances. but, after the first evening with him, betty had made them in profusion, without the smallest demur, though perfectly well aware of her mother's ambitions. there was a tie of cousinship between them, and a considerable difference of age. betty had decided at once that a mother was a dear old goose, and that great friends she and aldous raeburn should be--and, in a sense, great friends they were. aldous was still propitiating her, when lady winterbourne came into the tea-room, followed by marcella. the elder lady threw a hurried and not very happy glance at the pair in the corner. marcella appeared to be in animated talk with a young journalist whom raeburn knew, and did not look their way. "just _one_ thing!" said betty, bending forward and speaking eagerly in aldous's ear. "it was all a mistake--wasn't it? now i know her i feel sure it was. you don't--you don't--really think badly of her?" aldous heard her unwillingly. he was looking away from her towards the buffet, when she saw a change in the eyes--a tightening of the lip--a something keen and hostile in the whole face. "perhaps miss boyce will be less of a riddle to all of us before long!" he said hastily, as though the words escaped him. "shall we get out of this very uncomfortable corner?" betty looked where he had looked, and saw a young man greeting marcella with a manner so emphatic and intimate, that the journalist had instantly moved out of his way. the young man had a noticeable pile of fair curls above a very white and rounded forehead. "who is that talking to miss boyce?" she asked of aldous; "i have seen him, but i can't remember the name." "that is mr. wharton, the member for one of our divisions," said aldous, as he rose from his chair. betty gave a little start, and her brow puckered into a frown. as she too rose, she said resentfully to aldous: "well, you _have_ snubbed me!" as usual, he could not find the effective or clever thing to say. "i did not mean to," he replied simply; but betty, glancing at him, saw something in his face which gripped her heart. a lump rose in her throat. "do let's go and find ermyntrude!" she said. * * * * * but wharton had barely begun his talk with marcella when a gentleman, on his way to the buffet with a cup to set down, touched him on the arm. wharton turned in some astonishment and annoyance. he saw a youngish, good-looking man, well known to him as already one of the most important solicitors in london, largely trusted by many rich or eminent persons. "may i have a word with you presently?" said mr. pearson, in a pleasant undertone. "i have something of interest to say to you, and it occurred to me that i might meet you to-night. excuse my interrupting you." he glanced with admiration at marcella, who had turned away. wharton had a momentary qualm. then it struck him that mr. pearson's manner was decidedly friendly. "in a moment," he said. "we might find a corner, i think, in that further room." he made a motion of the head towards a little boudoir which lay beyond the tea-room. mr. pearson nodded and passed on. wharton returned to marcella, who had fallen back on frank leven. at the approach of the member for west brookshire, lady winterbourne and her daughter had moved severely away to the further end of the buffet. "a tiresome man wants me on business for a moment," he said; then he dropped his voice a little; "but i have been looking forward to this evening, this chance, for days--shall i find you here again in five minutes?" marcella, who had flushed brightly, said that would depend on the time and lady winterbourne. he hurried away with a little gesture of despair. frank followed him with a sarcastic eye. "any one would think he was prime minister already! i never met him yet anywhere that he hadn't some business on hand. why does he behave as though he had the world on his shoulders? your _real_ swells always seem to have nothing to do." "do you know so many busy people?" marcella asked him sweetly. "oh, you shan't put me down, miss boyce!" said the boy, sulkily thrusting his hands into his pockets. "i am going to work like blazes this winter, if only my dons will let a fellow alone. i say, isn't she _ripping_ to-night--betty?" and, pulling his moustache in helpless jealousy and annoyance, he stared at the winterbourne group across the room, which had been now joined by aldous raeburn and betty, standing side by side. "what do you want me to say?" said marcella, with a little cold laugh. "i shall make you worse if i praise her. please put my cup down." at the same moment she saw wharton coming back to her--mr. pearson behind him, smiling, and gently twirling the seals of his watch-chain. she was instantly struck by wharton's look of excitement, and by the manner in which--with a momentary glance aside at the winterbourne party--he approached her. "there is such a charming little room in there," he said, stooping his head to her, "and so cool after this heat. won't you try it?" the energy of his bright eye took possession of her. he led the way; she followed. her dress almost brushed aldous raeburn as she passed. he took her into a tiny room. there was no one else there, and he found a seat for her by an open window, where they were almost hidden from view by a stand of flowers. as he sat down again by her, she saw that a decisive moment had come, and blanched almost to the colour of her dress. oh! what to do! her heart cried out vaguely to some power beyond itself for guidance, then gave itself up again to the wayward thirst for happiness. he took her hand strongly in both his own, and bending towards her as she sat bowered among the scent and colours of the flowers, he made her a passionate declaration. from the first moment that he had seen her under the chiltern beeches, so he vowed, he had felt in her the supreme, incomparable attraction which binds a man to one woman, and one only. his six weeks under her father's roof had produced in him feelings which he knew to be wrong, without thereby finding in himself any power to check them. they had betrayed him into a mad moment, which he had regretted bitterly because it had given her pain. otherwise--his voice dropped and shook, his hand pressed hers--"i lived for months on the memory of that one instant." but he had respected her suffering, her struggle, her need for rest of mind and body. for her sake he had gone away into silence; he had put a force upon himself which had alone enabled him to get through his parliamentary work. then, with his first sight of her in that little homely room and dress--so changed, but so lovely!--everything--admiration, passion--had revived with double strength. since that meeting he must have often puzzled her, as he had puzzled himself. his life had been a series of perplexities. he was not his own master; he was the servant of a cause, in which--however foolishly a mocking habit might have led him at times to be-little his own enthusiasms and hers--his life and honour were engaged; and this cause and his part in it had been for long hampered, and all his clearness of vision and judgment dimmed by the pressure of a number of difficulties and worries he could not have discussed with her--worries practical and financial, connected with the _clarion_, with the experiments he had been carrying out on his estate, and with other troublesome matters. he had felt a thousand times that his fortunes, political or private, were too doubtful and perilous to allow him to ask any woman to share them.--then, again, he had seen her--and his resolution, his scruple, had melted in his breast! well! there were still troubles in front! but he was no longer cowed by them. in spite of them, he dared now to throw himself at her feet, to ask her to come and share a life of combat and of labour, to bring her beauty and her mind to the joint conduct of a great enterprise. to _her_ a man might show his effort and his toil,--from _her_ he might claim a sympathy it would be vain to ask of any smaller woman. then suddenly he broke down. speech seemed to fail him. only his eyes--more intense and piercing under their straight brows than she had ever known them--beseeched her--his hand sought hers. she meanwhile sat in a trance of agitation, mistress neither of reason nor of feeling. she felt his spell, as she had always done. the woman in her thrilled at last to the mere name and neighbourhood of love. the heart in her cried out that pain and loss could only be deadened so--the past could only be silenced by filling the present with movement and warm life. yet what tremors of conscience--what radical distrust of herself and him! and the first articulate words she found to say to him were very much what she had said to aldous so long ago--only filled with a bitterer and more realised content. "after all, what do we know of each other! you don't know me--not as i am. and i feel--" "doubts?" he said, smiling. "do you imagine that that seems anything but natural to me? _i_ can have none; but _you_--after all, we are not quite boy and girl, you and i; we have lived, both of us! but ask yourself--has not destiny brought us together? think of it all!" their eyes met again. hers sank under the penetration, the flame of his. yet, throughout, he was conscious of the doorway to his right, of the figures incessantly moving across it. his own eloquence had convinced and moved himself abundantly. yet, as he saw her yielding, he was filled with the strangest mixture of passion--and a sort of disillusion--almost contempt! if she had turned from him with the dignity worthy of that head and brow, it flashed across him that he could have tasted more of the _abandonment_ of love--have explored his own emotion more perfectly. still, the situation was poignant enough--in one sense complete. was raeburn still there--in that next room? "my answer?" he said to her, pressing her hand as they sat in the shelter of the flowers. for _he_ was aware of the practical facts--the hour, the place--if she was not. she roused herself. "i can't," she said, making a movement to rise, which his strong grasp, however, prevented. "i _can't_ answer you to-night, mr. wharton. i should have much to think over--so much! it might all look quite different to me. you must give me time." "to-morrow?" he said quietly. "no!" she said impetuously, "not to-morrow; i go back to my work, and i must have quiet and time. in a fortnight--not before. i will write." "oh, impossible!" he said, with a little frown. and still holding her, he drew her towards him. his gaze ran over the face, the warm whiteness under the lace of the dress, the beautiful arms. she shrank from it--feeling a sudden movement of dislike and fear; but before she could disengage herself he had pressed his lips on the arm nearest to him. "i gave you no leave!" she said passionately, under her breath, as he let her go. he met her flashing look with tender humbleness. "_marcella_!" the word was just breathed into the air. she wavered--yet a chill had passed over her. she could not recover the moment of magic. "_not_ to-morrow," she repeated steadily, though dreading lest she should burst into tears, "and not till i see clearly--till i can--" she caught her breath. "now i am going back to lady winterbourne." chapter xiv. for some hours after he reached his own room, wharton sat in front of his open window, sunk in the swift rushing of thought, as a bramble sways in a river. the july night first paled, then flushed into morning; the sun rose above the empty street and the light mists enwrapping the great city, before he threw himself on his bed, exhausted enough at last to fall into a restless sleep. the speculation of those quick-pulsed hours was in the end about equally divided between marcella and the phrases and turns of his interview with mr. pearson. it was the sudden leap of troubled excitement stirred in him by that interview--heightened by the sight of raeburn--that had driven him past recall by the most natural of transitions, into his declaration to marcella. but he had no sooner reached his room than, at first with iron will, he put the thought of marcella, of the scene which had just passed, away from him. his pulses were still quivering. no matter! it was the brain he had need of. he set it coolly and keenly to work. mr. pearson? well!--mr. pearson had offered him a _bribe_; there could be no question as to that. his clear sense never blinked the matter for an instant. nor had he any illusions as to his own behaviour. even now he had no further right to the sleep of the honest man. let him realise, however, what had happened. he had gone to lady masterton's party, in the temper of a man who knows that ruin is upon him, and determined, like the french criminal, to exact his cigar and _eau de vie_ before the knife falls. never had things looked so desperate; never had all resource seemed to him so completely exhausted. bankruptcy must come in the course of a few weeks; his entailed property would pass into the hands of a receiver; and whatever recovery might be ultimately possible, by the end of august he would be, for the moment, socially and politically undone. there could be no question of his proposing seriously to marcella boyce. nevertheless, he had gone to lady masterton's on purpose to meet her; and his manner on seeing her had asserted precisely the same intimate claim upon her, which, during the past six weeks, had alternately attracted and repelled her. then mr. pearson had interrupted. wharton, shutting his eyes, could see the great man lean against the window-frame close to the spot where, a quarter of an hour later, marcella had sat among the flowers--the dapper figure, the long, fair moustaches, the hand playing with the eye-glass. "i have been asked--er--er--" what a conceited manner the fellow had!--"to get some conversation with you, mr. wharton, on the subject of the damesley strike. you give me leave?" whereupon, in less than ten minutes, the speaker had executed an important commission, and, in offering wharton a bribe of the most bare-faced kind, had also found time for supplying him with a number of the most delicate and sufficient excuses for taking it. the masters, in fact, sent an embassy. they fully admitted the power of the _clarion_ and its owner. no doubt, it would not be possible for the paper to keep up its strike fund indefinitely; there were perhaps already signs of slackening. still it had been maintained for a considerable time; and so long as it was reckoned on, in spite of the wide-spread misery and suffering now prevailing, the men would probably hold out. in these circumstances, the principal employers concerned had thought it best to approach so formidable an opponent and to put before him information which might possibly modify his action. they had authorised mr. pearson to give him a full account of what was proposed in the way of re-organisation of the trade, including the probable advantages which the work-people themselves would be likely to reap from it in the future. mr. pearson ran in a few sentences through the points of the scheme. wharton stood about a yard away from him, his hands in his pockets, a little pale and frowning--looking intently at the speaker. then mr. pearson paused and cleared his throat. well!--that was the scheme. his principals believed that, when both it and the employers' determination to transfer their business to the continent rather than be beaten by the men were made fully known to the owner of the _clarion_, it must affect his point of view. mr. pearson was empowered to give him any details he might desire. meanwhile--so confident were they in the reasonableness of the case that they even suggested that the owner of the _clarion_ himself should take part in the new syndicate. on condition of his future co-operation--it being understood that the masters took their stand irrevocably on the award--the men at present responsible for the formation of the syndicate proposed to allot mr. wharton ten founder's shares in the new undertaking. wharton, sitting alone, recalling these things, was conscious again of that start in every limb, that sudden rush of blood to the face, as though a lash had struck him. for in a few seconds his mind took in the situation. only the day before, a city acquaintance had said to him, "if you and your confounded paper were out of the way, and this thing could be placed properly on the market, there would be a boom in it at once. i am told that in twenty-four hours the founder's shares would be worth , _l._ apiece!" there was a pause of silence. then wharton threw a queer dark look at the solicitor, and was conscious that his pulse was thumping. "there can be no question i think, mr. pearson--between you and me--as to the nature of such a proposal as that!" "my dear sir," mr. pearson had interrupted hastily, "let me, above all, ask you to take _time_--time enough, at any rate, to turn the matter well over in your mind. the interests of a great many people, besides yourself, are concerned. don't give me an answer to-night; it is the last thing i desire. i have thrown out my suggestion. consider it. to-morrow is sunday. if you are disposed to carry it further, come and see me monday morning--that's all. i will be at your service at any hour, and i can then give you a much more complete outline of the intentions of the company. now i really must go and look for mrs. pearson's carriage." wharton followed the great man half mechanically across the little room, his mind in a whirl of mingled rage and desire. then suddenly he stopped his companion: "has george denny anything to do with this proposal, mr. pearson?" mr. pearson paused, with a little air of vague cogitation. "george denny? mr. george denny, the member for westropp? i have had no dealings whatever with that gentleman in the matter." wharton let him pass. then as he himself entered the tea-room, he perceived the bending form of aldous raeburn chatting to lady winterbourne on his right, and that tall whiteness close in front, waiting for him. his brain cleared in a flash. he was perfectly conscious that a bribe had just been offered him, of the most daring and cynical kind, and that he had received the offer in the tamest way. an insult had been put upon him which had for ever revealed the estimate held of him by certain shrewd people, for ever degraded him in his own eyes. nevertheless, he was also conscious that the thing was done. the bribe would be accepted, the risk taken. so far as his money-matters were concerned he was once more a free man. the mind had adjusted itself, reached its decision in a few minutes. and the first effect of the mingled excitement and self-contempt which the decision brought with it had been to drive him into the scene with marcella. instinctively he asked of passion to deliver him quickly from the smart of a new and very disagreeable experience. * * * * * well! why should he not take these men's offer? he was as much convinced as they that this whole matter of the strike had of late come to a deadlock. so long as the public would give, the workers, passionately certain of the justice of their own cause, and filled with new ambitions after more decent living, would hold out. on the other hand, he perfectly understood that the masters had also in many ways a strong case, that they had been very hard hit by the strike, and that many of them would rather close their works or transfer them bodily to the continent than give way. some of the facts pearson had found time to mention had been certainly new and striking. at the same time he never disguised from himself for an instant that but for a prospective , _l._ the facts concerned would not have affected him in the least. till to-night it had been to his interest to back the strike, and to harass the employers. now things were changed; and he took a curious satisfaction in the quick movements of his own intelligence, as his thought rapidly sketched the "curve" the _clarion_ would have to take, and the arguments by which he would commend it. as to his shares, they would be convertible of course into immediate cash. some man of straw would be forthcoming to buy what he would possess in the name of another man of straw. it was not supposed--he took for granted--by the men who had dared to tempt him, that he would risk his whole political reputation and career for anything less than a bird in the hand. well! what were the chances of secrecy? naturally _they_ stood to lose less by disclosure, a good deal, than he did. and denny, one of the principal employers, was his personal enemy. he would be likely enough for the present to keep his name out of the affair. but no man of the world could suppose that the transaction would pass without his knowledge. wharton's own hasty question to mr. pearson on the subject seemed to himself now, in cold blood, a remarkably foolish one. he walked up and down thinking this point out. it was the bitter pill of the whole affair. in the end, with a sudden recklessness of youth and resource, he resolved to dare it. there would _not_ be much risk. men of business do not as a rule blazon their own dirty work, and public opinion would be important to the new syndicate. _some_ risk, of course, there would be. well! his risks, as they stood, were pretty considerable. he chose the lesser--not without something of a struggle, some keen personal smart. he had done a good many mean and questionable things in his time, but never anything as gross as this. the thought of what his relation to a certain group of men--to denny especially--would be in the future, stung sharply. but it is the part of the man of action to put both scruple and fear behind him on occasion. his career was in question. craven? well, craven would be a difficulty. he would telegraph to him first thing in the morning before the offices closed, and see him on monday. for marcella's sake the man must be managed--somehow. and--marcella! how should she ever know, ever suspect! she already disliked the violence with which the paper had supported the strike. he would find no difficulty whatever in justifying all that she or the public would see, to her. then insensibly he let his thoughts glide into thinking of the money. presently he drew a sheet of paper towards him and covered it with calculations as to his liabilities. by george! how well it worked out! by the time he threw it aside, and walked to the window for air, he already felt himself a _bonâ-fide_ supporter of the syndicate--the promoter in the public interest of a just and well-considered scheme. finally, with a little joyous energetic movement which betrayed the inner man, he flung down his cigarette, and turned to write an ardent letter to marcella, while the morning sun stole into the dusty room. difficult? of course! both now and in the future. it would take him half his time yet--and he could ill afford it--to bring her bound and captive. he recognised in her the southern element, so strangely mated with the moral english temper. yet he smiled over it. the subtleties of the struggle he foresaw enchanted him. and she would be mastered! in this heightened state of nerve his man's resolution only rose the more fiercely to the challenge of her resistance. nor should she cheat him with long delays. his income would be his own again, and life decently easy. he already felt himself the vain showman of her beauty. a thought of lady selina crossed his mind, producing amusement and compassion--indulgent amusement, such as the young man is apt to feel towards the spinster of thirty-five who pays him attention. a certain sense of re-habilitation, too, which at the moment was particularly welcome. for, no doubt, he might have married her and her fortune had he so chosen. as it was, why didn't she find some needy boy to take pity on her? there were plenty going, and she must have abundance of money. old alresford, too, was fast doddering off the stage, and then where would she be--without alresford house, or busbridge, or those various other pedestals which had hitherto held her aloft? * * * * * early on sunday morning wharton telegraphed to craven, directing him to "come up at once for consultation." the rest of the day the owner of the _clarion_ spent pleasantly on the river with mrs. lane and a party of ladies, including a young duchess, who was pretty, literary, and socialistic. at night he went down to the _clarion_ office, and produced a leader on the position of affairs at damesley which, to the practised eye, contained one paragraph--but one only--wherein the dawn of a new policy might have been discerned. naturally the juxtaposition of events at the moment gave him considerable anxiety. he knew very well that the damesley bargain could not be kept waiting. the masters were losing heavily every day, and were not likely to let him postpone the execution of his part of the contract for a fortnight or so to suit his own convenience. it was like the sale of an "old master." his influence must be sold now--at the ripe moment--or not at all. at the same time it was very awkward. in one short fortnight the meeting of the party would be upon him. surrender on the damesley question would give great offence to many of the labour members. it would have to be very carefully managed--very carefully thought out. by eleven o'clock on monday he was in mr. pearson's office. after the first involuntary smile, concealed by the fair moustaches, and instantly dismissed, with which the eminent lawyer greeted the announcement of his visitor's name, the two augurs carried through their affairs with perfect decorum. wharton realised, indeed, that he was being firmly handled. mr. pearson gave the _clarion_ a week in which to accomplish its retreat and drop its strike fund. and the fund was to be "checked" as soon as possible. a little later, when wharton abruptly demanded a guarantee of secrecy, mr. pearson allowed himself his first--visible--smile. "my dear sir, are such things generally made public property? i can give you no better assurance than you can extract yourself from the circumstances. as to writing--well!--i should advise you very strongly against anything of the sort. a long experience has convinced me that in any delicate negotiation the less that is _written_ the better." towards the end wharton turned upon his companion sharply, and asked: "how did you discover that i wanted money?" mr. pearson lifted his eyebrows pleasantly. "most of the things in this world, mr. wharton, that one wants to know, can be found out. now--i have no wish to hurry you--not in the least, but i may perhaps mention that i have an important appointment directly. don't you think--we might settle our business?" wharton was half-humorously conscious of an inward leap of fury with the necessities which had given this man--to whom he had taken an instantaneous dislike--the power of dealing thus summarily with the member for west brookshire. however, there was no help for it; he submitted, and twenty minutes afterwards he left lincoln's inn carrying documents in the breast-pocket of his coat which, when brought under his bankers' notice, would be worth to him an immediate advance of some eight thousand pounds. the remainder of the purchase-money for his "shares" would be paid over to him as soon as his part of the contract had been carried out. he did not, however, go to his bank, but straight to the _clarion_ office, where he had a mid-day appointment with louis craven. at first sight of the tall, narrow-shouldered form and anxious face waiting for him in his private room, wharton felt a movement of ill-humour. craven had the morning's _clarion_ in his hand. "this _cannot_ mean"--he said, when they had exchanged a brief salutation--"that the paper is backing out?" he pointed to the suspicious paragraph in wharton's leader, his delicate features quivering with an excitement he could ill repress. "well, let us sit down and discuss the thing," said wharton, closing the door, "that's what i wired to you for." he offered craven a cigarette, which was refused, took one himself, and the two men sat confronting each other with a writing-table between them. wharton was disagreeably conscious at times of the stiff papers in his coat-pocket, and was perhaps a little paler than usual. otherwise he showed no trace of mental disturbance; and craven, himself jaded and sleepless, was struck with a momentary perception of his companion's boyish good looks--the tumbling curls, that wharton straightened now and then, the charming blue eyes, the athlete's frame. any stranger would have taken craven for the older man; in reality it was the other way. the conversation lasted nearly an hour. craven exhausted both argument and entreaty, though when the completeness of the retreat resolved upon had been disclosed to him, the feeling roused in him was so fierce that he could barely maintain his composure. he had been living among scenes of starvation and endurance, which, to his mind, had all the character of martyrdom. these men and women were struggling for two objects--the power to live more humanly, and the free right of combination--to both of which, if need were, he would have given his own life to help them without an instant's hesitation. behind his blinking manner he saw everything with the idealist's intensity, the reformer's passion. to be fair to an employer was not in his power. to spend his last breath, were it called for, in the attempt to succour the working-man against his capitalist oppressors, would have seemed to him the merest matter of course. and his mental acuteness was quite equal to his enthusiasm, and far more evident. in his talk with wharton, he for a long time avoided, as before, out of a certain inner disdain, the smallest touch of sentiment. he pointed out--what, indeed, wharton well knew--that the next two or three weeks of the strike would be the most critical period in its history; that, if the work-people could only be carried through them, they were almost sure of victory. he gave his own reasons for believing that the employers could ultimately be coerced, he offered proof of yielding among them, proof also that the better men in their ranks were fully alive to and ashamed of the condition of the workers. as to the syndicate, he saw no objection to it, _provided_ the workers' claims were first admitted. otherwise it would only prove a more powerful engine of oppression. wharton's arguments may perhaps be left to the imagination. he would have liked simply to play the proprietor and the master--to say, "this is my decision, those are my terms--take my work or leave it." but craven was miss boyce's friend; he was also a venturist. chafing under both facts, wharton found that he must state his case. and he did state it with his usual ability. he laid great stress on "information from a private source which i cannot disregard," to the effect that, if the resistance went on, the trade would be broken up; that several of the largest employers were on the point of making arrangements for italian factories. "i know," he said finally, "that but for the _clarion_ the strike would drop. well! i have come to the conclusion that the responsibility is too heavy. i shall be doing the men themselves more harm than good. there is the case in a nutshell. we differ--i can't help that. the responsibility is mine." craven rose with a quick, nervous movement. the prophet spoke at last. "you understand," he said, laying a thin hand on the table, "that the condition of the workers in this trade is _infamous_!--that the award and your action together plunge them back into a state of things which is a _shame_ and a _curse_ to england!" wharton made no answer. he, too, had risen, and was putting away some papers in a drawer. a tremor ran through craven's tall frame; and for an instant, as his eye rested on his companion, the idea of foul play crossed his mind. he cast it out, that he might deal calmly with his own position. "of course, you perceive," he said, as he took up his hat, "that i can no longer on these terms remain the _clarion's_ correspondent. somebody else must be found to do this business." "i regret your decision, immensely," said wharton, with perfect suavity, "but of course i understand it. i trust, however, that you will not leave us altogether. i can give you plenty of work that will suit you. here, for instance"--he pointed to a pile of blue books from the labour commission lying on the table--"are a number of reports that want analysing and putting before the public. you could do them in town at your leisure." craven struggled with himself. his first instinct was to fling the offer in wharton's face. then he thought of his wife; of the tiny new household just started with such small, happy, self-denying shifts; of the woman's inevitable lot, of the hope of a child. "thank you," he said, in a husky voice. "i will consider, i will write." wharton nodded to him pleasantly, and he went. the owner of the _clarion_ drew a long breath. "now i think on the whole it would serve my purpose best to sit down and write to _her_--after that. it would be well that _my_ account should come first." a few hours later, after an interview with his bankers and a further spell of letter-writing, wharton descended the steps of his club in a curious restless state. the mortgage on the _clarion_ had been arranged for, his gambling debts settled, and all his other money matters were successfully in train. nevertheless, the exhilaration of the morning had passed into misgiving and depression. vague presentiments hung about him all day, whether in the house of commons or elsewhere, and it was not till he found himself on his legs at a crowded meeting at rotherhithe, violently attacking the government bill and the house of lords, that he recovered that easy confidence in the general favourableness of the universe to harry wharton, and harry wharton's plans, which lent him so much of his power. a letter from marcella--written before she had received either of his--reached him at the house just before he started for his meeting. a touching letter!--yet with a certain resolution in it which disconcerted him. "forget, if you will, everything that you said to me last night. it might be--i believe it would be--best for us both. but if you will not--if i must give my answer, then, as i said, i must have time. it is only quite recently that i have _realised_ the enormity of what i did last year. i must run no risks of so wrenching my own life--or another's--a second time. not to be _sure_ is for me torment. why perfect simplicity of feeling--which would scorn the very notion of questioning itself--seems to be beyond me, i do not know. that it is so fills me with a sort of shame and bitterness. but i must follow my nature. "so let me think it out. i believe you know, for one thing, that your 'cause,' your life-work, attracts me strongly. i should not any longer accept all you say, as i did last year. but mere opinion matters infinitely less to me than it did. i can imagine now agreeing with a friend 'in everything except opinion.' all that would matter to me now would be to feel that _your_ heart was wholly in your work, in your public acts, so that i might still admire and love all that i might differ from. but there--for we must be frank with each other--is just my difficulty. _why_ do you do so many contradictory things? why do you talk of the poor, of labour, of self-denial, and live whenever you can with the idle rich people, who hate all three in their hearts? you talk their language; you scorn what they scorn, or so it seems; you accept their standards. oh!--to the really 'consecrate' in heart and thought i could give my life so easily, so slavishly even! there is no one weaker than i in the world. i must have strength to lean upon--and a strength, pure at the core, that i can respect and follow. "here in this nursing life of mine, i go in and out among people to the best of whom life is very real and simple--and often, of course, very sad. and i am another being in it from what i was at lady winterbourne's. everything looks differently to me. no, no! you must please wait till the inner voice speaks so that i can hear it plainly--for your sake at least as much as for mine. if you persisted in coming to see me now, i should have to put an end to it all." "strange is the modern woman!" thought wharton to himself, not without sharp pique, as he pondered that letter in the course of his drive home from the meeting. "i talk to her of passion, and she asks me in return why i do things inconsistent with my political opinions! puts me through a moral catechism, in fact! what is the meaning of it all--confound it! --her state of mind and mine? is the good old _ars amandi_ perishing out of the world? let some stendhal come and tell us why!" but he sat up to answer her, and could not get free from an inward pleading or wrestle with her, which haunted him through all the intervals of these rapid days. life while they lasted was indeed a gymnast's contest of breath and endurance. the _clarion_ made its retreat in wharton's finest style, and the fact rang through labouring england. the strike-leaders came up from the midlands; wharton had to see them. he was hotly attacked in the house privately, and even publicly by certain of his colleagues. bennett showed concern and annoyance. meanwhile the conservative papers talked the usual employers' political economy; and the liberal papers, whose support of the strike had been throughout perfunctory, and of no particular use to themselves or to other people, took a lead they were glad to get, and went in strongly for the award. through it all wharton showed extraordinary skill. the columns of the _clarion_ teemed with sympathetic appeals to the strikers, flanked by long statements of "hard fact"--the details of foreign competition and the rest, the plans of the masters--freely supplied him by mr. pearson. with bennett and his colleagues in the house he took a bold line; admitted that he had endangered his popularity both inside parliament and out of it at a particularly critical moment; and implied, though he did not say, that some men were still capable of doing independent things to their own hurt. meanwhile he pushed a number of other matters to the front, both in the paper and in his own daily doings. he made at least two important speeches in the provinces, in the course of these days, on the bill before the house of lords; he asked questions in parliament on the subject of the wages paid to government employés; and he opened an attack on the report of a certain conservative commission which had been rousing the particular indignation of a large mass of south london working men. at the end of ten days the strike was over; the workers, sullen and enraged, had submitted, and the plans of the syndicate were in all the papers. wharton, looking round him, realised to his own amazement that his political position had rather gained than suffered. the general impression produced by his action had been on the whole that of a man strong enough to take a line of his own, even at the risk of unpopularity. there was a new tone of respect among his opponents, and, resentful as some of the labour members were, wharton did not believe that what he had done would ultimately damage his chances on the th at all. he had vindicated his importance, and he held his head high, adopting towards his chances of the leadership a strong and careless tone that served him well. meanwhile there were, of course, clever people behind the scenes who looked on and laughed. but they held their tongues, and wharton, who had carefully avoided the mention of names during the negotiations with pearson, did his best to forget them. he felt uncomfortable, indeed, when he passed the portly denny in the house or in the street. denny had a way of looking at the member for west brookshire out of the corner of a small, slit-like eye. he did it more than usual during these days, and wharton had only to say to himself that for all things there is a price--which the gods exact. wilkins, since the first disclosure of the _clarion_ change of policy, had been astonishingly quiet. wharton had made certain of violent attack from him. on the contrary, wilkins wore now in the house a subdued and pre-occupied air that escaped notice even with his own party in the general fulness of the public mind. a few caustic north-countryisms on the subject of the _clarion_ and its master did indeed escape him now and then, and were reported from mouth to mouth; but on the whole he lay very low. still, whether in elation or anxiety, wharton seemed to himself throughout the whole period to be a _fighter_, straining every muscle, his back to the wall and his hand against every man. there at the end of the fortnight stood the three goal-posts that must be passed, in victory or defeat; the meeting that would for the present decide his parliamentary prospects, his interview with marcella, and--the confounded annual meeting of the "people's banking company," with all its threatened annoyances. he became, indeed, more and more occupied with this latter business as the days went on. but he could see no way of evading it. he would have to fight it; luckily, now, he had the money. the annual meeting took place two days before that fixed for the committee of the labour party. wharton was not present at it, and in spite of ample warning he gave way to certain lively movements of disgust and depression when at his club he first got hold of the evening papers containing the reports. his name, of course, figured amply in the denunciations heaped upon the directors of all dates; the sums which he with others were supposed to have made out of the first dealings with the shares on the stock exchange were freely mentioned; and the shareholders as a body had shown themselves most uncomfortably violent. he at once wrote off a letter to the papers disclaiming all responsibility for the worst irregularities which had occurred, and courting full enquiry--a letter which, as usual, both convinced and affected himself. then he went, restless and fuming, down to the house. bennett passed him in the lobby with an uneasy and averted eye. whereupon wharton seized upon him, carried him into the library, and talked to him, till bennett, who, in spite of his extraordinary shrewdness and judgment in certain departments, was a babe in matters of company finance, wore a somewhat cheered countenance. they came out into the lobby together, wharton holding his head very high. "i shall deal with the whole thing in my speech on thursday!" he said aloud, as they parted. bennett gave him a friendly nod and smile. there was in this little man, with his considerable brain and his poet's heart, something of the "imperishable child." like a wholesome child, he did not easily "think evil"; his temper towards all men--even the owners of "way-leaves" and mining royalties--was optimist. he had the most naïve admiration for wharton's ability, and for the academic attainments he himself secretly pined for; and to the young complex personality itself he had taken from the beginning an unaccountable liking. the bond between the two, though incongruous and recent, was real; wharton was as glad of bennett's farewell kindness as bennett had been of the younger man's explanations. so that during that day and the next, bennett went about contradicting, championing, explaining; while wharton, laden with parliamentary business, vivid, unabashed, and resourceful, let it be known to all whom it concerned that in his solicitor's opinion he had a triumphant answer to all charges; and that meanwhile no one could wonder at the soreness of those poor devils of shareholders. the hours passed on. wednesday was mainly spent by wharton in a series of conferences and intrigues either at the house or at his club; when he drove home exhausted at night he believed that all was arranged--the train irrevocably laid, and his nomination to the chairmanship of the party certain. wilkins and six or seven others would probably prove irreconcilable; but the vehemence and rancour shown by the great nehemiah during the summer in the pursuit of his anti-wharton campaign had to some extent defeated themselves. a personal grudge in the hands of a man of his type is not a formidable weapon. wharton would have felt perfectly easy on the subject but for some odd bits of manner on wilkins's part during the last forty-eight hours--whenever, in fact, the two men had run across each other in the house--marked by a sort of new and insolent good humour, that puzzled him. but there is a bravado of defeat. yes!--he thought wilkins was disposed of. from his present point of ease--debts paid, banker propitiated, income assured--it amazed him to look back on his condition of a fortnight before. had the prince of darkness himself offered such a bargain it must have been accepted. after all his luck had held! once get through this odious company business--as to which, with a pleasing consciousness of turning the tables, he had peremptorily instructed mr. pearson himself--and the barque of his fortunes was assured. then, with a quick turn of the mind, he threw the burden of affairs from him. his very hopefulness and satisfaction had softened his mood. there stole upon him the murmurs and voices of another world of thought--a world well known to his versatility by report, though he had as a rule small inclination to dwell therein. but he was touched and shaken to-night by his own achievement. the heavenly powers had been unexpectedly kind to him, and he was half moved to offer them something in return. "do as you are done by"--that was an ethic he understood. and in moments of feeling he was as ready to apply it to great zeus himself as to his friends or enemies in the house of commons. he had done this doubtful thing--but why should it ever be necessary for him to do another? vague philosophic yearnings after virtue, moderation, patriotism, crossed his mind. the pagan ideal sometimes smote and fired him, the christian never. he could still read his plato and his cicero, whereas gulfs of unfathomable distaste rolled between him and the new testament. perhaps the author of all authors for whom he had most relish was montaigne. he would have taken him down to-night had there been nothing more kindling to think of. _marcella_!--ah! marcella! he gave himself to the thought of her with a new and delightful tenderness which had in it elements of compunction. after those disagreeable paragraphs in the evening papers, he had instantly written to her. "every public man"--he had said to her, finding instinctively the note of dignity that would appeal to her--"is liable at some period of his career to charges of this sort. they are at once exaggerated and blackened, because he is a public man. to you i owe perfect frankness, and you shall have it. meanwhile i do not ask--i know--that you will be just to me, and put the matter out of your thoughts till i can discuss it with you. two days more till i see your face! the time is long!" to this there had been no answer. her last letter indeed had rung sadly and coldly. no doubt louis craven had something to do with it. it would have alarmed him could he simply have found the time to think about it. yet she was ready to see him on the th; and his confidence in his own powers of managing fate was tougher than ever. what pleasant lies he had told her at lady masterton's! well! what passion ever yet but had its subterfuges? one more wrestle, and he would have tamed her to his wish, wild falcon that she was. then--pleasure and brave living! and she also should have her way. she should breathe into him the language of those great illusions he had found it of late so hard to feign with her; and they two would walk and rule a yielding world together. action, passion, affairs--life explored and exploited--and at last--"_que la mort me treuve plantant mes choulx--mais nonchalant d'elle!--et encore plus de mon jardin imparfaict_!" he declaimed the words of the great frenchman with something of the same temper in which the devout man would have made an act of faith. then, with a long breath and a curious emotion, he went to try and sleep himself into the new day. chapter xv. the following afternoon about six o'clock marcella came in from her second round. after a very busy week, work happened to be slack; and she had been attending one or two cases in and near brown's buildings rather because they were near than because they seriously wanted her. she looked to see whether there was any letter or telegram from the office which would have obliged her to go out again. nothing was to be seen; and she put down her bag and cloak, childishly glad of the extra hour of rest. she was, indeed, pale and worn. the moral struggle which had filled the past fortnight from end to end had deepened all the grooves and strained the forces of life; and the path, though glimmering, was not wholly plain. a letter lay unfinished in her drawer--if she sent it that night, there would be little necessity or inducement for wharton to climb those stairs on the morrow. yet, if he held her to it, she must see him. as the sunset and the dusk crept on she still sat silent and alone, sunk in a depression which showed itself in every line of the drooping form. she was degraded in her own eyes. the nature of the impulses which had led her to give wharton the hold upon her she had given him had become plain to her. what lay between them, and the worst impulses that poison the lives of women, but differences of degree, of expression? after those wild hours of sensuous revolt, a kind of moral terror was upon her. what had worked in her? what was at the root of this vehemence of moral reaction, this haunting fear of losing for ever the _best_ in life--self-respect, the comradeship of the good, communion with things noble and unstained--which had conquered at last the mere _woman_, the weakness of vanity and of sex? she hardly knew. only there was in her a sort of vague thankfulness _for her daily work_. it did not seem to be possible to see one's own life solely under the aspects of selfish desire while hands and mind were busy with the piteous realities of sickness and of death. from every act of service--from every contact with the patience and simplicity of the poor--_something_ had spoken to her, that divine ineffable something for ever "set in the world," like beauty, like charm, for the winning of men to itself. "follow truth!" it said to her in faint mysterious breathings--"the truth of your own heart. the sorrow to which it will lead you is the only _joy_ that remains to you." suddenly she looked round her little room with a rush of tenderness. the windows were open to the evening and the shouts of children playing in the courtyard came floating up. a bowl of mellor roses scented the air; the tray for her simple meal stood ready, and beside it a volume of "the divine comedy," one of her mother's very rare gifts to her, in her motherless youth--for of late she had turned thirstily to poetry. there was a great peace and plainness about it all; and, besides, touches of beauty--tokens of the soul. her work spoke in it; called to her; promised comfort and ennobling. she thought with yearning, too, of her parents; of the autumn holiday she was soon to spend with them. her heart went out--sorely--to all the primal claims upon it. * * * * * nevertheless, clear as was the inner resolution, the immediate future filled her with dread. her ignorance of herself--her excitable folly--had given wharton rights which her conscience admitted. he would not let her go without a struggle, and she must face it. as to the incidents which had happened during the fortnight--louis craven's return, and the scandal of the "people's banking company"--they had troubled and distressed her; but it would not be true to say that they had had any part in shaping her slow determination. louis craven was sore and bitter. she was very sorry for him; and his reports of the damesley strikers made her miserable. but she took wharton's "leaders" in the _clarion_ for another equally competent opinion on the same subject; and told herself that she was no judge. as for the company scandal, she had instantly and proudly responded to the appeal of his letter, and put the matter out of her thoughts, till at least he should give his own account. so much at any rate she owed to the man who had stood by her through the hurd trial. marcella boyce would not readily believe in his dishonour! she did not in fact believe it. in spite of later misgivings, the impression of his personality, as she had first conceived it, in the early days at mellor, was still too strong. no--rather--she had constantly recollected throughout the day what was going on in parliament. these were for him testing and critical hours, and she felt a wistful sympathy. let him only rise to his part--take up his great task. * * * * * an imperious knocking on her thin outer door roused her. she went to open it and saw anthony craven,--the perspiration standing on his brow, his delicate cripple's face white and fierce. "i want to talk to you," he said without preface. "have you seen the afternoon papers?" "no," she said in astonishment, "i was just going to send for them. what is wrong?" he followed her into the sitting-room without speaking; and then he unfolded the _pall mall_ he had in his hand and pointed to a large-print paragraph on the central page with a shaking hand. marcella read: "exciting scenes in the house.--meeting of the labour members.--a committee of the labour representatives in parliament met this afternoon at o'clock for the purpose of electing a chairman, and appointing whips to the party, thus constituting a separate parliamentary group. much interest was felt in the proceedings, which it was universally supposed would lead to the appointment of mr. h. s. wharton, the member for west brookshire, as chairman and leader of the labour party. the excitement of the meeting and in the house may be imagined when--after a short but very cordial and effective speech from mr. bennett, the member for north whinwick, in support of mr. wharton's candidature--mr. wilkins, the miner's member for derlingham, rose and made a series of astounding charges against the personal honour of the member for west brookshire. put briefly, they amount to this: that during the recent strike at damesley the support of the _clarion_ newspaper, of which mr. wharton is owner and practically editor, was _bought_ by the employers in return for certain shares in the new syndicate; that the money for these shares--which is put as high as , _l._--had already gone into mr. wharton's private pocket; and that the change of policy on the part of the _clarion_, which led to the collapse of the strike, was thus entirely due to what the labour members can only regard under the circumstances as a bribe of a most disgraceful kind. the effect produced has been enormous. the debate is still proceeding, and reporters have been excluded. but i hope to send a fuller account later." marcella dropped the paper from her hand. "what does it mean?" she said to her companion. "precisely what it says," replied anthony, with a nervous impatience he could not repress. "now," he added, as his lameness forced him to sit down, "will you kindly allow me some conversation with you? it was you--practically--who introduced louis to that man. you meant well to louis, and mr. wharton has been your friend. we therefore feel that we owe you some explanation. for that paragraph"--he pointed to the paper--"is, substantially--louis's doing, and mine." "_yours?_" she said mechanically. "but louis has been going on working for the paper--i persuaded him." "i know. it was not we who actually discovered the thing. but we set a friend to work. louis has had his suspicions all along. and at last--by the merest chance--we got the facts." then he told the story, staring at her the while with his sparkling eyes, his thin invalid's fingers fidgeting with his hat. if there was in truth any idea in his mind that the relations between his companion and harry wharton were more than those of friendship, it did not avail to make him spare her in the least. he was absorbed in vindictive feeling, which applied to her also. he might _say_ for form's sake that she had meant well; but in fact he regarded her at this moment as a sort of odious canidia whose one function had been to lure louis to misfortune. cut off himself, by half a score of peculiarities, physical and other, from love, pleasure, and power, anthony craven's whole affections and ambitions had for years centred in his brother. and now louis was not only violently thrown out of employment, but compromised by the connection with the _clarion_; was, moreover, saddled with a wife--and in debt. so that his explanation was given with all the edge he could put upon it. let her stop him, if she pleased!--but she did not stop him. the facts were these: louis had, indeed, been persuaded by marcella, for the sake of his wife and bread and butter, to go on working for the _clarion_, as a reviewer. but his mind was all the time feverishly occupied with the apostasy of the paper and its causes. remembering wharton's sayings and letters throughout the struggle, he grew less and less able to explain the incident by the reasons wharton had himself supplied, and more and more convinced that there was some mystery behind. he and anthony talked the matter over perpetually. one evening anthony brought home from a meeting of the venturists that george denny, the son of one of the principal employers in the damesley trade, whose name he had mentioned once before in marcella's ears. denny was by this time the candidate for a labour constituency, an ardent venturist, and the laughing-stock of his capitalist family, with whom, however, he was still on more or less affectionate terms. his father thought him an incorrigible fool, and his mother wailed over him to her friends. but they were still glad to see him whenever he would condescend to visit them; and all friction on money matters was avoided by the fact that denny had for long refused to take any pecuniary help from his father, and was nevertheless supporting himself tolerably by lecturing and literature. denny was admitted into the brothers' debate, and had indeed puzzled himself a good deal over the matter already. he had taken a lively interest in the strike, and the articles in the _clarion_ which led to its collapse had seemed to him both inexplicable and enraging. after his talk with the cravens, he went away, determined to dine at home on the earliest possible opportunity. he announced himself accordingly in hertford street, was received with open arms, and then deliberately set himself, at dinner and afterwards, to bait his father on social and political questions, which, as a rule, were avoided between them. old denny fell into the trap, lost his temper and self-control completely, and at a mention of harry wharton--skilfully introduced at the precisely right moment--as an authority on some matter connected with the current labour programme, he threw himself back in his chair with an angry laugh. "wharton? _wharton_? you quote that fellow to _me?_" "why shouldn't i?" said the son, quietly. "because, my good sir,--he's a _rogue_,--that's all!--a common rogue, from my point of view even--still more from yours." "i know that any vile tale you can believe about a labour leader you do, father," said george denny, with dignity. whereupon the older man thrust his hand into his coat-pocket, and drawing out a small leather case, in which he was apt to carry important papers about with him, extracted from it a list containing names and figures, and held it with a somewhat tremulous hand under his son's eyes. "read it, sir! and hold your tongue! last week my friends and i _bought_ that man--and his precious paper--for a trifle of , _l._ or thereabouts. it paid us to do it, and we did it. i dare say _you_ will think the preceding questionable. in my eyes it was perfectly legitimate, a piece of _bonne guerre_. the man was ruining a whole industry. some of us had taken his measure, had found out too--by good luck!--that he was in sore straits for money--mortgages on the paper, gambling debts, and a host of other things--discovered a shrewd man to play him, and made our bid! he rose to it like a gudgeon--gave us no trouble whatever. i need not say, of course"--he added, looking up at his son--"that i have shown you that paper in the _very strictest confidence_. but it seemed to me it was my duty as a father to warn you of the nature of some of your associates!" "i understand," said george denny, as, after a careful study of the paper--which contained, for the help of the writer's memory, a list of the sums paid and founders' shares allotted to the various "promoters" of the new syndicate--he restored it to its owner. "well, i, father, have _this_ to say in return. i came here to-night in the hope of getting from you this very information, and in the public interest i hold myself not only free but _bound_ to make public use of it, at the earliest possible opportunity!" the family scene may be imagined. but both threats and blandishments were entirely lost upon the son. there was in him an idealist obstinacy which listened to nothing but the cry of a _cause_, and he declared that nothing would or should prevent him from carrying the story of the bribe direct to nehemiah wilkins, wharton's chief rival in the house, and so saving the country and the labour party from the disaster and disgrace of wharton's leadership. there was no time to lose, the party meeting in the house was only two days off. at the end of a long struggle, which exhausted everybody concerned, and was carried on to a late hour of the night, denny _père_, influenced by a desire to avoid worse things--conscious, too, of the abundant evidence he possessed of wharton's acceptance and private use of the money--and, probably, when it came to the point, not unwilling,--under compulsion!--to tumble such a hero from his pedestal, actually wrote, under his son's advice, a letter to wilkins. it was couched in the most cautious language, and professed to be written in the interests of wharton himself, to put an end "to certain ugly and unfounded rumours that have been brought to my knowledge." the negotiation itself was described in the driest business terms. "mr. wharton, upon cause shown, consented to take part in the founding of the syndicate, and in return for his assistance, was allotted ten founders' shares in the new company. the transaction differed in nothing from those of ordinary business"--a last sentence slily added by the socialist son, and innocently accepted by one of the shrewdest of men. after which master george denny scarcely slept, and by nine o'clock next morning was in a hansom on his way to wilkins's lodgings in westminster. the glee of that black-bearded patriot hardly needs description. he flung himself on the letter with a delight and relief so exuberant that george denny went off to another more phlegmatic member of the anti-wharton "cave," with entreaties that an eye should be kept on the member for derlingham, lest he should do or disclose anything before the dramatic moment. then he himself spent the next forty-eight hours in ingenious efforts to put together certain additional information as to the current value of founders' shares in the new company, the nature and amount of wharton's debts, and so on. thanks to his father's hints he was able in the end to discover quite enough to furnish forth a supplementary statement. so that, when the th arrived, the day rose upon a group of men breathlessly awaiting a play within a play--with all their parts rehearsed, and the prompter ready. * * * * * such in substance, was anthony's story. so carried away was he by the excitement and triumph of it, that he soon ceased to notice what its effect might be upon his pale and quick-breathing companion. "and now what has happened?" she asked him abruptly, when at last he paused. "why, you saw!" he said in astonishment, pointing to the evening paper--"at least the beginning of it. louis is at the house now. i expect him every moment. he said he would follow me here." marcella pressed her hands upon her eyes a moment as though in pain. anthony looked at her with a tardy prick of remorse. "i hear louis's knock!" he said, springing up. "may i let him in?" and, without waiting for reply, he hobbled as fast as his crutch would carry him to the outer door. louis came in. marcella rose mechanically. he paused on the threshold, his short sight trying to make her out in the dusk. then his face softened and quivered. he walked forward quickly. "i know you have something to forgive us," he said, "and that this will distress you. but we could not give you warning. everything was so rapid, and the public interests involved so crushing." he was flushed with vengeance and victory, but as he approached her his look was deprecating--almost timid. only the night before, anthony for the first time had suggested to him an idea about her. he did not believe it--had had no time in truth to think of it in the rush of events. but now he saw her, the doubt pulled at his heart. had he indeed stabbed the hand that had tried to help him? anthony touched him impatiently on the arm. "what has happened, louis? i have shown miss boyce the first news." "it is all over," said louis, briefly. "the meeting was breaking up as i came away. it had lasted nearly five hours. there was a fierce fight, of course, between wharton and wilkins. then bennett withdrew his resolution, refused to be nominated himself--nearly broke down, in fact, they say; he had always been attached to wharton, and had set his heart upon making him leader--and finally, after a long wrangle, molloy was appointed chairman of the party." "good!" cried anthony, not able to suppress the note of exultation. louis did not speak. he looked at marcella. "did he defend himself?" she asked in a low, sharp voice. louis shrugged his shoulders. "oh, yes. he spoke--but it did him no good. everybody agreed that the speech was curiously ineffective. one would have expected him to do it better. but he seemed to be knocked over. he said, of course, that he had satisfied himself, and given proof in the paper, that the strike could not be maintained, and that being so he was free to join any syndicate he pleased. but he spoke amid dead silence, and there was a general groan when he sat down. oh, it was not this business only! wilkins made great play in part of his speech with the company scandal too. it is a complete smash all round." "which he will never get over?" said marcella, quickly. "not with our men. what he may do elsewhere is another matter. anthony has told you how it came out?" she made a sign of assent. she was sitting erect and cold, her hands round her knees. "i did not mean to keep anything from you," he said in a low voice, bending to her. "i know--you admired him--that he had given you cause. but--my mind has been on _fire_--ever since i came back from those damesley scenes!" she offered no reply. silence fell upon all three for a minute or two; and in the twilight each could hardly distinguish the others. every now and then the passionate tears rose in marcella's eyes; her heart contracted. that very night when he spoke to her, when he used all those big words to her about his future, those great ends for which he had claimed her woman's help--he had these things in his mind. "i think," said louis craven presently, touching her gently on the arm--he had tried once in vain to attract her attention--"i think i hear some one asking for you outside on the landing--mrs. hurd seems to be bringing them in." as he spoke, anthony suddenly sprang to his feet, and the outer door opened. "louis!" cried anthony, "it is _he_!" "are yer at home, miss?" said minta hurd, putting in her head; "i can hardly see, it's so dark. here's a gentleman wants to see you." as she spoke, wharton passed her, and stood--arrested--by the sight of the three figures. at the same moment mrs. hurd lit the gas in the little passage. the light streamed upon his face, and showed him the identity of the two men standing beside marcella. never did marcella forget that apparition--the young grace and power of the figure--the indefinable note of wreck, of catastrophe--the lucifer brightness of the eyes in the set face. she moved forward. anthony stopped her. "good-night, miss boyce!" she shook hands unconsciously with him and with louis. the two cravens turned to the door. wharton advanced into the room, and let them pass. "you have been in a hurry to tell your story!" he said, as louis walked by him. contemptuous hate breathed from every feature, but he was perfectly self-controlled. "yes--" said craven, calmly--"now it is your turn." the door was no sooner shut than wharton strode forward and caught her hand. "they have told you everything? ah!--" his eye fell upon the evening paper. letting her go, he felt for a chair and dropped into it. throwing himself back, his hands behind his head, he drew a long breath and his eyes closed. for the first time in his life or hers she saw him weak and spent like other men. even his nerve had been worn down by the excitement of these five fighting hours. the eyes were lined and hollow--the brow contracted; the young roundness of the cheek was lost in the general pallor and patchiness of the skin; the lower part of the face seemed to have sharpened and lengthened,--and over the whole had passed a breath of something aging and withering the traces of which sent a shiver through marcella. she sat down near him, still in her nurse's cloak, one trembling hand upon her lap. "will you tell me what made you do this?" she asked, not being able to think of anything else to say. he opened his eyes with a start. in that instant's quiet the scene he had just lived through had been rushing before him again--the long table in the panelled committee-room, the keen angry faces gathered about it. bennett, in his blue tie and shabby black coat, the clear moist eyes vexed and miserable--molloy, small and wiry, business-like in the midst of confusion, cool in the midst of tumult--and wilkins, a black, hectoring leviathan, thundering on the table as he flung his broad yorkshire across it, or mouthing out denny's letter in the midst of the sudden electrical silence of some thirty amazed and incredulous hearers. "_spies,_ yo call us?" with a finger like a dart, threatening the enemy--"aye; an' yo're aboot reet! i and my friends--we _have_ been trackin' and spyin' for weeks past. we _knew_ those men, those starvin' women and bairns, were bein' _sold_, but we couldn't prove it. now we've come at the how and the why of it! and we'll make it harder for men like you to _sell 'em again_! yo call it infamy?--well, _we_ call it detection." then rattling on the inner ear came the phrases of the attack which followed on the director of "the people's banking association," the injured innocent of as mean a job, as unsavoury a bit of vulturous finance, as had cropped into publicity for many a year--and finally the last dramatic cry: "but it's noa matter, yo say! mester wharton has nobbut played his party and the workin' man a dirty trick or two--_an' yo mun have a gentleman!_ noa--the workin' man isn't fit _himself_ to speak wi' his own enemies i' th' gate--_yo mun have a gentleman_!--an' mester wharton, he says he'll tak' the post, an' dea his best for yo--an', remember, _yo mun have a gentleman_! soa now--yes! or no!--wull yo?--or _woan't yo_?" and at that, the precipitation of the great unwieldy form half across the table towards wharton's seat--the roar of the speaker's immediate supporters thrown up against the dead silence of the rest! as to his own speech--he thought of it with a soreness, a disgust which penetrated to bones and marrow. he had been too desperately taken by surprise--had lost his nerve--missed the right tone throughout. cool defiance, free self-justification, might have carried him through. instead of which--faugh! all this was the phantom-show of a few seconds' thought. he roused himself from a miserable reaction of mind and body to attend to marcella's question. "why did i do it?" he repeated; "why--" he broke off, pressing both his hands upon his brow. then he suddenly sat up and pulled himself together. "is that tea?" he said, touching the tray. "will you give me some?" marcella went into the back kitchen and called minta. while the boiling water was brought and the tea was made, wharton sat forward with his face on his hands and saw nothing. marcella whispered a word in minta's ear as she came in. the woman paused, looked at wharton, whom she had not recognised before in the dark--grew pale--and marcella saw her hands shaking as she set the tray in order. wharton knew nothing and thought nothing of kurd's widow, but to marcella the juxtaposition of the two figures brought a wave of complex emotion. wharton forced himself to eat and drink, hardly speaking the while. then, when the tremor of sheer exhaustion had to some extent abated, he suddenly realised who this was that was sitting opposite to him ministering to him. she felt his hand--his quick powerful hand--on hers. "to _you_ i owe the whole truth--let me tell it!" she drew herself away instinctively--but so softly that he did not realise it. he threw himself back once more in the chair beside her--one knee over the other, the curly head so much younger to-night than the face beneath it supported on his arms, his eyes closed again for rest--and plunged into the story of the _clarion_. it was admirably told. he had probably so rehearsed it to himself several times already. he described his action as the result of a double influence working upon him--the influence of his own debts and necessities, and the influence of his growing conviction that the maintenance of the strike had become a blunder, even a misfortune for the people themselves. "then--just as i was at my wit's end, conscious besides that the paper was on a wrong line, and must somehow be got out of it--came the overtures from the syndicate. i knew perfectly well i ought to have refused them--of _course_ my whole career was risked by listening to them. but at the same time they gave me assurances that the workpeople would ultimately gain--they proved to me that i was helping to extinguish the trade. as to the _money_--when a great company has to be launched, the people who help it into being get _paid_ for it--it is invariable--it happens every day. i like the system no more than you may do--or wilkins. but consider. i was in such straits that _bankruptcy_ lay between me and my political future. moreover--i had lost nerve, sleep, balance. i was scarcely master of myself when pearson first broached the matter to me--" "pearson!" cried marcella, involuntarily. she recalled the figure of the solicitor; had heard his name from frank leven. she remembered wharton's impatient words--"there is a tiresome man wants to speak to me on business--" it was _then i_--that evening! something sickened her. wharton raised himself in his chair and looked at her attentively with his young haggard eyes. in the faint lamplight she was a pale vision of the purest and noblest beauty. but the lofty sadness of her face filled him with a kind of terror. desire--impotent pain--violent resolve, swept across him. he had come to her, straight from the scene of his ruin, as to the last bulwark left him against a world bent on his destruction, and bare henceforward of all delights. "well, what have you to say to me?" he said, suddenly, in a low changed voice--"as i speak--as i look at you--i see in your face that you distrust--that you have judged me; those two men, i suppose, have done their work! yet from you--_you_ of all people--i might look not only for justice--but--i will dare say it--for kindness!" she trembled. she understood that he appealed to the days at mellor, and her lips quivered. "no," she exclaimed, almost timidly--"i try to think the best. i see the pressure was great." "and consider, please," he said proudly, "what the reasons were for that pressure." she looked at him interrogatively--a sudden softness in her eyes. if at that moment he had confessed himself fully, if he had thrown himself upon her in the frank truth of his mixed character--and he could have done it, with a rousseau-like completeness--it is difficult to say what the result of this scene might have been. in the midst of shock and repulsion, she was filled with pity; and there were moments when she was more drawn to his defeat and undoing, than she had ever been to his success. yet how question him? to do so, would be to assume a right, which in turn would imply _his_ rights. she thought of that mention of "gambling debts," then of his luxurious habits, and extravagant friends. but she was silent. only, as she sat there opposite to him, one slim hand propping the brow, her look invited him. he thought he saw his advantage. "you must remember," he said, with the same self-assertive bearing, "that i have never been a rich man, that my mother spent my father's savings on a score of public objects, that she and i started a number of experiments on the estate, that my expenses as a member of parliament are very large, and that i spent thousands on building up the _clarion_. i have been ruined by the _clarion_, by the cause the _clarion_ supported. i got no help from my party--where was it to come from? they are all poor men. i had to do everything myself, and the struggle has been more than flesh and blood could bear! this year, often, i have not known how to move, to breathe, for anxieties of every sort. then came the crisis--my work, my usefulness, my career, all threatened. the men who hated me saw their opportunity. i was a fool and gave it them. and my enemies have used it--to the bitter end!" tone and gesture were equally insistent and strong. what he was saying to himself was that, with a woman of marcella's type, one must "bear it out." this moment of wreck was also with him the first moment of all-absorbing and desperate desire. to win her--to wrest her from the cravens' influence--that had been the cry in his mind throughout his dazed drive from the house of commons. her hand in his--her strength, her beauty, the romantic reputation that had begun to attach to her, at his command--and he would have taken the first step to recovery, he would see his way to right himself. ah! but he had missed his chance! somehow, every word he had been saying rang false to her. she could have thrown herself as a saving angel on the side of weakness and disaster which had spoken its proper language, and with a reckless and confiding truth had appealed to the largeness of a woman's heart. but this patriot--ruined so nobly--for such disinterested purposes--left her cold! she began to think even--hating herself--of the thousands he was supposed to have made in the gambling over that wretched company--no doubt for the "cause" too! but before she could say a word he was kneeling beside her. "_marcella_ i give me my answer!--i am in trouble and defeat--be a woman, and come to me!" he had her hands. she tried to recover them. "no!" she said, with passionate energy, "_that_ is impossible. i had written to you before you came, before i had heard a word of this. please, _please_ let me go!" "not till you explain!"--he said, still holding her, and roused to a white heat of emotion--"_why_ is it impossible? you said to me once, with all your heart, that you thanked me, that i had taught you, helped you. you cannot ignore the bond between us! and you are free. i have a right to say to you--you thirst to save, to do good--come and save a man that cries to you!--he confesses to _you_, freely enough, that he has made a hideous mistake--help him to redeem it!" she rose suddenly with all her strength, freeing herself from him, so that he rose too, and stood glowering and pale. "when i said that to you," she cried, "i was betraying "--her voice failed her an instant--"we were both false--to the obligation that should have held us--restrained us. no! _no!_ i will never be your wife! we should hurt each other--poison each other!" her eyes shone with wild tears. as he stood there before her she was seized with a piteous sense of contrast--of the irreparable--of what might have been. "what do you mean?" he asked her, roughly. she was silent. his passion rose. "do you remember," he said, approaching her again, "that you have given me cause to hope? it is those two fanatics that have changed you--possessed your mind." she looked at him with a pale dignity. "my letters must have warned you," she said simply. "if you had come to-morrow--in prosperity--you would have got the same answer, at once. to-day--now--i have had weak moments, because--because i did not know how to add pain to pain. but they are gone--i see my way! _i do not love you_--that is the simple, the whole truth--i could not follow you!" he stared at her an instant in a bitter silence. "i have been warned,"--he said slowly, but in truth losing control of himself, "not only by you--and i suppose i understand! you repent last year. your own letter said as much. you mean to recover, the ground--the place you lost. ah, well!--most natural!--most fitting! when the time comes--and my bones are less sore--i suppose i shall have my second congratulations ready! meanwhile--" she gave a low cry and burst suddenly into a passion of weeping, turning her face from him. but when in pale sudden shame he tried to excuse himself--to appease her--she moved away, with a gesture that overawed him. "_you_ have not confessed yourself"--she said, and his look wavered under the significance of hers--"but you drive me to it. yes, _i repent!_"--her breast heaved, she caught her breath. "i have been trying to cheat myself these last few weeks--to run away from grief--and the other night when you asked me--i would have given all i have and am to feel like any happy girl, who says 'yes' to her lover. i tried to feel so. but even then, though i was miserable and reckless, i knew in my heart--it was impossible! if you suppose--if you like to suppose--that i--i have hopes or plans--as mean as they would be silly--you must--of course. but i have given no one any _right_ to think so or say so. mr. wharton--" gathering all her self-control, she put out her white hand to him. "please--please say good-bye to me. it has been hideous vanity--and mistake--and wretchedness--our knowing each other--from the beginning. i _am_ grateful for all you did, i shall always be grateful. i hope--oh! i hope--that--that you will find a way through this trouble. i don't want to make it worse by a word. if i could do anything! but i can't. you must please go. it is late. i wish to call my friend, mrs. hurd." their eyes met--hers full of a certain stern yet quivering power, his strained and bloodshot, in his lined young face. then, with a violent gesture--as though he swept her out of his path--he caught up his hat, went to the door, and was gone. she fell on her chair almost fainting, and sat there for long in the summer dark, covering her face. but it was not his voice that haunted her ears. "_you have done me wrong--i pray god you may not do yourself a greater wrong in the future!_" again and again, amid the whirl of memory, she pressed the sad remembered words upon the inward wound and fever--tasting, cherishing the smart of them. and as her trance of exhaustion and despair gradually left her, it was as though she crept close to some dim beloved form in whom her heart knew henceforward the secret and sole companion of its inmost life. book iv. "you and i-- why care by what meanders we are here i' the centre of the labyrinth? men have died trying to find this place which we have found." chapter i. ah! how purely, cleanly beautiful was the autumn sunrise! after her long hardening to the stale noisomeness of london streets, the taint of london air, marcella hung out of her window at mellor in a thirsty delight, drinking in the scent of dew and earth and trees, watching the ways of the birds, pouring forth a soul of yearning and of memory into the pearly silence of the morning. high up on the distant hill to the left, beyond the avenue, the pale apricots and golds of the newly-shorn stubbles caught the mounting light. the beeches of the avenue were turning fast, and the chestnuts girdling the church on her right hand were already thin enough to let the tower show through. that was the bell--the old bell given to the church by hampden's friend, john boyce--striking half-past five; and close upon it came the call of a pheasant in the avenue. there he was, fine fellow, with his silly, mincing run, redeemed all at once by the sudden whirr of towering flight. to-day mary harden and the rector would be at work in the church, and to-morrow was to be the harvest festival. was it two years?--or in an hour or two would she be going with her basket from the cedar garden, to find that figure in the brown shooting-coat standing with the hardens on the altar steps? alas!--alas!--her head dropped on her hands as she knelt by the open window. how changed were all the aspects of the world! three weeks before, the bell in that little church had tolled for one who, in the best way and temper of his own generation, had been god's servant and man's friend--who had been marcella's friend--and had even, in his last days, on a word from edward hallin, sent her an old man's kindly farewell. "tell her," lord maxwell had written with his own hand to hallin, "she has taken up a noble work, and will make, i pray god, a noble woman. she had, i think, a kindly liking for an old man, and she will not disdain his blessing." he had died at geneva, aldous and miss raeburn with him. for instead of coming home in august, he had grown suddenly worse, and aldous had gone out to him. they had brought him to the court for burial, and the new lord maxwell, leaving his aunt at the court, had almost immediately returned to town,--because of edward hallin's state of health. marcella had seen much of hallin since he and his sister had come back to london in the middle of august. hallin's apparent improvement had faded within a week or two of his return to his rooms; aldous was at geneva; miss hallin was in a panic of alarm; and marcella found herself both nurse and friend. day after day she would go in after her nursing rounds, share their evening meal, and either write for hallin, or help the sister--by the slight extra weight of her professional voice--to keep him from writing and thinking. he would not himself admit that he was ill at all, and his whole energies at the time were devoted to the preparation of a series of three addresses on the subject of land reform, which were to be delivered in october to the delegates of a large number of working-men's clubs from all parts of london. so strong was hallin's position among working-men reformers, and so beloved had been his personality, that as soon as his position towards the new land nationalising movement, now gathering formidable strength among the london working men, had come to be widely understood, a combined challenge had been sent him by some half-dozen of the leading socialist and radical clubs, asking him to give three weekly addresses in october to a congress of london delegates, time to be allowed after the lecture for questions and debate. hallin had accepted the invitation with eagerness, and was throwing an intensity of labour into the writing of his three lectures which often seemed to his poor sister to be not only utterly beyond his physical strength, but to carry with it a note as of a last effort, a farewell message, such as her devoted affection could ill endure. for all the time he was struggling with cardiac weakness and brain irritability which would have overwhelmed any one less accustomed to make his account with illness, or to balance against feebleness of body a marvellous discipline of soul. lord maxwell was still alive, and hallin, in the midst of his work, was looking anxiously for the daily reports from aldous, living in his friend's life almost as much as in his own--handing on the reports, too, day by day to marcella, with a manner which had somehow slipped into expressing a new and sure confidence in her sympathy--when she one evening found minta hurd watching for her at the door with a telegram from her mother: "your father suddenly worse. please come at once." she arrived at mellor late that same night. on the same day lord maxwell died. less than a week later he was buried in the little gairsley church. mr. boyce was then alarmingly ill, and marcella sat in his darkened room or in her own all day, thinking from time to time of what was passing three miles away--of the great house in its mourning--of the figures round the grave. hallin, of course, would be there. it was a dripping september day, and she passed easily from moments of passionate yearning and clairvoyance to worry herself about the damp and the fatigue that hallin must be facing. since then she had heard occasionally from miss hallin. everything was much as it had been, apparently. edward was still hard at work, still ill, still serene. "aldous"--miss hallin could not yet reconcile herself to the new name--was alone in the curzon street house, much occupied and harassed apparently by the legal business of the succession, by the election presently to be held in his own constituency, and by the winding-up of his work at the home office. he was to resign his under-secretaryship; but with the new session and a certain rearrangement of offices it was probable that he would be brought back into the ministry. meanwhile he was constantly with them; and she thought that his interest in edward's work and anxiety about his health were perhaps both good for him as helping to throw off something of his own grief and depression. whereby it will be noticed that miss hallin, like her brother, had by now come to speak intimately and freely to marcella of her old lover and their friend. now for some days, however, she had received no letter from either brother or sister, and she was particularly anxious to hear. for this was the fourth of october, and on the second he was to have delivered the first of his addresses. how had the frail prophet sped? she had her fears. for her weekly "evenings" in brown's buildings had shown her a good deal of the passionate strength of feeling developed during the past year in connection with this particular propaganda. she doubted whether the london working man at the present moment was likely to give even hallin a fair hearing on the point. however, louis craven was to be there. and he had promised to write even if susie hallin could find no time. some report ought to reach mellor by the evening. poor cravens! the young wife, who was expecting a baby, had behaved with great spirit through the _clarion_ trouble; and, selling their bits of furniture to pay their debts, they had gone to lodge near anthony. louis had got some odds and ends of designing and artistic work to do through his brother's influence; and was writing where he could, here and there. marcella had introduced them to the hallins, and susie hallin was taking a motherly interest in the coming child. anthony, in his gloomy way, was doing all he could for them. but the struggle was likely to be a hard one, and marcella had recognised of late that in louis as in anthony there were dangerous possibilities of melancholy and eccentricity. her heart was often sore over their trouble and her own impotence. meantime for some wounds, at any rate, time had brought swift cautery! not three days after her final interview with wharton, while the catastrophe in the labour party was still in every one's mouth, and the air was full of bitter speeches and recriminations, hallin one evening laid down his newspaper with a sudden startled gesture, and then pushed it over to marcella. there, in the columns devoted to personal news of various sorts, appeared the announcement: "a marriage has been arranged between mr. h.s. wharfon, m.p. for west brookshire, and lady selina farrell, only surviving daughter of lord alresford. the ceremony will probably take place somewhere about easter next. meanwhile mr. wharton, whose health has suffered of late from his exertions in and out of the house, has been ordered to the east for rest by his medical advisers. he and his friend sir william ffolliot start for french cochin china in a few days. their object is to explore the famous ruined temples of angkor in cambodia, and if the season is favourable they may attempt to ascend the mekong. mr. wharton is paired for the remainder of the session." "did you know anything of this?" said hallin, with that careful carelessness in which people dress a dubious question. "nothing," she said quietly. then an impulse not to be stood against, springing from very mingled depths of feeling, drove her on. she, too, put down the paper, and laying her finger-tips together on her knee she said with an odd slight laugh: "but i was the last person to know. about a fortnight ago mr. wharton proposed to me." hallin sprang from his chair, almost with a shout. "and you refused him?" she nodded, and then was angrily aware that, totally against her will or consent, and for the most foolish and remote reasons, those two eyes of hers had grown moist. hallin went straight over to her. "do you mind letting me shake hands with you?" he said, half ashamed of his outburst, a dancing light of pleasure transforming the thin face. "there--i am an idiot! we won't say a word more--except about lady selina. have you seen her?" "three or four times." "what is she like?" marcella hesitated. "is she fat--and forty?" said hallin, fervently--she beat him?" "not at all. she is very thin--thirty-five, elegant, terribly of her own opinion--and makes a great parade of 'papa.'" she looked round at him, unsteadily, but gaily. "oh! i see," said hallin, with disappointment, "she will only take care he doesn't beat her--which i gather from your manner doesn't matter. and her politics?" "lord alresford was left out of the ministry," said marcella slily. "he and lady selina thought it a pity." "alresford--_alresford_? why, of course! he was lord privy seal in their last cabinet--a narrow-minded old stick!--did a heap of mischief in the lords. _well!_"--hallin pondered a moment--"wharton will go over!" marcella was silent. the tremor of that wrestler's hour had not yet passed away. the girl could find no words in which to discuss wharton himself, this last amazing act, or its future. as for hallin, he sat lost in pleasant dreams of a whitewashed wharton, comfortably settled at last below the gangway on the conservative side, using all the old catch-words in slightly different connections, and living gaily on his lady selina. fragments from the talk of nehemiah--nehemiah the happy and truculent, that new "scourge of god" upon the parasites of labour--of poor bennett, of molloy, and of various others who had found time to drop in upon him since the labour smash, kept whirling in his mind. the same prediction he had just made to marcella was to be discerned in several of them. he vowed to himself that he would write to raeburn that night, congratulate him and the party on the possibility of so eminent a recruit--and hint another item of news by the way. she had trusted her confidence to him without any pledge--an act for which he paid her well thenceforward, in the coin of a friendship far more intimate, expansive, and delightful than anything his sincerity had as yet allowed him to show her. but these london incidents and memories, near as they were in time, looked many of them strangely remote to marcella in this morning silence. when she drew back from the window, after darkening the now sun-flooded room in a very thorough business-like way, in order that she might have four or five hours' sleep, there was something symbolic in the act. she gave back her mind, her self, to the cares, the anxieties, the remorses of the past three weeks. during the night she had been sitting up with her father that her mother might rest. now, as she lay down, she thought with the sore tension which had lately become habitual to her, of her father's state, her mother's strange personality, her own short-comings. * * * * * by the middle of the morning she was downstairs again, vigorous and fresh as ever. mrs. boyce's maid was for the moment in charge of the patient, who was doing well. mrs. boyce was writing some household notes in the drawing-room. marcella went in search of her. the bare room, just as it ever was--with its faded antique charm--looked bright and tempting in the sun. but the cheerfulness of it did but sharpen the impression of that thin form writing in the window. mrs. boyce looked years older. the figure had shrunk and flattened into that of an old woman; the hair, which two years before had been still young and abundant, was now easily concealed under the close white cap she had adopted very soon after her daughter had left mellor. the dress was still exquisitely neat; but plainer and coarser. only the beautiful hands and the delicate stateliness of carriage remained--sole relics of a loveliness which had cost its owner few pangs to part with. marcella hovered near her--a little behind her--looking at her from time to time with a yearning compunction--which mrs. boyce seemed to be aware of, and to avoid. "mamma, can't i do those letters for you? i am quite fresh." "no, thank you. they are just done." when they were all finished and stamped, mrs. boyce made some careful entries in a very methodical account-book, and then got up, locking the drawers of her little writing-table behind her. "we can keep the london nurse another week i think," she said. "there is no need," said marcella, quickly. "emma and i could divide the nights now and spare you altogether. you see i can sleep at any time." "your father seems to prefer nurse wenlock," said mrs. boyce. marcella took the little blow in silence. no doubt it was her due. during the past two years she had spent two separate months at mellor; she had gone away in opposition to her father's wish; and had found herself on her return more of a stranger to her parents than ever. mr. boyce's illness, involving a steady extension of paralytic weakness, with occasional acute fits of pain and danger, had made steady though very gradual progress all the time. but it was not till some days after her return home that marcella had realised a tenth part of what her mother had undergone since the disastrous spring of the murder. she passed now from the subject of the nurse with a half-timid remark about "expense." "oh! the expense doesn't matter!" said mrs. boyce, as she stood absently before the lately kindled fire, warming her chilled fingers at the blaze. "papa is more at ease in those ways?" marcella ventured. and kneeling down beside her mother she gently chafed one of the cold hands. "there seems to be enough for what is wanted," said mrs. boyce, bearing the charing with patience. "your father, i believe, has made great progress this year in freeing the estate. thank you, my dear. i am not cold now." and she gently withdrew her hand. marcella, indeed, had already noticed that there were now no weeds on the garden-paths, that instead of one gardener there were three, that the old library had been decently patched and restored, that there was another servant, that william, grown into a very--tolerable footman, wore a reputable coat, and that a plain but adequate carriage and horse had met her at the station. her pity even understood that part of her father's bitter resentment of his ever-advancing disablement came from his feeling that here at last--just as death was in sight--he, that squalid failure, dick boyce, was making a success of something. presently, as she knelt before the fire, a question escaped her, which, when it was spoken, she half regretted. "has papa been able to do anything for the cottages yet?" "i don't think so," said mrs. boyce, calmly. after a minute's pause she added, "that will be for your reign, my dear." marcella looked up with a sharp thrill of pain. "papa is better, mamma, and--and i don't know what you mean. i shall never reign here without you." mrs. boyce began to fidget with the rings on her thin left hand. "when mellor ceases to be your father's it will be yours," she said, not without a certain sharp decision; "that was settled long ago. i must be free--and if you are to do anything with this place, you must give your youth and strength to it. and your father is not better--except for the moment. dr. clarke exactly foretold the course of his illness to me two years ago, on my urgent request. he may live four months--six, if we can get him to the south. more is impossible." there was something ghastly in her dry composure. marcella caught her hand again and leant her trembling young cheek against it. "i could not live here without you, mamma!" mrs. boyce could not for once repress the inner fever which in general her will controlled so well. "i hardly think it would matter to you so much, my dear." marcella shrank. "i don't wonder you say that!" she said in a low voice. "do you think it was all a mistake, mamma, my going away eighteen months ago--a wrong act?" mrs. boyce grew restless. "i judge nobody, my dear!--unless i am obliged. as you know, i am for liberty--above all"--she spoke with emphasis--"for letting the past alone. but i imagine you must certainly have learnt to do without us. now i ought to go to your father." but marcella held her. "do you remember in the _purgatorio_, mamma, the lines about the loser in the game: 'when the game of dice breaks up, he who lost lingers sorrowfully behind, going over the throws, and _learning by his grief_'? do you remember?" mrs. boyce looked down upon her, involuntarily a little curious, a little nervous, but assenting. it was one of the inconsistencies of her strange character that she had all her life been a persistent dante student. the taste for the most strenuous and passionate of poets had developed in her happy youth; it had survived through the loneliness of her middle life. like everything else personal to herself she never spoke of it; but the little worn books on her table had been familiar to marcella from a child. "_e tristo impara?_" repeated marcella, her voice wavering. "mamma "--she laid her face against her mother's dress again--"i have lost more throws than you think in the last two years. won't you believe i may have learnt a little?" she raised her eyes to her mother's pinched and mask-like face. mrs. boyce's lips moved as though she would have asked a question. but she did not ask it. she drew, instead, the stealthy breath marcella knew well--the breath of one who has measured precisely her own powers of endurance, and will not risk them for a moment by any digression into alien fields of emotion. "well, but one expects persons like you to learn," she said, with a light, cold manner, which made the words mere convention. there was silence an instant; then, probably to release herself, her hand just touched her daughter's hair. "now, will you come up in half an hour? that was twelve striking, and emma is never quite punctual with his food." * * * * * marcella went to her father at the hour named. she found him in his wheeled chair, beside a window opened to the sun, and overlooking the cedar garden. the room in which he sat was the state bedroom of the old house. it had a marvellous paper of branching trees and parrots and red-robed chinamen, in the taste of the morning room downstairs, a carved four-post bed, a grate adorned with purplish dutch tiles, an array of family miniatures over the mantelpiece, and on a neighbouring wall a rack of old swords and rapiers. the needlework hangings of the bed were full of holes; the seats of the chippendale chairs were frayed or tattered. but, none the less, the inalienable character and dignity of his sleeping-room were a bitter satisfaction to richard boyce, even in his sickness. after all said and done, he was king here in his father's and grandfather's place; ruling where they ruled, and--whether they would or no--dying where they died, with the same family faces to bear him witness from the walls, and the same vault awaiting him. when his daughter entered, he turned his head, and his eyes, deep and black still as ever, but sunk in a yellow relic of a face, showed a certain agitation. she was disagreeably aware that his thoughts were much occupied with her; that he was full of grievance towards her, and would probably before long bring the pathos of his situation as well as the weight of his dying authority to bear upon her, for purposes she already suspected with alarm. "are you a little easier, papa?" she said, as she came up to him. "i should think as a nurse you ought to know better, my dear, than to ask," he said testily. "when a person is in my condition, enquiries of that sort are a mockery!" "but one may be in less or more pain," she said gently. "i hoped dr. clarke's treatment yesterday might have given you some relief." he did not vouchsafe an answer. she took some work and sat down by him. mrs. boyce, who had been tidying a table of food and medicine, came and asked him if he would be wheeled into another room across the gallery, which had been arranged as a sitting-room. he shook his head irritably. "i am not fit for it. can't you see? and i want to speak to marcella." mrs. boyce went away. marcella waited, not without a tremor. she was sitting in the sun, her head bent over the muslin strings she was hemming for her nurse's bonnet. the window was wide open; outside, the leaves under a warm breeze were gently drifting down into the cedar garden, amid a tangled mass of flowers, mostly yellow or purple. to one side rose the dark layers of the cedars; to the other, the grey front of the library wing. mr. boyce looked at her with the frown which had now become habitual to him, moved his lips once or twice without speaking; and at last made his effort. "i should think, marcella, you must often regret by now the step you took eighteen months ago!" she grew pale. "how regret it, papa?" she said, without looking up. "why, good god!" he said angrily; "i should think the reasons for regret are plain enough. you threw over a man who was devoted to you, and could have given you the finest position in the county, for the most nonsensical reasons in the world--reasons that by now, i am certain, you are ashamed of." he saw her wince, and enjoyed his prerogative of weakness. in his normal health he would never have dared so to speak to her. but of late, during long fits of feverish brooding--intensified by her return home--he had vowed to himself to speak his mind. "aren't you ashamed of them?" he repeated, as she was silent. she looked up. "i am not ashamed of anything i did to save hurd, if that is what you mean, papa." mr. boyce's anger grew. "of course you know what everybody said?" she stooped over her work again, and did not reply. "it's no good being sullen over it," he said in exasperation; "i'm your father, and i'm dying. i have a right to question you. it's my duty to see something settled, if i can, before i go. is it _true_ that all the time you were attacking raeburn about politics and the reprieve, and what not, you were really behaving as you never ought to have behaved, with harry wharton?" he gave out the words with sharp emphasis, and, bending towards her, he laid an emaciated hand upon her arm. "what use is there, papa, in going back to these things?" she said, driven to bay, her colour going and coming. "i may have been wrong in a hundred ways, but you never understood that the real reason for it all was that--that--i never was in love with mr. raeburn." "then why did you accept him?" he fell back against his pillows with a jerk. "as to that, i will confess my sins readily enough," she said, while her lip trembled, and he saw the tears spring into her eyes. "i accepted him for what you just now called his position in the county, though not quite in that way either." he was silent a little, then he began again in a voice which gradually became unsteady from self-pity. "well, now look here! i have been thinking about this matter a great deal--and god knows i've time to think and cause to think, considering the state i'm in--and i see no reason whatever why i should not try--before i die--to put this thing _straight_. that man was head over ears in love with you, _madly_ in love with you. i used to watch him, and i know. of course you offended and distressed him greatly. he could never have expected such conduct from you or any one else. but _he's_ not the man to change round easily, or to take up with any one else. now, if you regret what you did or the way in which you did it, why shouldn't i--a dying man may be allowed a little licence i should think!--give him a hint?" "_papa!_" cried marcella, dropping her work, and looking at him with a pale, indignant passion, which a year ago would have quelled him utterly. but he held up his hand. "now just let me finish. it would be no good my doing a thing of this kind without saying something to you first, because you'd find it out, and your pride would be the ruin of it. you always had a demoniacal pride, marcella, even when you were a tiny child; but if you make up your mind now to let me tell him you regret what you did--just that--you'll make him happy, and yourself, for you know very well he's a man of the highest character--and your poor father, who never did _you_ much harm anyway!" his voice faltered. "i'd manage it so that there should be nothing humiliating to you in it whatever. as if there could be anything humiliating in confessing such a mistake as that; besides, what is there to be ashamed of? you're no pauper. i've pulled mellor out of the mud for you, though you and your mother do give me credit for so precious little!" he lay back, trembling with fatigue, yet still staring at her with glittering eyes, while his hand on the invalid table fixed to the side of his chair shook piteously. marcella dreaded the effect the whole scene might have upon him; but, now they were in the midst of it, both feeling for herself and prudence for him drove her into the strongest speech she could devise. "papa, if _anything_ of that sort were done, i should take care mr. raeburn knew i had had nothing to do with it--in such a way that it would be _impossible_ for him to carry it further. dear papa, don't think of such a thing any more. because i treated mr. raeburn unjustly last year, are we now to harass and persecute him? i would sooner disappear from everybody i know--from you and mamma, from england--and never be heard of again." she stopped a moment--struggling for composure--that she might not excite him too much. "besides, it would be absurd! you forget i have seen a good deal of mr. raeburn lately--while i have been with the winterbournes. he has entirely given up all thought of me. even my vanity could see that plainly enough. his best friends expect him to marry a bright, fascinating little creature of whom i saw a good deal in james street--a miss macdonald." "miss how--much?" he asked roughly. she repeated the name, and then dwelt, with a certain amount of confusion and repetition, upon the probabilities of the matter--half conscious all the time that she was playing a part, persuading herself and him of something she was not at all clear about in her own inner mind--but miserably, passionately determined to go through with it all the same. he bore with what she said to him, half disappointed and depressed, yet also half incredulous. he had always been obstinate, and the approach of death had emphasised his few salient qualities, as decay had emphasised the bodily frame. he said to himself stubbornly that he would find some way yet of testing the matter in spite of her. he would think it out. meanwhile, step by step, she brought the conversation to less dangerous things, and she was finally gliding into some chat about the winterbournes when he interrupted her abruptly-- "and that other fellow--wharton. your mother tells me you have seen him in london. has he been making love to you?" "suppose i won't be catechised!" she said gaily, determined to allow no more tragedy of any kind. "besides, papa, you can't read your gossip as good people should. mr. wharton's engagement to a certain lady selina farrell--a distant cousin of the winterbournes--was announced, in several papers with great plainness three weeks ago." at that moment her mother came in, looking anxiously at them both, and half resentfully at marcella. marcella, sore and bruised in every moral fibre, got up to go. something in the involuntary droop of her beautiful head as she left the room drew her father's eyes after her, and for the time his feeling towards her softened curiously. well, _she_ had not made very much of her life so far! that old strange jealousy of her ability, her beauty, and her social place, he had once felt so hotly, died away. he wished her, indeed, to be lady maxwell. yet for the moment there was a certain balm in the idea that she too--her mother's daughter--with her merritt blood--could be unlucky. marcella went about all day under a vague sense of impending trouble--the result, no doubt, of that intolerable threat of her father's, against which she was, after all, so defenceless. but whatever it was, it made her all the more nervous and sensitive about the hallins; about her one true friend, to whom she was slowly revealing herself, even without speech; whose spiritual strength had been guiding and training her; whose physical weakness had drawn to him the maternal, the _spending_ instincts which her nursing life had so richly developed. she strolled down the drive to meet the post. but there were no letters from london, and she came in, inclined to be angry indeed with louis craven for deserting her, but saying to herself at the same time that she must have heard if anything had gone wrong. an hour or so later, just as the october evening was closing in, she was sitting dreaming over a dim wood-fire in the drawing-room. her father, as might have been expected, had been very tired and comatose all day. her mother was with him; the london nurse was to sit up, and marcella felt herself forlorn and superfluous. suddenly, in the silence of the house, she heard the front-door bell ring. there was a step in the hall--she sprang up--the door opened, and william, with fluttered emphasis, announced-- "lord maxwell!" in the dusk she could just see his tall form--the short pause as he perceived her--then her hand was in his, and the paralysing astonishment of that first instant had disappeared under the grave emotion of his look. "will you excuse me," he said, "for coming at this hour? but i am afraid you have heard nothing yet of our bad news--and hallin himself was anxious i should come and tell you. miss hallin could not write, and mr. craven, i was to tell you, had been ill for a week with a chill. you haven't then seen any account of the lecture in the papers?" "no; i have looked yesterday and to-day in our paper, but there was nothing--" "some of the radical papers reported it. i hoped you might have seen it. but when we got down here this afternoon, and there was nothing from you, both miss hallin and edward felt sure you had not heard--and i walked over. it was a most painful, distressing scene, and he--is very ill." "but you have brought him to the court?" she said trembling, lost in the thought of hallin, her quick breath coming and going. "he was able to bear the journey? will you tell me?--will you sit down?" he thanked her hurriedly, and took a seat opposite to her, within the circle of the firelight, so that she saw his deep mourning and the look of repressed suffering. "the whole thing was extraordinary--i can hardly now describe it," he said, holding his hat in his hands and staring into the fire. "it began excellently. there was a very full room. bennett was in the chair--and edward seemed much as usual. he had been looking desperately ill, but he declared that he was sleeping better, and that his sister and i coddled him. then,--directly he was well started!--i felt somehow that the audience was very hostile. and _he_ evidently felt it more and more. there was a good deal of interruption and hardly any cheers--and i saw after a little--i was sitting not far behind him--that he was discouraged--that he had lost touch. it was presently clear, indeed, that the real interest of the meeting lay not in the least in what he had to say, but in the debate that was to follow. they meant to let him have his hour--but not a minute more. i watched the men about me, and i could see them following the clock--thirsting for their turn. nothing that he said seemed to penetrate them in the smallest degree. he was there merely as a ninepin to be knocked over. i never saw a meeting so _possessed_ with a madness of fanatical conviction--it was amazing!" he paused, looking sadly before him. she made a little movement, and he roused himself instantly. "it was just a few minutes before he was to sit down--i was thankful!--when suddenly--i heard his voice change. i do not know now what happened--but i believe he completely lost consciousness of the scene before him--the sense of strain, of exhaustion, of making no way, must have snapped something. he began a sort of confession--a reverie in public--about himself, his life, his thoughts, his prayers, his hopes--mostly his religious hopes--for the working man, for england--i _never_ heard anything of the kind from him before--you know his reserve. it was so intimate--so painful--oh! so painful!"--he drew himself together with an involuntary shudder--"before this crowd, this eager hostile crowd which was only pining for him to sit down--to get out of their way. the men near me began to look at each other and titter. they wondered what he meant by maundering on like that--'damned canting stuff'--i heard one man near me call it. i tore off a bit of paper, and passed a line to bennett asking him to get hold of edward, to stop it. but i think bennett had rather lost his presence of mind, and i saw him look back at me and shake his head. then time was up, and they began to shout him down." marcella made an exclamation of horror. he turned to her. "i think it was the most tragic scene i ever saw," he said with a feeling as simple as it was intense. "this crowd so angry and excited--without a particle of understanding or sympathy--laughing, and shouting at him--and he in the midst--white as death--talking this strange nonsense--his voice floating in a high key, quite unlike itself. at last just as i was getting up to go to him, i saw bennett rise. but we were both too late. he fell at our feet!" marcella gave an involuntary sob! "what a horror!" she said, "what a martyrdom!" "it was just that," he answered in a low voice--"it was a martyrdom. and when one thinks of the way in which for years past he has held these big meetings in the hollow of his hand, and now, because he crosses their passion, their whim,--no kindness!--no patience--nothing but a blind hostile fury! yet _they_ thought him a traitor, no doubt. oh! it was all a tragedy!" there was silence an instant. then he resumed: "we got him into the back room. luckily there was a doctor on the platform. it was heart failure, of course, with brain prostration. we managed to get him home, and susie hallin and i sat up. he was delirious all night; but yesterday he rallied, and last night he begged us to move him out of london if we could. so we got two doctors and an invalid carriage, and by three this afternoon we were all at the court. my aunt was ready for him--his sister is there--and a nurse. clarke was there to meet him. he thinks he cannot possibly live more than a few weeks--possibly even a few days. the shock and strain have been irreparable." marcella lay back in her chair, struggling with her grief, her head and face turned away from him, her eyes hidden by her handkerchief. then in some mysterious way she was suddenly conscious that aldous was no longer thinking of hallin, but of her. "he wants very much to see you," he said, bending towards her; "but i know that you have yourself serious illness to nurse. forgive me for not having enquired after mr. boyce. i trust he is better?" she sat up, red-eyed, but mistress of herself. the tone had been all gentleness, but to her quivering sense some slight indefinable change--coldness--had passed into it. "he _is_ better, thank you--for the present. and my mother does not let me do very much. we have a nurse too. when shall i come?" he rose. "could you--come to-morrow afternoon? there is to be a consultation of doctors in the morning, which will tire him. about six?--that was what he said. he is very weak, but in the day quite conscious and rational. my aunt begged me to say how glad she would be--" he paused. an invincible awkwardness took possession of both of them. she longed to speak to him of his grandfather but could not find the courage. when he was gone, she, standing alone in the firelight, gave one passionate thought to the fact that so--in this tragic way--they had met again in this room where he had spoken to her his last words as a lover; and then, steadily, she put everything out of her mind but her friend--and death. chapter ii. mrs. boyce received marcella's news with more sympathy than her daughter had dared to hope for, and she made no remark upon aldous himself and his visit, for which marcella was grateful to her. as they left the dining-room, after their short evening meal, to go up to mr. boyce, marcella detained her mother an instant. "mamma, will you please not tell papa that--that lord maxwell came here this afternoon? and will you explain to him why i am going there to-morrow?" mrs. boyce's fair cheek flushed. marcella saw that she understood. "if i were you, i should not let your father talk to you any more about those things," she said with a certain proud impatience. "if i can help it!" exclaimed marcella. "will you tell him, mamma,--about mr. hallin?--and how good he has been to me?" then her voice failed her, and, hurriedly leaving her mother at the top of the stairs, she went away by herself to struggle with a grief and smart almost unbearable. that night passed quietly at the court. hallin was at intervals slightly delirious, but less so than the night before; and in the early morning the young doctor, who had sat up with him, reported him to aldous as calmer and a little stronger. but the heart mischief was hopeless, and might bring the bruised life to an end at any moment. he could not, however, be kept in bed, owing to restlessness and difficulty of breathing, and by midday he was in aldous's sitting-room, drawn close to the window, that he might delight his eyes with the wide range of wood and plain that it commanded. after a very wet september, the october days were now following each other in a settled and sunny peace. the great woods of the chilterns, just yellowing towards that full golden moment--short, like all perfection,--which only beeches know, rolled down the hill-slopes to the plain, their curving lines cut here and there by straight fir stems, drawn clear and dark on the pale background of sky and lowland. in the park, immediately below the window, groups of wild cherry and of a slender-leaved maple made spots of "flame and amethyst" on the smooth falling lawns; the deer wandered and fed, and the squirrels were playing and feasting among the beech nuts. since aldous and his poor sister had brought him home from the bethnal green hall in which the land reform conference had been held, hallin had spoken little, except in delirium, and that little had been marked by deep and painful depression. but this morning, when aldous was summoned by the nurse, and found him propped up by the window, in front of the great view, he saw gracious signs of change. death, indeed, already in possession, looked from the blue eyes so plainly that aldous, on his first entrance, had need of all his own strength of will to keep his composure. but with the certainty of that great release, and with the abandonment of all physical and mental struggle--the struggle of a lifetime--hallin seemed to-day to have recovered something of his characteristic serenity and blitheness--the temper which had made him the leader of his oxford contemporaries, and the dear comrade of his friend's life. when aldous came in, hallin smiled and lifted a feeble hand towards the park and the woods. "could it have greeted me more kindly," he said, in his whispering voice, "for the end?" aldous sat down beside him, pressing his hand, and there was silence till hallin spoke again. "you will keep this sitting-room, aldous?" "always." "i am glad. i have known you in it so long. what good talks we have had here in the old hot days! i was hot, at least, and you bore with me. land reform--church reform--wages reform--we have threshed them all out in this room. do you remember that night i kept you up till it was too late to go to bed, talking over my church plans? how full i was of it!--the church that was to be the people--reflecting their life, their differences--governed by them--growing with them. you wouldn't join it, aldous--our poor little association!" aldous's strong lip quivered. "let me think of something i _did_ join in," he said. hallin's look shone on him with a wonderful affection. "was there anything else you didn't help in? i don't remember it. i've dragged you into most things. you never minded failure. and i have not had so much of it--not till this last. this has been failure--absolute and complete." but there was no darkening of expression. he sat quietly smiling. "do you suppose anybody who could look beyond the moment would dream of calling it failure?" said aldous, with difficulty. hallin shook his head gently, and was silent for a little time, gathering strength and breath again. "i ought to suffer"--he said, presently. "last week i dreaded my own feeling if i should fail or break down--more than the failure itself. but since yesterday--last night--i have no more regrets. i see that my power is gone--that if i were to live i could no longer carry on the battle--or my old life. i am out of touch. those whom i love and would serve, put me aside. those who invite me, i do not care to join. so i drop--into the gulf--and the pageant rushes on. but the curious thing is now--i have no suffering. and as to the future--do you remember jowett in the introduction to the phaedo--" he feebly pointed to a book beside him, which aldous took up. hallin guided him and he read-- "_most persons when the last hour comes are resigned to the order of nature and the will of god. they are not thinking of dante's 'inferno' or 'paradiso,' or of the 'pilgrim's progress.' heaven and hell are not realities to them, but words or ideas_--_the outward symbols of some great mystery, they hardly know what_." "it is so with me," said hallin, smiling, as, at his gesture, aldous laid the book aside; "yet not quite. to my _mind_, that mystery indeed is all unknown and dark--but to the heart it seems unveiled--with the heart, i see." a little later aldous was startled to hear him say, very clearly and quickly: "do you remember that this is the fifth of october?" aldous drew his chair closer, that he might not raise his voice. "yes, ned." "two years, wasn't it, to-day? will you forgive me if i speak of her?" "you shall say anything you will." "did you notice that piece of news i sent you, in my last letter to geneva? but of course you did. did it please you?" "yes, i was glad of it," said aldous, after a pause, "extremely glad. i thought she had escaped a great danger." hallin studied his face closely. "she is free, aldous--and she is a noble creature--she has learnt from life--and from death--this last two years. and--you still love her. is it right to make no more effort?" aldous saw the perspiration standing on the wasted brow--would have given the world to be able to content or cheer him--yet would not, for the world, at such a moment be false to his own feeling or deceive his questioner. "i think it is right," he said deliberately, "--for a good many reasons, edward. in the first place i have not the smallest cause--not the fraction of a cause--to suppose that i could occupy with her now any other ground than that i occupied two years ago. she has been kind and friendly to me--on the whole--since we met in london. she has even expressed regret for last year--meaning, of course, as i understood, for the pain and trouble that may be said to have come from her not knowing her own mind. she wished that we should be friends. and"--he turned his head away--"no doubt i could be, in time.... but, you see--in all that, there is nothing whatever to bring me forward again. my fatal mistake last year, i think now, lay in my accepting what she gave me--accepting it so readily, so graspingly even. that was my fault, my blindness, and--it was as unjust to her--as it was hopeless for myself. for hers is a nature"--his eyes came back to his friend; his voice took a new force and energy--"which, in love at any rate, will give all or nothing--and will never be happy itself, or bring happiness, till it gives all. that is what last year taught me. so that even if she--out of kindness or remorse for giving pain--were willing to renew the old tie--i should be her worst enemy and my own if i took a single step towards it. marriage on such terms as i was thankful for last year, would be humiliation to me, and bring no gain to her. it will never serve a man with her"--his voice broke into emotion--"that he should make no claims! let him claim the uttermost far-thing--her whole self. if she gives it, _then_ he may know what love means!" hallin had listened intently. at aldous's last words his expression showed pain and perplexity. his mind was full of vague impressions, memories, which seemed to argue with and dispute one of the chief things aldous had been saying. but they were not definite enough to be put forward. his sensitive chivalrous sense, even in this extreme weakness, remembered the tragic weight that attaches inevitably to dying words. let him not do more harm than good. he rested a little. they brought him food; and aldous sat beside him making pretence to read, so that he might be encouraged to rest. his sister came and went; so did the doctor. but when they were once more alone, hallin put out his hand and touched his companion. "what is it, dear ned?" "only one thing more, before we leave it. is that _all_ that stands between you now--the whole? you spoke to me once in the summer of feeling _angry_, more angry than you could have believed. of course, i felt the same. but just now you spoke of its all being your fault. is there anything changed in your mind?" aldous hesitated. it was extraordinarily painful to him to speak of the past, and it troubled him that at such a moment it should trouble hallin. "there is nothing changed, ned, except that perhaps time makes _some_ difference always. i don't want now"--he tried to smile--"as i did then, to make anybody else suffer for my suffering. but perhaps i marvel even more than i did at first, that--that--she could have allowed some things to happen as she did!" the tone was firm and vibrating; and, in speaking, the whole face had developed a strong animation most passionate and human. hallin sighed. "i often think," he said, "that she was extraordinarily immature--much more immature than most girls of that age--as to feeling. it was really the brain that was alive." aldous silently assented; so much so that hallin repented himself. "but not now," he said, in his eager dying whisper; "not now. the plant is growing full and tall, into the richest life." aldous took the wasted hand tenderly in his own. there was something inexpressibly touching in this last wrestle of hallin's affection with another's grief. but it filled aldous with a kind of remorse, and with the longing to free him from that, as from every other burden, in these last precious hours of life. and at last he succeeded, as he thought, in drawing his mind away from it. they passed to other things. hallin, indeed, talked very little more during the day. he was very restless and weak, but not in much positive suffering. aldous read to him at intervals, from isaiah or plato, the bright sleepless eyes following every word. at last the light began to sink. the sunset flooded in from the berkshire uplands and the far oxford plain, and lay in gold and purple on the falling woods and the green stretches of the park. the distant edges of hill were extraordinarily luminous and clear, and aldous, looking into the west with the eye of one to whom every spot and line were familiar landmarks, could almost fancy he saw beyond the invisible river, the hill, the "lovely tree against the western sky," which keep for ever the memory of one with whose destiny it had often seemed to him that hallin's had something in common. to him, as to thyrsis, the same early joy, the same "happy quest," the same "fugitive and gracious light" for guide and beacon, that-- does not come with houses or with gold, with place, with honour and a flattering crew; and to him, too, the same tasked pipe and tired throat, the same struggle with the "life of men unblest," the same impatient tryst with death. the lovely lines ran dirge-like in his head, as he sat, sunk in grief, beside his friend. hallin did not speak; but his eye took note of every change of light, of every darkening tone, as the quiet english scene with its villages, churches, and woods, withdrew itself plane by plane into the evening haze. his soul followed the quiet deer, the homing birds, loosening itself gently the while from pain and from desire, saying farewell to country, to the poor, to the work left undone, and the hopes unrealised--to everything except to love. it had just struck six when he bent forward to the window beneath which ran the wide front terrace. "that was her step!" he said, while his face lit up, "will you bring her here?" * * * * * marcella rang the bell at the court with a fast beating heart. the old butler who came gave what her shrinking sense thought a forbidding answer to her shy greeting of him, and led her first into the drawing-room. a small figure in deep black rose from a distant chair and came forward stiffly. marcella found herself shaking hands with miss raeburn. "will you sit and rest a little before you go upstairs?" said that lady with careful politeness, "or shall i send word at once? he is hardly worse--but as ill as he can be." "i am not the least tired," said marcella, and miss raeburn rang. "tell his lordship, please, that miss boyce is here." the title jarred and hurt marcella's ear. but she had scarcely time to catch it before aldous entered, a little bent, as it seemed to her, from his tall erectness, and speaking with an extreme quietness, even monotony of manner. "he is waiting for you--will you come at once?" he led her up the central staircase and along the familiar passages, walking silently a little in front of her. they passed the long line of caroline and jacobean portraits in the upper gallery, till just outside his own door aldous paused. "he ought not to talk long," he said, hesitating, "but you will know--of course--better than any of us." "i will watch him," she said, almost inaudibly, and he gently opened the door and let her pass, shutting it behind her. the nurse, who was sitting beside her patient, got up as marcella entered, and pointed her to a low chair on his further side. susie hallin rose too, and kissed the new-comer hurriedly, absently, without a word, lest she should sob. then she and the nurse disappeared through an inner door. the evening light was still freely admitted; and there were some candles. by the help of both she could only see him indistinctly. but in her own mind, as she sat down, she determined that he had not even days to live. yet as she bent over him she saw a playful gleam on the cavernous face. "you won't scold me?" said the changed voice--"you did warn me--you and susie--but--i was obstinate. it was best so!" she pressed her lips to his hand and was answered by a faint pressure from the cold fingers. "if i could have been there!" she murmured. "no--i am thankful you were not. and i must not think of it--or of any trouble. aldous is very bitter--but he will take comfort by and by--he will see it--and them--more justly. they meant me no unkindness. they were full of an idea, as i was. when i came back to myself--first--all was despair. i was in a blank horror of myself and life. now it has gone--i don't know how. it is not of my own will--some hand has lifted a weight. i seem to float--without pain." he closed his eyes, gathering strength again in the interval, by a strong effort of will--calling up in the dimming brain what he had to say. she meanwhile, spoke to him in a low voice, mainly to prevent his talking, telling him of her father, of her mother's strain of nursing--of herself--she hardly knew what. hew grotesque to be giving him these little bits of news about strangers--to him, this hovering, consecrated soul, on the brink of the great secret! in the intervals, while he was still silent, she could not sometimes prevent the pulse of her own life from stirring. her eye wandered round the room--aldous's familiar room. there, on the writing-table with its load of letters and books, stood the photograph of hallin; another, her own, used to stand beside it; it was solitary now. otherwise, all was just as it had been--flowers, books, newspapers--the signs of familiar occupation, the hundred small details of character and personality which in estrangement take to themselves such a smarting significance for the sad and craving heart. the date--the anniversary--echoed in her mind. then, with a rush of remorseful pain, her thoughts came back to the present and to hallin. at the same moment she saw that his eyes were open, and fixed upon her with a certain anxiety and expectancy. he made a movement as though to draw her towards him; and she stooped to him. "i feel," he said, "as though my strength were leaving me fast. let me ask you one question--because of my love for you--and _him_. i have fancied--of late--things were changed. can you tell me--will you?--or is it unfair?"--the words had all their bright, natural intonation--"is your heart--still where it was?--or, could you ever--undo the past--" he held her fast, grasping the hand she had given him with unconscious force. she had looked up startled, her lip trembling like a child's. then she dropped her head against the arm of her chair, as though she could not speak. he moved restlessly, and sighed. "i should not," he said to himself; "i should not--it was wrong. the dying are tyrannous." he even began a word of sweet apology. but she shook her head. "don't!" she said, struggling with herself; "don't say that! it would do me good to speak--to you--" an exquisite smile dawned on hallin's face. "then!"--he said--"confess!" * * * * * a few minutes later they were still sitting together. she strongly wished to go; but he would not yet allow it. his face was full of a mystical joy--a living faith, which must somehow communicate itself in one last sacramental effort. "how strange that you--and i--and he--should have been so mixed together in this queer life. now i seem to regret nothing--i _hope_ everything. one more little testimony let me bear!--the last. we disappear one by one--into the dark--but each may throw his comrades--a token--before he goes. you have been in much trouble of mind and spirit--i have seen it. take my poor witness. there is one clue, one only--_goodness_--_the surrendered will_. everything is there--all faith--all religion--all hope for rich or poor.--whether we feel our way through consciously to the will--that asks our will--matters little. aldous and i have differed much on this--in words--never at heart! i could use words, symbols he cannot--and they have given me peace. but half my best life i owe to him." at this he made a long pause--but, still, through that weak grasp, refusing to let her go--till all was said. day was almost gone; the stars had come out over the purple dusk of the park. "that will--we reach--through duty and pain," he whispered at last, so faintly she could hardly hear him, "is the root, the source. it leads us in living--it--carries us in death. but our weakness and vagueness--want help--want the human life and voice--to lean on--to drink from. we christians--are orphans--without christ! there again--what does it matter what we think--_about_ him--if only we think--_of_ him. in _one_ such life are all mysteries, and all knowledge--and our fathers have chosen for us--" the insistent voice sank lower and lower into final silence--though the lips still moved. the eyelids too fell. miss hallin and the nurse came in. marcella rose and stood for one passionate instant looking down upon him. then, with a pressure of the hand to the sister beside her, she stole out. her one prayer was that she might see and meet no one. so soft was her step that even the watching aldous did not hear her. she lifted the heavy latch of the outer door without the smallest noise, and found herself alone in the starlight. * * * * * after marcella left him, hallin remained for some hours in what seemed to those about him a feverish trance. he did not sleep, but he showed no sign of responsive consciousness. in reality his mind all through was full of the most vivid though incoherent images and sensations. but he could no longer distinguish between them and the figures and movements of the real people in his room. each passed into and intermingled with the other. in some vague, eager way he seemed all the time to be waiting or seeking for aldous. there was the haunting impression of some word to say--some final thing to do--which would not let him rest. but something seemed always to imprison him, to hold him back, and the veil between him and the real aldous watching beside him grew ever denser. at night they made no effort to move him from the couch and the half-sitting posture in which he had passed the day. death had come too near. his sister and aldous and the young doctor who had brought him from london watched with him. the curtains were drawn back from both the windows, and in the clearness of the first autumnal frost a crescent moon hung above the woods, the silvery lawns, the plain. not long after midnight hallin seemed to himself to wake, full of purpose and of strength. he spoke, as he thought, to aldous, asking to be alone with him. but aldous did not move; that sad watching gaze of his showed no change. then hallin suffered a sudden sharp spasm of anguish and of struggle. three words to say--only three words; but those he _must_ say! he tried again, but aldous's dumb grief still sat motionless. then the thought leapt in the ebbing sense, "speech is gone; i shall speak no more!" it brought with it a stab, a quick revolt. but something checked both, and in a final offering of the soul, hallin gave up his last desire. what aldous saw was only that the dying man opened his hand as though it asked for that of his friend. he placed his own within those seeking fingers, and hallin's latest movement--which death stopped half-way--was to raise it to his lips. * * * * * so marcella's confession--made in the abandonment, the blind passionate trust, of a supreme moment--bore no fruit. it went with hallin to the grave. chapter iii. "i think i saw the letters arrive," said mrs. boyce to her daughter. "and donna margherita seems to be signalling to us." "let me go for them, mamma." "no, thank you, i must go in." and mrs. boyce rose from her seat, and went slowly towards the hotel. marcella watched her widow's cap and black dress as they passed along the _pergola_ of the hotel garden, between bright masses of geraniums and roses on either side. they had been sitting in the famous garden of the cappucini hotel at amalfi. to marcella's left, far below the high terrace of the hotel, the green and azure of the salernian gulf shone and danced in the sun, to her right a wood of oak and arbutus stretched up into a purple cliff--a wood starred above with gold and scarlet berries, and below with cyclamen and narcissus. from the earth under the leafy oaks--for the oaks at amalfi lose and regain their foliage in winter and spring by imperceptible gradations--came a moist english smell. the air was damp and warm. a convent bell tolled from invisible heights above the garden; while the olives and vines close at hand were full of the chattering voices of gardeners and children, and broken here and there by clouds of pink almond-blossom. march had just begun, and the afternoons were fast lengthening. it was little more than a fortnight since mr. boyce's death. in the november of the preceding year mrs. boyce and marcella had brought him to naples by sea, and there, at a little villa on posilippo, he had drawn sadly to his end. it had been a dreary time, from which marcella could hardly hope that her mother would ever fully recover. she herself had found in the long months of nursing--nursing of which, with quiet tenacity, she had gradually claimed and obtained her full share--a deep moral consolation. they had paid certain debts to conscience, and they had for ever enshrined her father's memory in the silence of an unmeasured and loving pity. but the wife? marcella sorely recognised that to her mother these last days had brought none of the soothing, reconciling influences they had involved for herself. between the husband and wife there had been dumb friction and misery--surely also a passionate affection!--to the end. the invalid's dependence on her had been abject, her devotion wonderful. yet, in her close contact with them, the daughter had never been able to ignore the existence between them of a wretched though tacit debate--reproach on his side, self-defence or spasmodic effort on hers--which seemed to have its origin deep in the past, yet to be stimulated afresh by a hundred passing incidents of the present. under the blight of it, as under the physical strain of nursing, mrs. boyce had worn and dwindled to a white-haired shadow; while he had both clung to life and feared death more than would normally have been the case. at the end he had died in her arms, his head on her breast; she had closed his eyes and performed every last office without a tear; nor had marcella ever seen her weep from then till now. the letters she had received, mostly, marcella believed, from her own family, remained unopened in her travelling-bag. she spoke very little, and was constantly restless, nor could marcella as yet form any idea of the future. after the funeral at naples mrs. boyce had written immediately to her husband's solicitor for a copy of his will and a statement of affairs. she had then allowed herself to be carried off to amalfi, and had there, while entirely declining to admit that she was ill, been clearly doing her best to recover health and nerve sufficient to come to some decision, to grapple with some crisis which marcella also felt to be impending--though as to why it should be impending, or what the nature of it might be, she could only dread and guess. there was much bitter yearning in the girl's heart as she sat, breathed on by the soft italian wind blowing from this enchanted sea. the inner cry was that her mother did not love her, had never loved her, and might even now--weird, incredible thought!--be planning to desert her. hallin was dead--who else was there that cared for her or thought of her? betty macdonald wrote often, wild, "_schwärmerisch_" letters. marcella looked for them with eagerness, and answered them affectionately. but betty must soon marry, and then all that would be at an end. meanwhile marcella knew well it was betty's news that made betty's adoration doubly welcome. aldous raeburn--she never did or could think of him under his new name--was apparently in london, much occupied in politics, and constantly, as it seemed, in betty's society. what likelihood was there that her life and his would ever touch again? she thought often of her confession to hallin, but in great perplexity of feeling. she had, of course, said no word of secrecy to him at the time. such a demand in a man's last hour would have been impossible. she had simply followed a certain mystical love and obedience in telling him what he asked to know, and in the strong spontaneous impulse had thought of nothing beyond. afterwards her pride had suffered fresh martyrdom. could he, with his loving instinct, have failed to give his friend some sign? if so, it had been unwelcome, for since the day of hallin's funeral she and aldous had been more complete strangers than before. lady winterbourne, betty, frank leven, had written since her father's death; but from him, nothing. by the way, frank leven had succeeded at christmas, by old sir charles leven's unexpected death, to the baronetcy and estates. how would that affect his chances with betty?--if indeed there were any such chances left. as to her own immediate future, marcella knew from many indications that mellor would be hers at once. but in her general tiredness of mind and body she was far more conscious of the burden of her inheritance than of its opportunities. all that vivid castle-building gift which was specially hers, and would revive, was at present in abeyance. she had pined once for power and freedom, that she might make a kingdom of heaven of her own, quickly. now power and freedom, up to a certain point, were about to be put into her hands; and instead of plans for acting largely and bountifully on a plastic outer world, she was saying to herself, hungrily, that unless she had something close to her to love and live for, she could do nothing. if her mother would end these unnatural doubts, if she would begin to make friends with her own daughter, and only yield herself to be loved and comforted, why _then_ it might be possible to think of the village and the straw-plaiting! otherwise--the girl's attitude as she sat dreaming in the sun showed her despondency. she was roused by her mother's voice calling her from the other end of the _pergola_. "yes, mamma." "will you come in? there are some letters." "it is the will," thought marcella, as mrs. boyce turned back to the hotel, and she followed. mrs. boyce shut the door of their sitting-room, and then went up to her daughter with a manner which suddenly struck and startled marcella. there was natural agitation and trouble in it. "there is something in the will, marcella, which will, i fear, annoy and distress you. your father inserted it without consulting me. i want to know what you think ought to be done. you will find that lord maxwell and i have been appointed joint executors." marcella turned pale. "lord maxwell!" she said, bewildered. "_lord maxwell--aldous_! what do you mean, mamma?" mrs. boyce put the will into her hands, and, pointing the way among the technicalities she had been perusing while marcella was still lingering in the garden, showed her the paragraph in question. the words of the will were merely formal: "i hereby appoint," &c., and no more; but in a communication from the family solicitor, mr. french, which mrs. boyce silently handed to her daughter after she had read the legal disposition, the ladies were informed that mr. boyce had, before quitting england, written a letter to lord maxwell, duly sealed and addressed, with instructions that it should be forwarded to its destination immediately after the writer's burial. "those instructions," said mr. french, "i have carried out. i understand that lord maxwell was not consulted as to his appointment as executor prior to the drawing up of the will. but you will no doubt hear from him at once, and as soon as we know that he consents to act, we can proceed immediately to probate." "mamma, how _could_ he?" said marcella, in a low, suffocated voice, letting will and letter fall upon her knee. "did he give you no warning in that talk you had with him at mellor?" said mrs. boyce, after a minute's silence. "not the least," said marcella, rising restlessly and beginning to walk up and down. "he spoke to me about wishing to bring it on again--asked me to let him write. i told him it was all done with--for ever! as to my own feelings, i felt it was no use to speak of them; but i thought--i _believed_, i had proved to him that lord maxwell had absolutely given up all idea of such a thing; and that it was already probable he would marry some one else. i told him i would rather disappear from every one i knew than consent to it--he could only humiliate us all by saying a word. and _now_, after that!--" she stopped in her restless walk, pressing her hands miserably together. "what _does_ he want with us and our affairs?" she broke out. "he wishes, of course, to have no more to do with me. and now we force him--_force_ him into these intimate relations. what can papa have said in that letter to him? what _can_ he have said? oh! it is unbearable! can't we write at once?" she pressed her hands over her eyes in a passion of humiliation and disgust. mrs. boyce watched her closely. "we must wait, anyway, for his letter," she said. "it ought to be here by to-morrow morning." marcella sank on a chair by an open glass door, her eyes wandering, through the straggling roses growing against the wall of the stone balcony outside, to the laughing purples and greens of the sea. "of course," she said unhappily, "it is most probable he will consent. it would not be like him to refuse. but, mamma, you must write. _i_ must write and beg him not to do it. it is quite simple. we can manage everything for ourselves. oh! how _could_ papa?" she broke out again in a low wail, "how could he?" mrs. boyce's lips tightened sharply. it seemed to her a foolish question. _she_, at least, had had the experience of twenty years out of which to answer it. death had made no difference. she saw her husband's character and her own seared and broken life with the same tragical clearness; she felt the same gnawing of an affection not to be plucked out while the heart still beat. this act of indelicacy and injustice was like many that had gone before it; and there was in it the same evasion and concealment towards herself. no matter. she had made her account with it all twenty years before. what astonished her was, that the force of her strong coercing will had been able to keep him for so long within the limits of the smaller and meaner immoralities of this world. "have you read the rest of the will?" she asked, after a long pause. marcella lifted it again, and began listlessly to go through it. "mamma!" she said presently, looking up, the colour flushing back into her face, "i find no mention of you in it throughout. there seems to be no provision for you." "there is none," said mrs. boyce, quietly. "there was no need. i have my own income. we lived upon it for years before your father succeeded to mellor. it is therefore amply sufficient for me now." "you cannot imagine," cried marcella, trembling in every limb, "that i am going to take the whole of my father's estate, and leave nothing--_nothing_ for his wife. it would be impossible--unseemly. it would be to do _me_ an injustice, mamma, as well as yourself," she added proudly. "no, i think not," said mrs. boyce, with her usual cold absence of emotion. "you do not yet understand the situation. your father's misfortunes nearly ruined the estate for a time. your grandfather went through great trouble, and raised large sums to--" she paused for the right phrase--"to free us from the consequences of your father's actions. i benefited, of course, as much as he did. those sums crippled all your grandfather's old age. he was a man to whom i was attached--whom i respected. mellor, i believe, had never been embarrassed before. well, your uncle did a little towards recovery--but on the whole he was a fool. your father has done much more, and you, no doubt, will complete it. as for me, i have no claim to anything more from mellor. the place itself is"--again she stopped for a word of which the energy, when it came, seemed to escape her--"hateful to me. i shall feel freer if i have no tie to it. and at last i persuaded your father to let me have my way." marcella rose from her seat impetuously, walked quickly across the room, and threw herself on her knees beside her mother. "mamma, are you still determined--now that we two are alone in the world--to act towards me, to treat me as though i were not your daughter--not your child at all, but a stranger?" it was a cry of anguish. a sudden slight tremor swept over mrs. boyce's thin and withered face. she braced herself to the inevitable. "don't let us make a tragedy of it, my dear," she said, with a light touch on marcella's hands. "let us discuss it reasonably. won't you sit down? i am not proposing anything very dreadful. but, like you, i have some interests of my own, and i should be glad to follow them--now--a little. i wish to spend some of the year in london; to make that, perhaps, my headquarters, so as to see something of some old friends whom i have had no intercourse with for years--perhaps also of my relations." she spoke of them with a particular dryness. "and i should be glad--after this long time--to be somewhat taken out of oneself, to read, to hear what is going on, to feed one's mind a little." marcella, looking at her, saw a kind of feverish light, a sparkling intensity in the pale blue eyes, that filled her with amazement. what, after all, did she know of this strange individuality from which her own being had taken its rise? the same flesh and blood--what an irony of nature! "of course," continued mrs. boyce, "i should go to you, and you would come to me. it would only be for part of the year. probably we should get more from each other's lives so. as you know, i long to see things as they are, not conventionally. anyway, whether i were there or no, you would probably want some companion to help you in your work and plans. i am not fit for them. and it would be easy to find some one who could act as chaperon in my absence." the hot tears sprang to marcella's eyes. "why did you send me away from you, mamma, all my childhood," she cried. "it was wrong--cruel. i have no brother or sister. and you put me out of your life when i had no choice, when i was too young to understand." mrs. boyce winced, but made no reply. she sat with her delicate hand across her brow. she was the white shadow of her former self; but her fragility had always seemed to marcella more indomitable than anybody else's strength. sobs began to rise in marcella's throat. "and now," she said, in half-coherent despair, "do you know what you are doing? you are cutting yourself off from me--refusing to have any real bond to me just when i want it most. i suppose you think that i shall be satisfied with the property and the power, and the chance of doing what i like. but"--she tried her best to gulp back her pain, her outraged feeling, to speak quietly--"i am not like that really any more. i can take it all up, with courage and heart, if you will stay with me, and let me--let me--love you and care for you. but, by myself, i feel as if i could not face it! i am not likely to be happy--for a long time--except in doing what work i can. it is very improbable that i shall marry. i dare say you don't believe me, but it is true. we are both sad and lonely. we have no one but each other. and then you talk in this ghastly way of separating from me--casting me off." her voice trembled and broke, she looked at her mother with a frowning passion. mrs. boyce still sat silent, studying her daughter with a strange, brooding eye. under her unnatural composure there was in reality a half-mad impatience, the result of physical and moral reaction. this beauty, this youth, talk of sadness, of finality! what folly! still, she was stirred, undermined in spite of herself. "there!" she said, with a restless gesture, "let us, please, talk of it no more. i will come back with you--i will do my best. we will let the matter of my future settlement alone for some months, at any rate, if that will satisfy you or be any help to you." she made a movement as though to rise from her low chair. but the great waters swelled in marcella--swelled and broke. she fell on her knees again by her mother, and before mrs. boyce could stop her she had thrown her young arms close round the thin, shrunken form. "mother!" she said. "mother, be good to me--love me--you are all i have!" and she kissed the pale brow and cheek with a hungry, almost a violent tenderness that would not be gainsaid, murmuring wild incoherent things. mrs. boyce first tried to put her away, then submitted, being physically unable to resist, and at last escaped from her with a sudden sob that went to the girl's heart. she rose, went to the window, struggled hard for composure, and finally left the room. but that evening, for the first time, she let marcella put her on the sofa, tend her, and read to her. more wonderful still, she went to sleep while marcella was reading. in the lamplight her face looked piteously old and worn. the girl sat for long with her hands clasped round her knees, gazing down upon it, in a trance of pain and longing. * * * * * marcella was awake early next morning, listening to the full voice of the sea as it broke three hundred feet below, against the beach and rocky walls of the little town. she was lying in a tiny white room, one of the cells of the old monastery, and the sun as it rose above the salernian mountains--the mountains that hold paestum in their blue and purple shadows--danced in gold on the white wall. the bell of the cathedral far below tolled the hour. she supposed it must be six o'clock. two hours more or so, and lord maxwell's letter might be looked for. she lay and thought of it--longed for it, and for the time of answering it, with the same soreness that had marked all the dreams of a restless night. if she could only see her father's letter! it was inconceivable that he should have mentioned _her_ name in his plea. he might have appealed to the old friendship between the families. that was possible, and would have, at any rate, an _appearance_ of decency. but who could answer for it--or for him? she clasped her hands rigidly behind her head, her brows frowning, bending her mind with an intensity of will to the best means of assuring aldous raeburn that she and her mother would not encroach upon him. she had a perpetual morbid vision of herself as the pursuer, attacking him now through his friend, now through her father. oh! when would that letter come, and let her write her own! she tried to read, but in reality listened for every sound of awakening life in the hotel. when at last her mother's maid came in to call her, she sprang up with a start. "deacon, are the letters come?" "there are two for your mother, miss; none for you." marcella threw on her dressing-gown, watched her opportunity, and slipped in to her mother, who occupied a similar cell next door. mrs. boyce was sitting up in bed, with a letter before her, her pale blue eyes fixed absently on the far stretch of sea. she looked round with a start as marcella entered. "the letter is to me, of course," she said. marcella read it breathlessly. "dear mrs. boyce,--i have this morning received from your solicitor, mr. french, a letter written by mr. boyce to myself in november of last year. in it he asks me to undertake the office of executor, to which, i hear from mr. french, he has named me in his will. mr. french also enquires whether i shall be willing to act, and asks me to communicate with you. "may i, then, venture to intrude upon you with these few words? mr. boyce refers in his touching letter to the old friendship between our families, and to the fact that similar offices have often been performed by his relations for mine, or _vice versa_. but no reminder of the kind was in the least needed. if i can be of any service to yourself and to miss boyce, neither your poor husband nor you could do me any greater kindness than to command me. "i feel naturally some diffidence in the matter. i gather from mr. french that miss boyce is her father's heiress, and comes at once into the possession of mellor. she may not, of course, wish me to act, in which case i should withdraw immediately; but i sincerely trust that she will not forbid me the very small service i could so easily and gladly render. "i cannot close my letter without venturing to express the deep sympathy i have felt for you and yours during the past six months. i have been far from forgetful of all that you have been going through, though i may have seemed so. i trust that you and your daughter will not hurry home for any business cause, if it is still best for your health to stay in italy. with your instructions mr. french and i could arrange everything. "believe me, "yours most sincerely, "maxwell." "you will find it difficult, my dear, to write a snub in answer to that letter," said mrs. boyce, drily, as marcella laid it down. marcella's face was, indeed, crimson with perplexity and feeling. "well, we can think it over," she said as she went away. mrs. boyce pondered the matter a good deal when she was left alone. the signs of reaction and change in marcella were plain enough. what they precisely meant, and how much, was another matter. as to him, marcella's idea of another attachment might be true, or might be merely the creation of her own irritable pride. anyway, he was in the mood to write a charming letter. mrs. boyce's blanched lip had all its natural irony as she thought it over. to her mind aldous raeburn's manners had always been a trifle too good, whether for his own interests or for this wicked world. and if he had any idea now of trying again, let him, for heaven's sake, not be too yielding or too eager! "it was always the way," thought mrs. boyce, remembering a child in white frock and baby shoes--"if you wished to make her want anything, you had to take it away from her." meanwhile the mere thought that matters might even yet so settle themselves drew from the mother a long breath of relief. she had spent an all but sleepless night, tormented by marcella's claim upon her. after twenty years of self-suppression this woman of forty-five, naturally able, original, and independent, had seen a glimpse of liberty. in her first youth she had been betrayed as a wife, degraded as a member of society. a passion she could not kill, combined with some stoical sense of inalienable obligation, had combined to make her both the slave and guardian of her husband up to middle life; and her family and personal pride, so strong in her as a girl, had found its only outlet in this singular estrangement she had achieved between herself and every other living being, including her own daughter. now her husband was dead, and all sorts of crushed powers and desires, mostly of the intellectual sort, had been strangely reviving within her. just emerged, as she was, from the long gloom of nursing, she already wished to throw it all behind her--to travel, to read, to make acquaintances--she who had lived as a recluse for twenty years! there was in it a last clutch at youth, at life. and she had no desire to enter upon this new existence--in comradeship with marcella. they were independent and very different human beings. that they were mother and daughter was a mere physical accident. moreover, though she was amply conscious of the fine development in marcella during the past two years, it is probable that she felt her daughter even less congenial to her now than of old. for the rich, emotional nature had, as we have seen, "suffered conviction," had turned in the broad sense to "religion," was more and more sensitive, especially since hallin's death, to the spiritual things and symbols in the world. at naples she had haunted churches; had read, as her mother knew, many religious books. now mrs. boyce in these matters had a curious history. she had begun life as an ardent christian, under evangelical influences. her husband, on the other hand, at the time she married him was a man of purely sceptical opinions, a superficial disciple of mill and comte, and fond of an easy profanity which seemed to place him indisputably with the superior persons of this world. to the amazement and scandal of her friends, evelyn merritt had not been three months his wife before she had adopted his opinions _en bloc_, and was carrying them out to their logical ends with a sincerity and devotion quite unknown to her teacher. thenceforward her conception of things--of which, however, she seldom spoke--had been actively and even vehemently rationalist; and it had been one of the chief sorenesses and shames of her life at mellor that, in order to suit his position as country squire, richard boyce had sunk to what, in her eyes, were a hundred mean compliances with things orthodox and established. then, in his last illness, he had finally broken away from her, and his own past. "evelyn, i should like to see a clergyman," he had said to her in his piteous voice, "and i shall ask him to give me the sacrament." she had made every arrangement accordingly; but her bitter soul could see nothing in the step but fear and hypocrisy; and he knew it. and as he lay talking alone with the man whom they had summoned, two or three nights before the end, she, sitting in the next room, had been conscious of a deep and smarting jealousy. had not the hard devotion of twenty years made him at least her own? and here was this black-coated reciter of incredible things stepping into her place. only in death she recovered him wholly. no priest interfered while he drew his last breath upon her bosom. and now marcella! yet the girl's voice and plea tugged at her withered heart. she felt a dread of unknown softnesses--of being invaded and weakened by things in her akin to her daughter, and so captured afresh. her mind fell upon the bare idea of a revival of the maxwell engagement, and caressed it. meanwhile marcella stood dressing by the open window in the sunlight, which filled the room with wavy reflections caught from the sea. fishing-boats were putting off from the beach, three hundred feet below her; she could hear the grating of the keels, the songs of the boatmen. on the little breakwater to the right an artist's white umbrella shone in the sun; and a half-naked boy, poised on the bows of a boat moored beside the painter, stood bent in the eager attitude of one about to drop the bait into the blue wave below. his brown back burnt against the water. cliff, houses, sea, glowed in warmth and light; the air was full of roses and orange-blossom; and to an english sense had already the magic of summer. and marcella's hands, as she coiled and plaited her black hair, moved with a new lightness; for the first time since her father's death her look had its normal fire, crossed every now and then by something that made her all softness and all woman. no! as her mother said, one could not snub that letter or its writer. but how to answer it! in imagination she had already penned twenty different replies. how not to be grasping or effusive, and yet to show that you could feel and repay kindness--there was the problem! meanwhile, from that letter, or rather in subtle connection with it, her thoughts at last went wandering off with a natural zest to her new realm of mellor, and to all that she would and could do for the dwellers therein. chapter iv. it was a bleak east-wind day towards the end of march. aldous was at work in the library at the court, writing at his grandfather's table, where in general he got through his estate and county affairs, keeping his old sitting-room upstairs for the pursuits that were more particularly his own. all the morning he had been occupied with a tedious piece of local business, wading through endless documents concerning a dispute between the head-master of a neighbouring grammar-school and his governing body, of which aldous was one. the affair was difficult, personal, odious. to have wasted nearly three hours upon it was, to a man of aldous's type, to have lost a day. besides he had not his grandfather's knack in such things, and was abundantly conscious of it. however, there it was, a duty which none but he apparently could or would do, and he had been wrestling with it. with more philosophy than usual, too, since every tick of the clock behind him bore him nearer to an appointment which, whatever it might be, would not be tedious. at last he got up and went to the window to look at the weather. a cutting wind, clearly, but no rain. then he walked into the drawing-room, calling for his aunt. no one was to be seen, either there or in the conservatory, and he came back to the library and rang. "roberts, has miss raeburn gone out?" "yes, my lord," said the old butler addressed. "she and miss macdonald have gone out driving, and i was to tell your lordship that miss raeburn would drop miss macdonald at mellor on her way home." "is sir frank anywhere about?" "he was in the smoking-room a little while ago, my lord." "will you please try and find him?" "yes, my lord." aldous's mouth twitched with impatience as the old servant shut the door. "how many times did roberts manage to be-lord me in a minute?" he asked himself; "yet if i were to remonstrate, i suppose i should only make him unhappy." and walking again to the window, he thrust his hands into his pockets and stood looking out with a far from cheerful countenance. one of the things that most tormented him indeed in this recent existence was a perpetual pricking sense of the contrast between this small world of his ancestral possessions and traditions, with all its ceremonial and feudal usage, and the great rushing world outside it of action and of thought. do what he would, he could not un-king himself within the limits of the maxwell estate. to the people living upon it he was the man of most importance within their ken, was inevitably their potentate and earthly providence. he confessed that there was a real need of him, if he did his duty. but on this need the class-practice of generations had built up a deference, a sharpness of class-distinction, which any modern must find more and more irksome in proportion to his modernness. what was in aldous's mind, as he stood with drawn brows looking out over the view which showed him most of his domain, was a sort of hot impatience of being made day by day, in a hundred foolish ways, to play at greatness. yet, as we know, he was no democrat by conviction, had no comforting faith in what seemed to him the rule of a multitudinous ignorance. still every sane man of to-day knows, at any rate, that the world has taken the road of democracy, and that the key to the future, for good or ill, lies not in the revolts and speculations of the cultivated few, but in the men and movements that can seize the many. aldous's temper was despondently critical towards the majority of these, perhaps; he had, constitutionally, little of that poet's sympathy with the crowd, as such, which had given hallin his power. but, at any rate, they filled the human stage--these men and movements--and his mind as a beholder. beside the great world-spectacle perpetually in his eye and thought, the small old-world pomps and feudalisms of his own existence had a way of looking ridiculous to him. he constantly felt himself absurd. it was ludicrously clear to him, for instance, that in this kingdom he had inherited it would be thought a huge condescension on his part if he were to ask the secretary of a trades union to dine with him at the court. whereas, in his own honest opinion, the secretary had a far more important and interesting post in the universe than he. so that, in spite of a strong love of family, rigidly kept to himself, he had very few of the illusions which make rank and wealth delightful. on the other hand, he had a tyrannous sense of obligation, which kept him tied to his place and his work--to such work as he had been spending the morning on. this sense of obligation had for the present withdrawn him from any very active share in politics. he had come to the conclusion early in the year, just about the time when, owing to some rearrangements in the _personnel_ of the government, the premier had made him some extremely flattering overtures, that he must for the present devote himself to the court. there were extensive changes and reforms going on in different parts of the estate: some of the schools which he owned and mainly supported were being rebuilt and enlarged; and he had a somewhat original scheme for the extension of adult education throughout the property very much on his mind--a scheme which must be organised and carried through by himself apparently, if it was to thrive at all. much of this business was very dreary to him, some of it altogether distasteful. since the day of his parting with marcella boyce his only real _pleasures_ had lain in politics or books. politics, just as they were growing absorbing to him, must, for a while at any rate, be put aside; and even books had not fared as well as they might have been expected to do in the country quiet. day after day he walked or rode about the muddy lanes of the estate, doing the work that seemed to him to be his, as best he could, yet never very certain of its value; rather, spending his thoughts more and more, with regard to his own place and function in the world, on a sort of mental apologetic which was far from stimulating; sorely conscious the while of the unmatched charm and effectiveness with which his grandfather had gone about the same business; and as lonely at heart as a man can well be--the wound of love unhealed, the wound of friendship still deep and unconsoled. to bring social peace and progress, as he understood them, to this bit of midland england a man of first-rate capacities was perhaps sacrificing what ambition would have called his opportunities. yet neither was he a hero to himself nor to the buckinghamshire farmers and yokels who depended on him. they had liked the grandfather better, and had become stolidly accustomed to the grandson's virtues. the only gleam in the grey of his life since he had determined about christmas-time to settle down at the court had come from mr. french's letter. that letter, together with mr. boyce's posthumous note, which contained nothing, indeed, but a skilful appeal to neighbourliness and old family friendship, written in the best style of the ex-balkan commissioner, had naturally astonished him greatly. he saw at once what _she_ would perceive in it, and turned impatiently from speculation as to what mr. boyce might actually have meant, to the infinitely more important matter, how she would take her father's act. never had he written anything with greater anxiety than he devoted to his letter to mrs. boyce. there was in him now a craving he could not stay, to be brought near to her again, to know how her life was going. it had first raised its head in him since he knew that her existence and wharton's were finally parted, and had but gathered strength from the self-critical loneliness and tedium of these later months. mrs. boyce's reply couched in terms at once stately and grateful, which accepted his offer of service on her own and her daughter's behalf, had given him extraordinary pleasure. he turned it over again and again, wondering what part or lot marcella might have had in it, attributing to her this cordiality or that reticence; picturing the two women together in their black dresses--the hotel, the _pergola_, the cliff--all of which he himself knew well. finally, he went up to town, saw mr. french, and acquainted himself with the position and prospects of the mellor estate, feeling himself a sort of intruder, yet curiously happy in the business. it was wonderful what that poor sickly fellow had been able to do in the last two years; yet his thoughts fell rather into amused surmise as to what _she_ would find it in her restless mind to do in the _next_ two years. nevertheless, all the time, the resolution of which he had spoken to hallin seemed to himself unshaken. he recognised and adored the womanly growth and deepening which had taken place in her; he saw that she wished to show him kindness. but he thought he could trust himself now and henceforward not to force upon her a renewed suit for which there was in his eyes no real or abiding promise of happiness. marcella and her mother had now been at home some three or four days, and he was just about to walk over to mellor for his first interview with them. a great deal of the merely formal business consequent on mr. boyce's death had been already arranged by himself and mr. french. yet he had to consult marcella as to certain investments, and in a pleasant though quite formal little note he had that morning received from her she had spoken of asking his advice as to some new plans for the estate. it was the first letter she herself had as yet written to him; hitherto all his correspondence had been carried on with mrs. boyce. it had struck him, by the way, as remarkable that there was no mention of the wife in the will. he could only suppose that she was otherwise provided for. but there had been some curious expressions in her letters. where was frank? aldous looked impatiently at the clock, as roberts did not reappear. he had invited leven to walk with him to mellor, and the tiresome boy was apparently not to be found. aldous vowed he would not wait a minute, and going into the hall, put on coat and hat with most business-like rapidity. he was just equipped when roberts, somewhat breathless with long searching, arrived in time to say that sir frank was on the front terrace. and there aldous caught sight of the straight though somewhat heavily built figure, in its grey suit with the broad band of black across the arm. "hullo, frank! i thought you were to look me up in the library. roberts has been searching the house for you." "you said nothing about the library," said the boy, rather sulkily, "and roberts hadn't far to search. i have been in the smoking-room till this minute." aldous did not argue the point, and they set out. it was presently clear to the elder man that his companion was not in the best of tempers. the widowed lady leven had sent her firstborn over to the court for a few days that aldous might have some discussion as to his immediate future with the young man. she was a silly, frivolous woman; but it was clear, even to her, that frank was not doing very well for himself in the world; and advice she would not have taken from her son's oxford tutor seemed cogent to her when it came from a raeburn. "do at least, for goodness' sake, get him to give up his absurd plan of going to america!" she wrote to aldous; "if he can't take his degree at oxford, i suppose he must get on without it, and certainly his dons seem very unpleasant. but at least he might stay at home and do his duty to me and his sisters till he marries, instead of going off to the 'rockies' or some other ridiculous place. he really never seems to think of fanny and rachel, or what he might do to help me to get them settled now that his poor father is gone." no; certainly the young man was not much occupied with "fanny and rachel!" he spoke with ill-concealed impatience, indeed, of both his sisters and his mother. if his people would get in the way of everything he wanted to do, they needn't wonder if he cut up rough at home. for the present it was settled that he should at any rate go back to oxford till the end of the summer term--aldous heartily pitying the unfortunate dons who might have to do with him--but after that he entirely declined to be bound. he swore he would not be tied at home like a girl; he must and would see the world. this in itself, from a lad who had been accustomed to regard his home as the centre of all delights, and had on two occasions stoutly refused to go with his family to rome, lest he should miss the best month for his father's trout-stream, was sufficiently surprising. however, of late some tardy light had been dawning upon aldous! the night after frank's arrival at the court betty macdonald came down to spend a few weeks with miss raeburn, being for the moment that lady's particular pet and _protégée_. frank, whose sulkiness during the twenty-four hours before she appeared had been the despair of both his host and hostess, brightened up spasmodically when he heard she was expected, and went fishing with one of the keepers, on the morning before her arrival, with a fair imitation of his usual spirits. but somehow, since that first evening, though betty had chattered, and danced, and frolicked her best, though her little figure running up and down the big house gave a new zest to life in it, frank's manners had gone from bad to worse. and at last aldous, who had not as yet seen the two much together, and was never an observant man in such matters, had begun to have an inkling. was it _possible_ that the boy was in love, and with betty? he sounded miss raeburn; found that she did not rise to his suggestion at all--was, in fact, annoyed by it--and with the usual stupidity of the clever man failed to draw any reasonable inference from the queerness of his aunt's looks and sighs. as to the little minx herself, she was inscrutable. she teased them all in turns, frank, perhaps, less than the others. aldous, as usual, found her a delightful companion. she would walk all over the estate with him in the most mannish garments and boots conceivable, which only made her childish grace more feminine and more provocative than ever. she took an interest in all his tenants; she dived into all his affairs; she insisted on copying his letters. and meanwhile, on either side were miss raeburn, visibly recovering day by day her old cheeriness and bustle, and frank--frank, who ate nothing, or nothing commensurate to his bulk, and, if possible, said less. aldous had begun to feel that the situation must be probed somehow, and had devised this walk, indeed, with some vague intention of plying remonstrances and enquiries. he had an old affection for the boy, which lady leven had reckoned upon. the first difficulty, of course, was to make him talk at all. aldous tried various sporting "gambits" with very small success. at last, by good-luck, the boy rose to something like animation in describing an encounter he had had the week before with a piebald weasel in the course of a morning's ferreting. "all at once we saw the creature's head poke out of the hole--_pure white_, with a brown patch on it. when it saw us, back it scooted!--and we sent in another ferret after the one that was there already. my goodness! there _was_ a shindy down in the earth--you could hear them rolling and kicking like anything. we had our guns ready,--but all of a sudden everything stopped--not a sound or a sign of anything! we threw down our guns and dug away like blazes. presently we came on the two ferrets gorging away at a dead rabbit,--nasty little beasts!--that accounted for _them_; but where on earth was the weasel? i really began to think we had imagined the creature, when, whish! came a flash of white lightning, and out the thing bolted--pure white with a splash of brown--its winter coat, of course. i shot at it, but it was no go. if i'd only put a bag over the hole, and not been an idiot, i should have caught it." the boy swung along, busily ruminating for a minute or two, and forgetting his trouble. "i've seen one something like it before," he went on--"ages ago, when i was a little chap, and harry wharton and i were out rabbiting. by the way--" he stopped short--"do you see that that fellow's come back?" "i saw the paragraph in the _times_ this morning," said aldous, drily. "and i've got a letter from fanny this morning, to say that he and lady selina are to be married in july, and that she's going about making a martyr and a saint of him, talking of the 'persecution' he's had to put up with, and the vulgar fellows who couldn't appreciate him, and generally making an ass of herself. oh! he won't ask any of us to his wedding--trust him. it is a rum business. you know willie ffolliot--that queer dark fellow--that used to be in the th hussars--did all those wild things in the soudan?" "yes--slightly." "i heard all about it from him. he was one of that gambling set at harry's club there's been all that talk about you know, since harry came to grief. well!--he was going along piccadilly one night last summer, quite late, between eleven and twelve, when harry caught hold of him from behind. willie thought he was out of his mind, or drunk. he told me he never saw anybody in such a queer state in his life. 'you come along with me,' said harry, 'come and talk to me, or i shall shoot myself!' so willie asked him what was up. 'i'm engaged to be married,' said harry. whereupon willie remarked that, considering his manner and his appearance, he was sorry for the young lady. '_young_!' said harry as though he would have knocked him down. and then it came out that he had just--that moment!--engaged himself to lady selina. and it was the very same day that he got into that precious mess in the house--the _very same night_! i suppose he went to her to be comforted, and thought he'd pull something off, anyway! why she took him! but of course she's no chicken, and old alresford may die any day. and about the bribery business--i suppose he made her think him an injured innocent. anyway, he talked to willie, when they got to his rooms, like a raving lunatic, and you know he was always such a cool hand. 'ffolliot,' he said, 'can you come with me to siam next week?' 'how much?' said will. 'i thought you were engaged to lady selina.' then he swore little oaths, and vowed he had told her he must have a year. 'we'll go and explore those temples in siam,' he said, and then he muttered something about 'why should i ever come back?' presently he began to talk of the strike--and the paper--and the bribe, and all the rest of it, making out a long rigmarole story. oh! of course he'd done everything for the best--trust him!--and everybody else was a cur and a slanderer. and ffolliot declared he felt quite pulpy--the man was such a wreck; and he said he'd go with him to siam, or anywhere else, if he'd only cheer up. and they got out the maps, and harry began to quiet down, and at last will got him to bed. fanny says ffolliot reports he had great difficulty in dragging him home. however, lady selina has no luck!--there he is." "oh! he will be one of the shining lights of our side before long," said aldous, with resignation. "since he gave up his seat here, there has been some talk of finding him one in the alresfords' neighbourhood, i believe. but i don't suppose anybody's very anxious for him. he is to address a meeting, i see, on the tory labour programme next week. the _clarion_, i suppose, will go round with him." "beastly rag!" said frank, fervently. "it's rather a queer thing, isn't it, that such a clever chap as that should have made such a mess of his chances. it almost makes one not mind being a fool." he laughed, but bitterly, and at the same moment the cloud that for some twenty minutes or so seemed to have completely rolled away descended again on eye and expression. "well, there are worse things than being a fool," said aldous, with insidious emphasis--"sulking, and shutting up with your best friends, for instance." frank flushed deeply, and turned upon him with a sort of uncertain fury. "i don't know what you mean." whereupon aldous slipped his arm inside the boy's, and prepared himself with resignation for the scene that had to be got through somehow, when frank suddenly exclaimed: "i say, there's miss boyce!" never was a man more quickly and completely recalled from altruism to his own affairs. aldous dropped his companion's arm, straightened himself with a thrill of the whole being, and saw marcella some distance ahead of them in the mellor drive, which they had just entered. she was stooping over something on the ground, and was not apparently aware of their approach. a ray of cold sun came out at the moment, touched the bending figure and the grass at her feet--grass starred with primroses, which she was gathering. "i didn't know you were going to call," said frank, bewildered. "isn't it too soon?" and he looked at his companion in astonishment. "i came to speak to miss boyce and her mother on business," said aldous, with all his habitual reserve. "i thought you wouldn't mind the walk back by yourself." "business?" the boy echoed involuntarily. aldous hesitated, then said quietly: "mr. boyce appointed me executor under his will." frank lifted his eyebrows, and allowed himself at least an inward "by jove!" by this time marcella had caught sight of them, and was advancing. she was in deep mourning, but her hands were full of primroses, which shone against the black; and the sun, penetrating the thin green of some larches to her left, danced in her eyes and on a face full of sensitive and beautiful expression. they had not met since they stood together beside hallin's grave. this fact was in both their minds. aldous felt it, as it were, in the touch of her hand. what he could not know was, that she was thinking quite as much of his letter to her mother and its phrases. they stood talking a little in the sunshine. then, as frank was taking his leave, marcella said: "won't you wait for--for lord maxwell, in the old library? we can get at it from the garden, and i have made it quite habitable. my mother, of course, does not wish to see anybody." frank hesitated, then, pushed by a certain boyish curiosity, and by the angry belief that betty had been carried off by miss raeburn, and was out of his reach till luncheon-time, said he would wait. marcella led the way, opened the garden-door of the lower corridor, close to the spot where she had seen wharton standing in the moonlight on a never-to-be-forgotten night, and then ushered them into the library. the beautiful old place had been decently repaired, though in no sense modernised. the roof had no holes, and its delicate stucco-work, formerly stained and defaced by damp, had been whitened, so that the brown and golden tones of the books in the latticed cases told against it with delightful effect. the floor was covered with a cheap matting, and there were a few simple chairs and tables. a wood fire burnt on the old hearth. marcella's books and work lay about, and some shallow earthenware pans filled with home-grown hyacinths scented the air. what with the lovely architecture of the room itself, its size, its books and old portraits, and the signs it bore of simple yet refined use, it would have been difficult to find a gentler, mellower place. aldous looked round him with delight. "i hope to make a village drawing-room of it in time," she said casually to frank as she stooped to put a log on the fire. "i think we shall get them to come, as it has a separate door, and scraper, and mat all to itself." "goodness!" said frank, "they won't come. it's too far from the village." "don't you be so sure," said marcella, laughing. "mr. craven has all sorts of ideas." "who's mr. craven?" "didn't you meet him at my rooms?" "oh! i remember," ejaculated the boy--"a frightful socialist!" "and his wife's worse," said marcella, merrily. "they've come down to settle here. they're going to help me." "then for mercy's sake keep them to yourself," cried frank, "and don't let them go loose over the county. we don't want them at our place." "oh! your turn will come. lord maxwell"--her tone changed--became shy and a little grave. "shall we go into the stone parlour? my mother will come down if you wish to see her, but she thought that--that--perhaps we could settle things." aldous had been standing by, hat in hand, watching her as she chattered to frank. as she addressed him he gave a little start. "oh! i think we can settle everything," he said. "well, this is rum!" said frank to himself, as the door closed behind them, and instead of betaking himself to the chair and the newspaper with which marcella had provided him, he began to walk excitedly up and down. "her father makes him executor--he manages her property for her--and they behave nicely to each other, as though nothing had ever happened at all. what the deuce does it mean? and all the time betty--why, betty's devoted to him!--and it's as plain as a pikestaff what that old cat, miss raeburn, is thinking of from morning till night! well, i'm beat!" and throwing himself down on a stool by the fire, his chin between his hands, he stared dejectedly at the burning logs. chapter v. meanwhile marcella and her companion were sitting in the stone parlour side by side, save for a small table between them, which held the various papers aldous had brought with him. at first, there had been on her side--as soon as they were alone--a feeling of stifling embarrassment. all the painful, proud sensations with which she had received the news of her father's action returned upon her; she would have liked to escape; she shrank from what once more seemed an encroachment, a situation as strange as it was embarrassing. but his manner very soon made it impossible, indeed ridiculous, to maintain such an attitude of mind. he ran through his business with his usual clearness and rapidity. it was not complicated; her views proved to be the same as his; and she was empowered to decide for her mother. aldous took notes of one or two of her wishes, left some papers with her for her mother's signature, and then his work was practically done. nothing, throughout, could have been more reassuring or more everyday than his demeanour. then, indeed, when the end of their business interview approached, and with it the opportunity for conversation of a different kind, both were conscious of a certain tremor. to him this old parlour was torturingly full of memories. in this very place where they sat he had given her his mother's pearls, and taken a kiss in return from the cheek that was once more so near to him. with what free and exquisite curves the hair set about the white brow! how beautiful was the neck--the hand! what ripened, softened charm in every movement! the touching and rebuking thought rose in his mind that from her nursing experience, and its frank contact with the ugliest realities of the physical life--a contact he had often shrunk from realising--there had come to her, not so much added strength, as a new subtlety and sweetness, some delicate, vibrating quality, that had been entirely lacking to her first splendid youth. suddenly she said to him, with a certain hesitation: "there was one more point i wanted to speak to you about. can you advise me about selling some of those railway shares?" she pointed to an item in a short list of investments that lay beside them. "but why?" said aldous, surprised. "they are excellent property already, and are going up in value." "yes, i know. but i want some ready money immediately--more than we have--to spend on cottage-building in the village. i saw a builder yesterday and came to a first understanding with him. we are altering the water-supply too. they have begun upon it already, and it will cost a good deal." aldous was still puzzled. "i see," he said. "but--don't you suppose that the income of the estate, now that your father has done so much to free it, will be enough to meet expenses of that kind, without trenching on investments? a certain amount, of course, should be systematically laid aside every year for rebuilding, and estate improvements generally." "yes; but you see i only regard half of the income as mine." she looked up with a little smile. he was now standing in front of her, against the fire, his grey eyes, which could be, as she well knew, so cold and inexpressive, bent upon her with eager interest. "only half the income?" he repeated. "ah!"--he smiled kindly--"is that an arrangement between you and your mother?" marcella let her hand fall with a little despairing gesture. "oh no!" she said--"oh no! mamma--mamma will take nothing from me or from the estate. she has her own money, and she will live with me part of the year." the intonation in the words touched aldous profoundly. "part of the year?" he said, astonished, yet not knowing how to question her. "mrs. boyce will not make mellor her home?" "she would be thankful if she had never seen it," said marcella, quickly--"and she would never see it again if it weren't for me. it's dreadful what she went through last year, when--when i was in london." her voice fell. glancing up at him involuntarily, her eye looked with dread for some chill, some stiffening in him. probably he condemned her, had always condemned her for deserting her home and her parents. but instead she saw nothing but sympathy. "mrs. boyce has had a hard life," he said, with grave feeling. marcella felt a tear leap, and furtively raised her handkerchief to brush it away. then, with a natural selfishness, her quick thought took another turn. a wild yearning rose in her mind to tell him much more than she had ever done in old days of the miserable home-circumstances of her early youth; to lay stress on the mean unhappiness which had depressed her own child-nature whenever she was with her parents, and had withered her mother's character. secretly, passionately, she often made the past an excuse. excuse for what? for the lack of delicacy and loyalty, of the best sort of breeding, which had marked the days of her engagement? never--_never_ to speak of it with him!--to pour out everything--to ask him to judge, to understand, to forgive!-- she pulled herself together by a strong effort, reminding herself in a flash of all that divided them:--of womanly pride--of betty macdonald's presence at the court--of that vain confidence to hallin, of which her inmost being must have been ashamed, but that something calming and sacred stole upon her whenever she thought of hallin, lifting everything concerned with him into a category of its own. no; let her selfish weakness make no fettering claim upon the man before her. let her be content with the friendship she had, after all, achieved, that was now doing its kindly best for her. all these images, like a tumultuous procession, ran through the mind in a moment. he thought, as she sat there with her bent head, the hands clasped round the knee in the way he knew so well, that she was full of her mother, and found it difficult to put what she felt into words. "but tell me about your plan," he said gently, "if you will." "oh! it is nothing," she said hurriedly. "i am afraid you will think it impracticable--perhaps wrong. it's only this: you see, as there is no one depending on me--as i am practically alone--it seemed to me i might make an experiment. four thousand a year is a great deal more than i need ever spend--than i _ought_, of course, to spend on myself. i don't think altogether what i used to think. i mean to keep up this house--to make it beautiful, to hand it on, perhaps _more_ beautiful than i found it, to those that come after. and i mean to maintain enough service in it both to keep it in order and to make it a social centre for all the people about--for everybody of all classes, so far as i can. i want it to be a place of amusement and delight and talk to us all--especially to the very poor. after all"--her cheek flushed under the quickening of her thought--"_everybody_ on the estate, in their different degree, has contributed to this house, in some sense, for generations. i want it to come into their lives--to make it _their_ possession, _their_ pride,--as well as mine. but then that isn't all. the people here can enjoy nothing, use nothing, till they have a worthier life of their own. wages here, you know, are terribly low, much lower"--she added timidly--"than with you. they are, as a rule, eleven or twelve shillings a week. now there seem to be about one hundred and sixty labourers on the estate altogether, in the farmers' employment and in our own. some, of course, are boys, and some old men earning a half-wage. mr. craven and i have worked it out, and we find that an average weekly increase of five shillings per head--which would give the men of full age and in full work about a pound a week--would work out at about two thousand a year." she paused a moment, trying to put her further statement into its best order. "your farmers, you know," he said, smiling, after a pause, "will be your chief difficulty." "of course! but i thought of calling a meeting of them. i have discussed it with mr. french--of course he thinks me mad!--but he gave me some advice. i should propose to them all fresh leases, with certain small advantages that louis craven thinks would tempt them, at a reduced rental exactly answering to the rise in wages. then, in return they must accept a sort of fair-wage clause, binding them to pay henceforward the standard wage of the estate." she looked up, her face expressing urgent though silent interrogation. "you must remember," he said quickly, "that though the estate is recovering, and rents have been fairly paid about here during the last eighteen months, you may be called upon at any moment to make the reductions which hampered your uncle. these reductions will, of course, fall upon you as before, seeing that the farmers, in a different way, will be paying as much as before. have you left margin enough?" "i think so," she said eagerly. "i shall live here very simply, and accumulate all the reserve fund i can. i have set all my heart upon it. i know there are not many people _could_ do such a thing--other obligations would, must, come first. and it may turn out a mistake. but--whatever happens--whatever any of us, socialists or not, may hope for in the future--here one _is_ with one's conscience, and one's money, and these people, who like oneself have but the one life? in all labour, it is the modern question, isn't it?--_how much_ of the product of labour the workman can extract from the employer? about here there is no union to act for the labourers--they have practically no power. but _in the future_, we must surely _hope_ they will combine, that they will be stronger--strong enough to _force_ a decent wage. what ought to prevent my free will anticipating a moment--since i _can_ do it--that we all want to see?" she spoke with a strong feeling; but his ear detected a new note--something deeper and wistfuller than of old. "well--as you say, you are for experiments!" he replied, not finding it easy to produce his own judgment quickly. then, in another tone--"it was always hallin's cry." she glanced up at him, her lips trembling. "i know. do you remember how he used to say--'the big changes may come--the big collectivist changes. but neither you nor i will see them. i pray _not_ to see them. meanwhile--all still hangs upon, comes back to, the individual, here are you with your money and power; there are those men and women whom you can share with--in new and honourable ways--_to-day_.'" then she checked herself suddenly. "but now i want you to tell me--will you tell me?--all the objections you see. you must often have thought such things over." she was looking nervously straight before her. she did not see the flash of half-bitter, half-tender irony that crossed his face. her tone of humility, of appeal, was so strange to him, remembering the past. "yes, very often," he answered. "well, i think these are the kind of arguments you will have to meet." he went through the objections that any economist would be sure to weigh against a proposal of the kind, as clearly as he could, and at some length--but without zest. what affected marcella all through was not so much the matter of what he said, as the manner of it. it was so characteristic of the two voices in him--the voice of the idealist checked and mocked always by the voice of the observer and the student. a year before, the little harangue would have set her aflame with impatience and wrath. now, beneath the speaker, she felt and yearned towards the man. yet, as to the scheme, when all demurs were made, she was "of the same opinion still"! his arguments were not new to her; the inward eagerness over-rode them. "in my own case"--he said at last, the tone passing instantly into reserve and shyness, as always happened when he spoke of himself--"my own wages are two or three shillings higher than those paid generally by the farmers on the estate; and we have a pension fund. but so far, i have felt the risks of any wholesale disturbance of labour on the estate, depending, as it must entirely in my case, on the individual life and will, to be too great to let me go further. i sometimes believe that it is the farmers who would really benefit most by experiments of the kind!" she protested vehemently, being at the moment, of course, not at all in love with mankind in general, but only with those members of mankind who came within the eye of imagination. he was enchanted to see the old self come out again--positive, obstinate, generous; to see the old confident pose of the head, the dramatic ease of gesture. meanwhile something that had to be said, that must, indeed, be said, if he were to give her serious and official advice, pressed uncomfortably on his tongue. "you know," he said, not looking at her, when at last she had for the moment exhausted argument and prophecy, "you have to think of those who will succeed you here; still more you have to think--of marriage--before you pledge yourself to the halving of your income." now he must needs look at her intently, out of sheer nervousness. the difficulty he had had in compelling himself to make the speech at all had given a certain hardness and stiffness to his voice. she felt a sudden shock and chill--resented what he had dismally felt to be an imperative duty. "i do not think i have any need to think of it--in this connection," she said proudly. and getting up, she began to gather her papers together. the spell was broken, the charm gone. he felt that he was dismissed. with a new formality and silence, she led the way into the hall, he following. as they neared the library there was a sound of voices. marcella opened the door in surprise, and there, on either side of the fire, sat betty macdonald and frank leven. "_that's_ a mercy!" cried betty, running forward to marcella and kissing her. "i really don't know what would have happened if mr. leven and i had been left alone any longer. as for the kilkenny cats, my dear, don't mention them!" the child was flushed and agitated, and there was an angry light in her blue eyes. frank looked simply lumpish and miserable. "yes, here i am," said betty, holding marcella, and chattering as fast as possible. "i made miss raeburn bring me over, that i might _just_ catch a sight of you. she would walk home, and leave the carriage for me. isn't it like all the topsy-turvy things nowadays? when _i'm_ her age i suppose i shall have gone back to dolls. please to look at those ponies!--they're pawing your gravel to bits. and as for my watch, just inspect it!"--she thrust it reproachfully under marcella's eyes. "you've been such a time in there talking, that sir frank and i have had time to quarrel for life, and there isn't a minute left for anything rational. oh! good-bye, my dear, good-bye. i never kept miss raeburn waiting for lunch yet, did i, mr. aldous? and i mustn't begin now. come along, mr. aldous! you'll have to come home with me. i'm frightened to death of those ponies. you shan't drive, but if they bolt, i'll give them to you to pull in. dear, _dear_ marcella, let me come again--soon--directly!" a few more sallies and kisses, a few more angry looks at frank and appeals to aldous, who was much less responsive than usual, and the child was seated, very erect and rosy, on the driving seat of the little pony-carriage, with aldous beside her. "are you coming, frank?" said aldous; "there's plenty of room." his strong brow had a pucker of annoyance. as he spoke he looked, not at frank, but at marcella. she was standing a trifle back, among the shadows of the doorway, and her attitude conveyed to him an impression of proud aloofness. a sigh that was half pain, half resignation, passed his lips unconsciously. "thank you, i'll walk," said frank, fiercely. * * * * * "now, will you please explain to me why you look like that, and talk like that?" said marcella, with cutting composure, when she was once more in the library, and frank, crimson to the roots of his hair, and saying incoherent things, had followed her there. "i should think you might guess," said frank, in reproachful misery, as he hung over the fire. "not at all!" said marcella; "you are rude to betty, and disagreeable to me, by which i suppose that you are unhappy. but why should _you_ be allowed to show your feelings, when other people don't?" frank fairly groaned. "well," he said, making efforts at a tragic calm, and looking for his hat, "you will, none of you, be troubled with me long. i shall go home to-morrow, and take my ticket for california the day after." _"you,"_ said marcella, "go to california! what right have you to go to california?" "what right?" frank stared, then he went on impetuously. "if a girl torments a man, as betty has been tormenting me, there is nothing for it, i should think, but to clear out of the way. i am going to clear out of the way, whatever anybody says." "and shoot big game, i suppose--amuse yourself somehow?" frank hesitated. "well, a fellow can't do nothing," he said helplessly. "i suppose i shall shoot." "and what right have you to do it? have you any more right than a public official would have to spend public money in neglecting his duties?" frank stared at her. "well, i don't know what you mean," he said at last, angrily; "give it up." "it's quite simple what i mean. you have inherited your father's property. your tenants pay you rent, that comes from their labour. are you going to make no return for your income, and your house, and your leisure?" "ah! that's your socialism!" cried the young fellow, roused by her tone. "no return? why, they have the land." "if i were a thorough-going socialist," said marcella, steadily, "i should say to you, go! the sooner you throw off all ties to your property, the sooner you prove to the world that you and your class are mere useless parasites, the sooner we shall be rid of you. but unfortunately _i_ am not such a good socialist as that. i waver--i am not sure of what i wish. but one thing i _am_ sure of, that unless people like you are going to treat their lives as a profession, to take their calling seriously, there are no more superfluous drones, no more idle plunderers than you, in all civilised society!" was she pelting him in this way that she might so get rid of some of her own inner smart and restlessness? if so, the unlucky frank could not guess it. he could only feel himself intolerably ill-used. he had meant to pour himself out to her on the subject of betty and his woes, and here she was rating him as to his _duties_, of which he had hardly as yet troubled himself to think, being entirely taken up either with his grievances or his enjoyments. "i'm sure you know you're talking nonsense," he said sulkily, though he shrank from meeting her fiery look. "and if i _am_ idle, there are plenty of people idler than me--people who live on their money, with no land to bother about, and nothing to do for it at all." "on the contrary, it is they who have an excuse. they have no natural opening, perhaps--no plain call. you have both, and, as i said before, you have no _right_ to take holidays before you have earned them. you have got to learn your business first, and then do it. give your eight hours' day like other people! who are you that you should have all the cake of the world, and other people the crusts?" frank walked to the window, and stood staring out, with his back turned to her. her words stung and tingled; and he was too miserable to fight. "i shouldn't care whether it were cake or crusts," he said at last, in a low voice, turning round to her, "if only betty would have me." "do you think she is any the more likely to have you," said marcella, unrelenting, "if you behave as a loafer and a runaway? don't you suppose that betty has good reasons for hesitating when she sees the difference between you--and--and other people?" frank looked at her sombrely--a queer mixture of expressions on the face, in which the maturer man was already to be discerned at war with the powerful young animal. "i suppose you mean lord maxwell?" there was a pause. "you may take what i said," she said at last, looking into the fire, "as meaning anybody who pays honestly with work and brains for what society has given him--as far as he can pay, at any rate." "now look here," said frank, coming dolefully to sit down beside her; "don't slate me any more. i'm a bad lot, i know--well, an idle lot--i don't think i am a _bad_ lot--but it's no good your preaching to me while betty's sticking pins into me like this. now just let me tell you how she's been behaving." marcella succumbed, and heard him. he glanced at her surreptitiously from time to time, but he could make nothing of her. she sat very quiet while he described the constant companionship between aldous and betty, and the evident designs of miss raeburn. just as when he made his first confidences to her in london, he was vaguely conscious that he was doing a not very gentlemanly thing. but again, he was too unhappy to restrain himself, and he longed somehow to make an ally of her. "well, i have only one thing to say," she said at last, with an odd nervous impatience--"go and ask her, and have done with it! she might have some respect for you then. no, i won't help you; but if you don't succeed, i'll pity you--i promise you that. and now you must go away." he went, feeling himself hardly treated, yet conscious nevertheless of a certain stirring of the moral waters which had both stimulus and balm in it. she, left behind, sat quiet in the old library for a few lonely minutes. the boy's plight made her alternately scornful and repentant of her sharpness to him. as to his report, one moment it plunged her in an anguish she dared not fathom; the next she was incredulous--could not simply make herself take the thing as real. but one thing had been real--that word from aldous to her of "_marriage_"! the nostril dilated, the breast heaved, as she lost all thought of frank in a resentful passion that could neither justify nor calm itself. it seemed still as though he had struck her. yet she knew well that she had nothing to forgive. * * * * * next morning she went down to the village meaning to satisfy herself on two or three points connected with the new cottages. on the way she knocked at the rectory garden-door, in the hope of finding mary harden and persuading her to come with her. she had not seen much of mary since their return. still, she had had time to be painfully struck once or twice with the white and bloodless look of the rector's sister, and with a certain patient silence about her which seemed to marcella new. was it the monotony of the life? or had both of them been overworking and underfeeding as usual? the rector had received marcella with his old gentle but rather distant kindness. two years before he had felt strongly about many of her proceedings, and had expressed himself frankly enough, at least to mary. now he had put his former disapprovals out of his mind, and was only anxious to work smoothly with the owner of mellor. he had a great respect for "dignities," and she, as far as the village was concerned, was to be his "dignity" henceforward. moreover, he humbly and truly hoped that she might be able to enlighten him as to a good many modern conceptions and ideas about the poor, for which, absorbed as he was, either in almsgiving of the traditional type, or spiritual ministration, or sacramental theory, he had little time, and, if the truth were known, little affinity. in answer to her knock marcella heard a faint "come in" from the interior of the house. she walked into the dining-room, and found mary sitting by the little table in tears. there were some letters before her, which she pushed away as marcella entered, but she did not attempt to disguise her agitation. "what is it, dear? tell me," said marcella, sitting down beside her, and kissing one of the hands she held. and mary told her. it was the story of her life--a simple tale of ordinary things, such as wring the quiet hearts and train the unnoticed saints of this world. in her first youth, when charles harden was for a time doing some divinity lecturing in his oxford college, mary had gone up to spend a year with him in lodgings. their sunday teas and other small festivities were frequented by her brother's friends, men of like type with himself, and most of them either clergymen or about to be ordained. between one of them, a young fellow looking out for his first curacy, and mary an attachment had sprung up, which mary could not even now speak of. she hurried over it, with a trembling voice, to the tragedy beyond. mr. shelton got his curacy, went off to a parish in the lincolnshire fens, and there was talk of their being married in a year or so. but the exposure of a bitter winter's night, risked in the struggle across one of the bleakest flats of the district to carry the sacrament to a dying parishioner, had brought on a peculiar and agonising form of neuralgia. and from this pain, so nobly earned, had sprung--oh! mystery of human fate!--a morphia-habit, with all that such a habit means for mind and body. it was discovered by the poor fellow's brother, who brought him up to london and tried to cure him. meanwhile he himself had written to mary to give her up. "i have no will left, and am no longer a man," he wrote to her. "it would be an outrage on my part, and a sin on yours, if we did not cancel our promise." charles, who took a hard, ascetic view, held much the same language, and mary submitted, heart-broken. then came a gleam of hope. the brother's care and affection prevailed; there were rumours of great improvement, of a resumption of work. "just two years ago, when you first came here, i was beginning to believe"--she turned away her head to hide the rise of tears--"that it might still come right." but after some six or eight months of clerical work in london fresh trouble developed, lung mischief showed itself, and the system, undermined by long and deep depression, seemed to capitulate at once. "he died last december, at madeira," said mary, quietly. "i saw him before he left england. we wrote to each other almost to the end. he was quite at peace. this letter here was from the chaplain at madeira, who was kind to him, to tell me about his grave." that was all. it was the sort of story that somehow might have been expected to belong to mary harden--to her round, plaintive face, to her narrow, refined experience; and she told it in a way eminently characteristic of her modes of thinking, religious or social, with old-fashioned or conventional phrases which, whatever might be the case with other people, had lost none of their bloom or meaning for her. marcella's face showed her sympathy. they talked for half an hour, and at the end of it mary flung her arms round her companion's neck. "there!" she said, "now we must not talk any more about it. i am glad i told you. it was a comfort. and somehow--i don't mean to be unkind; but i couldn't have told you in the old days--it's wonderful how much better i like you now than i used to do, though perhaps we don't agree much better." both laughed, though the eyes of both were full of tears. * * * * * presently they were in the village together. as they neared the hurds' old cottage, which was now empty and to be pulled down, a sudden look of disgust crossed marcella's face. "did i tell you my news of minta hurd?" she said. no; mary had heard nothing. so marcella told the grotesque and ugly news, as it seemed to her, which had reached her at amalfi. jim hurd's widow was to be married again, to the queer lanky "professor of elocution," with the italian name and shifty eye, who lodged on the floor beneath her in brown's buildings, and had been wont to come in of an evening and play comic songs to her and the children. marcella was vehemently sure that he was a charlatan--that he got his living by a number of small dishonesties, that he had scented minta's pension. but apart from the question whether he would make minta a decent husband, or live upon her and beat her, was the fact itself of her re-marriage, in itself hideous to the girl. "_marry_ him!" she said. "marry any one! isn't it incredible?" they were in front of the cottage. marcella paused a moment and looked at it. she saw again in sharp vision the miserable woman fainting on the settle, the dwarf sitting, handcuffed, under the eye of his captors; she felt again the rush of that whirlwind of agony through which she had borne the wife's helpless soul in that awful dawn. and after that--exit!--with her "professor of elocution." it made the girl sick to think of. and mary, out of a puseyite dislike of second marriage, felt and expressed much the same repulsion. well--minta hurd was far away, and if she had been there to defend herself her powers of expression would have been no match for theirs. nor does youth understand such pleas as she might have urged. "will lord maxwell continue the pension?" said mary. marcella stopped again, involuntarily. "so that was his doing?" she said. "i supposed as much." "you did not know?" cried mary, in distress. "oh! i believe i ought not to have said anything about it." "i always guessed it," said marcella, shortly, and they walked on in silence. presently they found themselves in front of mrs. jellison's very trim and pleasant cottage, which lay farther along the common, to the left of the road to the court. there was an early pear-tree in blossom over the porch, and a swelling greenery of buds in the little garden. "will you come in?" said mary. "i should like to see isabella westall." marcella started at the name. "how is she?" she asked. "just the same. she has never been in her right mind since. but she is quite harmless and quiet." they found mrs. jellison on one side of the fire, with her daughter on the other, and the little six-year-old johnnie playing between them. mrs. jellison was straw-plaiting, twisting the straws with amazing rapidity, her fingers stained with red from the dye of them. isabella was, as usual, doing nothing. she stared when marcella and mary came in, but she took no other notice of them. her powerful and tragic face had the look of something originally full of intention, from which spirit and meaning had long departed, leaving a fine but lifeless outline. marcella had seen it last on the night of the execution, in ghastly apparition at minta hurd's window, when it might have been caught by some sculptor in quest of the secrets of violent expression, fixed in clay or marble, and labelled "revenge," or "passion." its passionless emptiness now filled her with pity and horror. she sat down beside the widow and took her hand. mrs. westall allowed it for a moment, then drew her own away suddenly, and marcella saw a curious and sinister contraction of the eyes. "ah! yo never know how much isabella unnerstan's, an' how much she don't," mrs. jellison was saying to mary. "i can't allus make her out, but she don't give no trouble. an' as for that boy, he's a chirruper, he is. he gives 'em fine times at school, he do. miss barton, she ast him in class, thursday, 'bout ananias and sappira. 'johnnie,' says she, 'whatever made 'em do sich a wicked thing?' 'well, _i_ do'n' know,' says he; 'it was jus' their nassty good-for-nothink,' says he; 'but they was great sillies,' says he. oh! he don't mean no harm!--lor' bless yer, the men is all born contrary, and they can't help themselves. oh! thank yer, miss, my 'ealth is pretty tidy, though i 'ave been plagued this winter with a something they call the 'flenzy. i wor very bad! 'yo go to bed, mrs. jellison,' says dr. sharpe, 'or yo'll know of it.' but i worn't goin' to be talked to by 'im. why, i knowed 'im when he wor no 'igher nor johnnie. an' i kep' puddlin' along, an' one mornin' i wor fairly choked, an' i just crawled into that parlour, an' i took a sup o' brandy out o' the bottle"--she looked complacently at mary, quite conscious that the rector's sister must be listening to her with disapproving ears--"an', lor' bless yer, it cut the phlegm, it did, that very moment. my! i did cough. i drawed it up by the yard, i did--and i crep' back along the wall, and yo cud ha' knocked me down wi' one o' my own straws. but i've been better iver since, an' beginnin' to eat my vittles, too, though i'm never no great pecker--i ain't--not at no time." mary managed to smother her emotions on the subject of the brandy, and the old woman chattered on, throwing out the news of the village in a series of humorous fragments, tinged in general with the lowest opinion of human nature. when the girls took leave of her, she said slily to marcella: "an' 'ow about your plaitin', miss?--though i dessay i'm a bold 'un for astin'." marcella coloured. "well, i've got it to think about, mrs. jellison. we must have a meeting in the village and talk it over one of these days." the old woman nodded in a shrewd silence, and watched them depart. "wull, i reckon jimmy gedge ull lasst my time," she said to herself with a chuckle. * * * * * if mrs. jellison had this small belief in the powers of the new mistress of mellor over matters which, according to her, had been settled generations ago by "the lord and natur'," marcella certainly was in no mood to contradict her. she walked through the village on her return scanning everything about her--the slatternly girls plaiting on the doorsteps, the children in the lane, the loungers round the various "publics," the labourers, old and young, who touched their caps to her--with a moody and passionate eye. "mary!" she broke out as they neared the rectory, "i shall be twenty-four directly. how much harm do you think i shall have done here by the time i am sixty-four?" mary laughed at her, and tried to cheer her. but marcella was in the depths of self-disgust. "what is wanted, really wanted," she said with intensity, "is not _my_ help, but _their_ growth. how can i make them _take for themselves_--take, roughly and selfishly even, if they will only take! as for my giving, what relation has it to anything real or lasting?" mary was scandalised. "i declare you are as bad as mr. craven," she said. "he told charles yesterday that the curtseys of the old women in the village to him and charles--women old enough to be their grandmothers--sickened him of the whole place, and that he should regard it as the chief object of his work here to make such things impossible in the future. or perhaps you're still of mr.--mr. wharton's opinion--you'll be expecting charles and me to give up charity. but it's no good, my dear. we're not 'advanced,' and we never shall be." at the mention of wharton marcella threw her proud head back; wave after wave of changing expression passed over the face. "i often remember the things mr. wharton said in this village," she said at last. "there was life and salt and power in many of them. it's not what he said, but what he was, that one wants to forget." they parted presently, and marcella went heavily home. the rising of the spring, the breath of the april air, had never yet been sad and oppressive to her as they were to-day. chapter vi. "oh! miss boyce, may i come in?" the voice was frank leven's. marcella was sitting in the old library alone late on the following afternoon. louis craven, who was now her paid agent and adviser, had been with her, and she had accounts and estimates before her. "come in," she said, startled a little by frank's tone and manner, and looking at him interrogatively. frank shut the heavy old door carefully behind him. then, as he advanced to her she saw that his flushed face wore an expression unlike anything she had yet seen there--of mingled joy and fear. she drew back involuntarily. "is there anything--anything wrong?" "no," he said impetuously, "no! but i have something to tell you, and i don't know how. i don't know whether i ought. i have run almost all the way from the court." and, indeed, he could hardly get his breath. he took a stool she pushed to him, and tried to collect himself. she heard her heart beat as she waited for him to speak. "it's about lord maxwell," he said at last, huskily, turning his head away from her to the fire. "i've just had a long walk with him. then he left me; he had no idea i came on here. but something drove me; i felt i must come, i must tell. will you promise not to be angry with me--to believe that i've thought about it--that i'm doing it for the best?" he looked at her nervously. "if you wouldn't keep me waiting so long," she said faintly, while her cheeks and lips grew white. "well,--i was mad this morning! betty hasn't spoken to me since yesterday. she's been always about with him, and miss raeburn let me see once or twice last night that she thought i was in the way. i never slept a wink last night, and i kept out of their sight all the morning. then, after lunch, i went up to him, and i asked him to come for a walk with me. he looked at me rather queerly--i suppose i was pretty savage. then he said he'd come. and off we went, ever so far across the park. and i let out. i don't know what i said; i suppose i made a beast of myself. but anyway, i asked him to tell me what he meant, and to tell me, if he could, what betty meant. i said i knew i was a cool hand, and he might turn me out of the house, and refuse to have anything more to do with me if he liked. but i was going to rack and ruin, and should never be any good till i knew where i stood--and betty would never be serious--and, in short, was he in love with her himself? for any one could see what miss raeburn was thinking of." the boy gulped down something like a sob, and tried to give himself time to be coherent again. marcella sat like a stone. "when he heard me say that--'in love with her yourself,' he stopped dead. i saw that i had made him angry. 'what right have you or any one else,' he said, very short, 'to ask me such a question?' then i just lost my head, and said anything that came handy. i told him everybody talked about it--which, of course, was rubbish--and at last i said, 'ask anybody; ask the winterbournes, ask miss boyce--they all think it as much as i do.' '_miss boyce_!' he said--'miss boyce thinks i want to marry betty macdonald?' then i didn't know what to say--for, of course, i knew i'd taken your name in vain; and he sat down on the grass beside a little stream there is in the park, and he didn't speak to me for a long time--i could see him throwing little stones into the water. and at last he called me. 'frank!' he said; and i went up to him. and then--" the lad seemed to tremble all over. he bent forward and laid his hand on marcella's knee, touching her cold ones. "and then he said, 'i can't understand yet, frank, how you or anybody else can have mistaken my friendship for betty macdonald. at any rate, i know there's been no mistake on her part. and if you take my advice, you'll go and speak to her like a man, with all your heart, and see what she says. you don't deserve her yet, that i can tell you. as for me'--i can't describe the look of his face; i only know i wanted to go away--'you and i will be friends for many years, i hope, so perhaps you may just understand this, once for all. for me there never has been, and there never will be, but one woman in the world--to love. and you know,' he said after a bit, 'or you ought to know, very well, who that woman is.' and then he got up and walked away. he did not ask me to come, and i felt i dared not go after him. and then i lay and thought. i remembered being here; i thought of what i had said to you--of what i had fancied now and then about--about you. i felt myself a brute all round; for what right had i to come and tell you what he told me? and yet, there it was--i had to come. and if it was no good my coming, why, we needn't say anything about it ever, need we? but--but--just look here, miss boyce; if you--if you could begin over again, and make aldous happy, then there'd be a good many other people happy too--i can tell you that." he could hardly speak plainly. evidently there was on him an overmastering impulse of personal devotion, gratitude, remorse, which for the moment even eclipsed his young passion. it was but vaguely explained by anything he had said; it rested clearly on the whole of his afternoon's experience. but neither could marcella speak, and her pallor began to alarm him. "i say!" he cried; "you're not angry with me?" she moved away from him, and with her shaking finger began to cut the pages of a book that lay open on the mantelpiece. the little mechanical action seemed gradually to restore her to self-control. "i don't think i can talk about it," she said at last, with an effort; "not now." "oh! i know," said frank, in penitence, looking at her black dress; "you've been upset, and had such a lot of trouble. but i--" she laid her hand on his shoulder. he thought he had never seen her so beautiful, pale as she was. "i'm not the least angry. i'll tell you so--another day. now, are you going to betty?" the young fellow sprang up, all his expression changing, answering to the stimulus of the word. "they'll be home directly, miss raeburn and betty," he said steadily, buttoning his coat; "they'd gone out calling somewhere. oh! she'll lead me a wretched life, will betty, before she's done!" a charming little ghost of a smile crossed marcella's white lips. "probably betty knows her business," she said; "if she's quite unmanageable, send her to me." in his general turmoil of spirits the boy caught her hand and kissed it--would have liked, indeed, to kiss her and all the world. but she laughed, and sent him away, and with a sly, lingering look at her he departed. she sank into her chair and never moved for long. the april sun was just sinking behind the cedars, and through the open south window of the library came little spring airs and scents of spring flowers. there was an endless twitter of birds, and beside her the soft chatter of the wood fire. an hour before, her mood had been at open war with the spring, and with all those impulses and yearnings in herself which answered to it. now it seemed to her that a wonderful and buoyant life, akin to all the vast stir, the sweet revivals of nature, was flooding her whole being. she gave herself up to it, in a trance interwoven with all the loveliest and deepest things she had ever felt--with her memory of hallin, with her new gropings after god. just as the light was going she got up hurriedly and went to her writing-table. she wrote a little note, sat over it a while, with her face hidden in her hands, then sealed, addressed, and stamped it. she went out herself to the hall to put it in the letter-box. for the rest of the evening she went about in a state of dream, overcome sometimes by rushes of joy, which yet had in them exquisite elements of pain; hungering for the passage of the hours, for sleep that might cancel some of them; picturing the road to the court and widrington, along which the old postman had by now carried her letter--the bands of moonlight and shade lying across it, the quiet of the budding woods, and the spot on the hillside where he had spoken to her in that glowing october. it must lie all night in a dull office--her letter; she was impatient and sorry for it. and when he got it, it would tell him nothing, though she thought it would rather surprise him. it was the merest formal request that he would, if he could, come and see her again the following morning on business. during the evening mrs. boyce lay on the sofa and read. it always still gave the daughter a certain shock of surprise when she saw the slight form resting in this way. in words mrs. boyce would allow nothing, and her calm composure had been unbroken from the moment of their return home, though it was not yet two months since her husband's death. in these days she read enormously, which again was a new trait--especially novels. she read each through rapidly, laid it down without a word of comment, and took up another. once or twice, but very rarely, marcella surprised her in absent meditation, her hand covering the page. from the hard, satiric brightness of her look on these occasions it seemed probable that she was speculating on the discrepancies between fiction and real life, and on the falsity of most literary sentiment. to-night marcella sat almost silent--she was making a frock for a village child she had carried off from its mother, who was very ill--and mrs. boyce read. but as the clock approached ten, the time when they generally went upstairs, marcella made a few uncertain movements, and finally got up, took a stool, and sat down beside the sofa. * * * * * an hour later marcella entered her own room. as she closed the door behind her she gave an involuntary sob, put down her light, and hurrying up to the bed, fell on her knees beside it and wept long. yet her mother had not been unkind to her. far from it. mrs. boyce had praised her--in few words, but with evident sincerity--for the courage that could, if necessary, put convention aside; had spoken of her own relief; had said pleasant things of lord maxwell; had bantered marcella a little on her social schemes, and wished her the independence to stick to them. finally, as they got up to go to bed, she kissed marcella twice instead of once, and said: "well, my dear, i shall not be in your way to-morrow morning; i promise you that." the speaker's satisfaction was plain; yet nothing could have been less maternal. the girl's heart, when she found herself alone, was very sore, and the depression of a past which had been so much of a failure, so lacking in any satisfied emotion and the sweet preludes of family affection, darkened for a while even the present and the future. after a time she got up, and leaving her room, went to sit in a passage outside it. it was the piece of wide upper corridor leading to the winding stairs she had descended on the night of the ball. it was one of the loneliest and oddest places in the house, for it communicated only with her room and the little staircase, which was hardly ever used. it was, indeed, a small room in itself, and was furnished with a few huge old chairs with moth-eaten frames and tattered seats. a flowery paper of last-century date sprawled over the walls, the carpet had many holes in it, and the shallow, traceried windows, set almost flush in the outer surface of the wall, were curtainless now, as they had been two years before. she drew one of the old chairs to a window, and softly opened it. there was a young moon, and many stars, seen uncertainly through the rush of april cloud. every now and then a splash of rain moved the creepers and swept across the lawn, to be followed by a spell of growing and breathing silence. the scent of hyacinths and tulips mounted through the wet air. she could see a long ghostly line of primroses, from which rose the grey base of the tudor front, checkered with a dim light and shade. beyond the garden, with its vague forms of fountain and sun-dial, the cedars stood watching; the little church slept to her left. so, face to face with nature, the old house, and the night, she took passionate counsel with herself. after to-night surely, she would be no more lonely! she was going for ever from her own keeping to that of another. for she never, from the moment she wrote her letter, had the smallest doubt as to what his answer to her would be; never the smallest dread that he would, even in the lightest passing impression, connect what she was going to do with any thought of blame or wonder. her pride and fear were gone out of her; only, she dared not think of how he would look and speak when the moment came, because it made her sick and faint with feeling. how strange to imagine what, no doubt, would be said and thought about her return to him by the outside world! his great place in society, his wealth, would be the obvious solution of it for many--too obvious even to be debated. looking back upon her thoughts of this night in after years, she could not remember that the practical certainty of such an interpretation had even given her a moment's pain. it was too remote from all her now familiar ways of thinking--and his. in her early mellor days the enormous importance that her feverish youth attached to wealth and birth might have been seen in her very attacks upon them. now all her standards were spiritualised. she had come to know what happiness and affection are possible in three rooms, or two, on twenty-eight shillings a week; and, on the other hand, her knowledge of aldous--a man of stoical and simple habit, thrust, with a student's tastes, into the position of a great landowner--had shown her, in the case at least of one member of the rich class, how wealth may be a true moral burden and test, the source of half the difficulties and pains--of half the nobleness also--of a man's life. not in mere wealth and poverty, she thought, but in things of quite another order--things of social sympathy and relation--alterable at every turn, even under existing conditions, by the human will, lie the real barriers that divide us man from man. had they ever really formed a part of historical time, those eight months of their engagement? looking back upon them, she saw herself moving about in them like a creature without eyes, worked, blindfold, by a crude inner mechanism that took no account really of impressions from without. yet that passionate sympathy with the poor--that hatred of oppression? even these seemed to her to-night the blind, spasmodic efforts of a mind that all through _saw_ nothing--mistook its own violences and self-wills for eternal right, and was but traitor to what should have been its own first loyalties, in seeking to save and reform. was _true_ love now to deliver her from that sympathy, to deaden in her that hatred? her whole soul cried out in denial. by daily life in natural relations with the poor, by a fruitful contact with fact, by the clash of opinion in london, by the influence of a noble friendship, by the education of awakening passion--what had once been mere tawdry and violent hearsay had passed into a true devotion, a true thirst for social good. she had ceased to take a system cut and dried from the venturists, or any one else; she had ceased to think of whole classes of civilised society with abhorrence and contempt; and there had dawned in her that temper which is in truth implied in all the more majestic conceptions of the state--the temper that regards the main institutions of every great civilisation, whether it be property, or law, or religious custom, as necessarily, in some degree, divine and sacred. for man has not been their sole artificer! throughout there has been working with him "the spark that fires our clay." yes!--but modification, progress, change, there must be, for us as for our fathers! would marriage fetter her? it was not the least probable that he and she, with their differing temperaments, would think alike in the future, any more than in the past. she would always be for experiments, for risks, which his critical temper, his larger brain, would of themselves be slow to enter upon. yet she knew well enough that in her hands they would become bearable and even welcome to him. and for himself, she thought with a craving, remorseful tenderness of that pessimist temper of his towards his own work and function that she knew so well. in old days it had merely seemed to her inadequate, if not hypocritical. she would have liked to drive the dart deeper, to make him still unhappier! now, would not a wife's chief function be to reconcile him with himself and life, to cheer him forward on the lines of his own nature, to believe, understand, help? yet always in the full liberty to make her own sacrifices, to realise her own dreamlands! she thought with mingled smiles and tears of her plans for this bit of earth that fate had brought under her hand; she pledged herself to every man, woman, and child on it so to live her life that each one of theirs should be the richer for it; she set out, so far as in her lay, to "choose equality." and beyond mellor, in the great changing world of social speculation and endeavour, she prayed always for the open mind, the listening heart. "there is one conclusion, one cry, i always come back to at last," she remembered hearing hallin say to a young conservative with whom he had been having a long economic and social argument. "_never resign yourself_!--that seems to be the main note of it. say, if you will--believe, if you will, that human nature, being what it is, and what, so far as we can see, it always must be, the motives which work the present social and industrial system can never be largely superseded; that property and saving--luck, too!--struggle, success, and failure, must go on. that is one's intellectual conclusion; and one has a right to it--you and i are at one in it. but then--on the heels of it comes the moral imperative! 'hold what you please about systems and movements, and fight for what you hold; only, as an individual--_never say--never think!_--that it is in the order of things, in the purpose of god, that one of these little ones--this board-school child, this man honestly out of work, this woman "sweated" out of her life--should perish!' a contradiction, or a commonplace, you say? well and good. the only truths that burn themselves into the conscience, that work themselves out through the slow and manifold processes of the personal will into a pattern of social improvement, are the contradictions and the commonplaces!" so here, in the dark, alone with the haunting, uplifting presences of "admiration, hope, and love," marcella vowed, within the limits of her personal scope and power, never to give up the struggle for a nobler human fellowship, the lifelong toil to understand, the passionate effort to bring honour and independence and joy to those who had them not. but not alone; only, not alone! she had learnt something of the dark aspects, the crushing complexity of the world. she turned from them to-night, at last, with a natural human terror, to hide herself in her own passion, to make of love her guide and shelter. her whole rich being was wrought to an intoxication of self-giving. oh! let the night go faster! faster! and bring his step upon the road, her cry of repentance to his ear. * * * * * "i trust i am not late. your clocks, i think, are ahead of ours. you said eleven?" aldous advanced into the room with hand outstretched. he had been ushered into the drawing-room, somewhat to his surprise. marcella came forward. she was in black as before, and pale, but there was a knot of pink anemones fastened at her throat, which, in the play they made with her face and hair, gave him a start of pleasure. "i wanted," she said, "to ask you again about those shares--how to manage the sale of them. could you--could you give me the name of some one in the city you trust?" he was conscious of some astonishment. "certainly," he said. "if you would rather not entrust it to mr. french, i can give you the name of the firm my grandfather and i have always employed; or i could manage it for you if you would allow me. you have quite decided?" "yes," she said mechanically,--"quite. and--and i think i could do it myself. would you mind writing the address for me, and will you read what i have written there?" she pointed to the little writing-table and the writing materials upon it, then turned away to the window. he looked at her an instant with uneasy amazement. he walked up to the table, put down his hat and gloves beside it, and stooped to read what was written. _"it was in this room you told me i had done you a great wrong. but wrongdoers may be pardoned sometimes, if they ask it. let me know by a sign, a look, if i may ask it. if not it would be kind to go away without a word."_ she heard a cry. but she did not look up. she only knew that he had crossed the room, that his arms were round her, her head upon his breast. "marcella!--wife!" was all he said, and that in a voice so low, so choked, that she could hardly hear it. he held her so for a minute or more, she weeping, his own eyes dim with tears, her cheek laid against the stormy beating of his heart. at last he raised her face, so that he could see it. "so this--this was what you had in your mind towards me, while i have been despairing--fighting with myself, walking in darkness. oh, my darling! explain it. how can it be? am i real? is this face--these lips real?"--he kissed both, trembling. "oh! when a man is raised thus--in a moment--from torture and hunger to full joy, there are no words--" his head sank on hers, and there was silence again, while he wrestled with himself. at last she looked up, smiling. "you are to please come over here," she said, and leading him by the hand, she took him to the other side of the room. "that is the chair you sat in that morning. sit down!" he sat down, wondering, and before he could guess what she was going to do she had sunk on her knees beside him. "i am going to tell you," she said, "a hundred things i never told you before. you are to hear me confess; you are to give me penance; you are to say the hardest things possible to me. if you don't i shall distrust you." she smiled at him again through her tears. "marcella," he cried in distress, trying to lift her, to rise himself, "you can't imagine that i should let _you_ kneel to _me_!" "you must," she said steadily; "well, if it will make you happier, i will take a stool and sit by you. but you are there above me--i am at your feet--it is the same chair, and you shall not move"--she stooped in a hasty passion, as though atoning for her "shall," and kissed his hand--"till i have said it all--every word!" so she began it--her long confession, from the earliest days. he winced often--she never wavered. she carried through the sharpest analysis of her whole mind with regard to him; of her relations to him and wharton in the old days; of the disloyalty and lightness with which she had treated the bond, that yet she had never, till quite the end, thought seriously of breaking; of her selfish indifference to, even contempt for, his life, his interests, his ideals; of her calm forecasts of a married state in which she was always to take the lead and always to be in the right--then of the real misery and struggle of the hurd trial. "that was my first true _experience_," she said; "it made me wild and hard, but it burnt, it purified. i began to live. then came the day when--when we parted--the time in hospital--the nursing--the evening on the terrace. i had been thinking of you--because remorse made me think of you--solitude--mr. hallin--everything. i wanted you to be kind to me, to behave as though you had forgotten everything, because it would have made me comfortable and happy; or i thought it would. and then, that night you wouldn't be kind, you wouldn't forget--instead, you made me pay my penalty." she stared at him an instant, her dark brows drawn together, struggling to keep her tears back, yet lightening from moment to moment into a divine look of happiness. he tried to take possession of her, to stop her, to silence all this self-condemnation on his breast. but she would not have it; she held him away from her. "that night, though i walked up and down the terrace with mr. wharton afterwards, and tried to fancy myself in love with him--that night, for the first time, i began to love you! it was mean and miserable, wasn't it, not to be able to appreciate the gift, only to feel when it was taken away? it was like being good when one is punished, because one must--" she laid down her head against his chair with a long sigh. he could bear it no longer. he lifted her in his arms, talking to her passionately of the feelings which had been the counterpart to hers, the longings, jealousies, renunciations--above all, the agony of that moment at the mastertons' party. "hallin was the only person who understood," he said; "he knew all the time that i should love you to my grave. i could talk to him." she gave a little sob of joy, and pushing herself away from him an instant, she laid a hand on his shoulder. "i told him," she said--"i told him, that night he was dying." he looked at her with an emotion too deep even for caresses. "he never spoke--coherently--after you left him. at the end he motioned to me, but there were no words. if i could possibly love you more, it would be because you gave him that joy." he held her hand, and there was silence. hallin stood beside them, living and present again in the life of their hearts. then, little by little, delight and youth and love stole again upon their senses. "do you suppose," he exclaimed, "that i yet understand in the least how it is that i am here, in this chair, with you beside me? you have told me much ancient history!--but all that truly concerns me this morning lies in the dark. the last time i saw you, you were standing at the garden-door, with a look which made me say to myself that i was the same blunderer i had always been, and had far best keep away. bridge me the gap, please, between that hell and this heaven!" she held her head high, and changed her look of softness for a frown. "you had spoken of '_marriage!_'" she said. "marriage in the abstract, with a big _m_. you did it in the tone of my guardian giving me away. could i be expected to stand that?" he laughed. the joy in the sound almost hurt her. "so one's few virtues smite one," he said as he captured her hand again. "will you acknowledge that i played my part well? i thought to myself, in the worst of tempers, as i drove away, that i could hardly have been more official. but all this is evasion. what i desire to know, categorically, is, what made you write that letter to me last night, after--after the day before?" she sat with her chin on her hand, a smile dancing. "whom did you walk with yesterday afternoon?" she said slowly. he looked bewildered. "there!" she cried, with a sudden wild gesture; "when i have told you it will undo it all. oh! if frank had never said a word to me; if i had had no excuse, no assurance, nothing to go upon, had just called to you in the dark, as it were, there would be some generosity, some atonement in that! now you will think i waited to be meanly sure, instead of--" she dropped her dark head upon his hand again with an abandonment which unnerved him, which he had almost to brace himself against. "so it was frank," he said--"_frank!_ two hours ago, from my window, i saw him and betty down by the river in the park. they were supposed to be fishing. as far as i could see they were sifting or walking hand in hand, in the face of day and the keepers. i prepared wise things to say to them. none of them will be said now, or listened to. as frank's mentor i am undone." he held her, looking at her intently. "shall i tell you," he asked, in a lower voice--"shall i show you something--something that i had on my heart as i was walking here?" he slipped his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and drew out a little plain black leather case. when he opened it she saw that it contained a pen-and-ink sketch of herself that had been done one evening by a young artist staying at the court, and--a bunch of traveller's joy. she gazed at it with a mixture of happiness and pain. it reminded her of cold and selfish thoughts, and set them in relief against his constancy. but she had given away all rights--even the right to hate herself. piteously, childishly, with seeking eyes, she held out her hand to him, as though mutely asking him for the answer to her outpouring--the last word of it all. he caught her whisper. "forgive?" he said to her, scorning her for the first and only time in their history. "does a man _forgive_ the hand that sets him free, the voice that recreates him? choose some better word--my wife!" scanned images of public domain material from the google print archive. aunt jane aunt jane by jennette lee author of "uncle william," "the woman in the alcove," etc. new york charles scribner's sons copyright, , by charles scribner's sons [illustration] to gerald stanley lee i "aunt jane, what are you thinking of?" the young man turned his head a little on the pillow to look inquiringly toward the door. it was the door of room leading into the men's ward. aunt jane had been standing there for five minutes, gazing intently before her into space. the serene face framed in the white muslin cap had a rapt, waiting look. it reminded the young man of a german madonna that he had run across last summer in an old gallery corner, whose face had haunted him. "aunt jane, what are you thinking about?" he repeated gently. she turned slowly toward him, the placid look breaking into twinkles. "i was thinking i'd better turn mr. ketchell's mattress the other end to, and put a bolster under the upper end. it kind of sags." for a moment the young man on the pillow looked a little bewildered. then he lay back and laughed till the iron bedstead rang and the men in the ward pricked up their ears and smiled in sympathy. aunt jane smiled too, stepping leisurely toward him. "there, there," she said as she adjusted the sheet and lowered his pillow a trifle: "i don't know as i'd laugh any more about that. 'tisn't so very funny to change a mattress the other end to." he raised a hand and wiped the laughter from either eye. "but you looked as if you were thinking of angels and cherubim and things, aunt jane." she nodded placidly. "i generally do," she responded, "but that doesn't hinder knowing about mattresses and bolsters.... i wouldn't laugh any more for a day or two if i was you. the bandages might get loose." she slipped a careless hand along his forehead, gathered up a cup and plate from the stand beside him, and slid plumply from the room. his eyes followed her through the door, down the long ward as she stopped here and there for a word or a question. once she raised her hand sternly at a bed and sniffed. the cap strings bristled fiercely. "he's catching it," muttered the young man from the private room. "i knew he would. you can't keep a baccy-pouch in the same room with aunt jane." he sighed a little and glanced, without turning his head, toward the window where the spring clouds sailed and filled with swelling whiteness. a breath of freshness stole in softly. on the sill was a bowl of pansies. he lay looking at them idly. his lids fluttered and closed--and lifted again and fell shut. out in the ward the men were laughing and talking. sanderson, robbed of his baccy-pouch, was sullen and resentful and the men were chaffing him. aunt jane drifted through the swing-door at the end of the ward. she placed the cup and plate on a dumb-waiter and crossed the hall to the women's ward. a nurse met her as she came in the door. "mrs. crosby is worse. temperature a hundred and four," she said in a low voice. aunt jane nodded. she went slowly down the ward. white faces on the pillows greeted her and followed her. aunt jane beamed on them. she stopped beside a young girl and bent over to speak to her. the girl's face lighted. it lost its fretted look. aunt jane had told her that she was to have a chop for her dinner if she was a good girl, and that there was a robin out in the apple-tree. she turned her gaunt eyes toward the window. her face listened. aunt jane went on.... a nurse coming in handed her a slip of paper. she glanced at it and tucked it into her dress. it was a telephone message from dr. carmon, asking to have the operating-room ready for an appendicitis case in ten minutes. the girl with the gaunt eyes called to her: "aunt jane!" the voice was weak and impatient. aunt jane turned slowly back. she stood by the bed, looking down with a smile. the girl thrust an impatient hand under her cheek: "can i hear him in here?" she demanded. aunt jane glanced toward the window. "the robin? like enough, if he flies this way. i'll go out and chase him 'round by and by when i get time." the girl laughed--a low, pleased laugh. aunt jane's tone had drawn a picture for her: the robin, the flying cap strings in swift pursuit, and all outdoors--birds and trees and sky. she nestled her face on her hand and smiled quietly. "i'm going to be good," she said. aunt jane looked at her with a severe twinkle. "yes, you'll be good--till next time," she remarked. the nurse by the door waited, impatient. aunt jane came across the room. "get ready.... find the new nurse," she said. "send her to the operating-room.... send henry to the ambulance door.... tell miss staunton to have things hot, and put out the new ether cones. it wants fresh carbolic and plenty of sponges." the nurse sped swiftly away. aunt jane looked peacefully around. she gave one or two instructions to the ward nurse, talked a moment with one of the patients, smiled a kind of general benediction on the beds and faces and sun-lit room, and went quietly out.... at the door of the operating-room she paused a moment and gave a slow, comfortable glance about. she changed the position of a stand and rearranged the ether cones. the next minute she was standing at the side door greeting dr. carmon. the ambulance was at the door. "it's a bad case," he said. "waited too long." "woman, i suppose," said aunt jane. she was watching the men as they put the trestles in place. he looked at her. "how did you know?" "they're 'most always the ones to wait. they stand the pain better'n men." she stepped to one side with a quiet glance at the litter as the men bore it past. "she'll come through," she said as they followed it up the low stairway. "i wish i felt as sure," responded dr. carmon. aunt jane glanced back. a man was standing at the door, his eyes following them. she looked inquiringly toward the doctor. "her husband," he said. "he's going to wait." aunt jane spoke a word to a nurse who was coming down the stairs, with a motion of her hand toward the man waiting below. the little procession entered the operating-room, and the door was shut. ii it was a current belief that the berkeley house of mercy belonged to aunt jane; and i am not at all sure that aunt jane did not think so herself--at times. the hospital had been endowed by a rich patient in gratitude for recovery from a painful disease. she had wished to reward the surgeon who had cured her. and when dr. carmon had refused to accept anything beyond the very generous fee he had charged for the operation, she had built the hospital--over which he was to have absolute control. there was a nominal board of directors, and other physicians might bring their patients there. but dr. carmon was to be in control. the surgeon had not cared for a fortune. dr. carmon was not married; he had no wife and children to tie him down to a fortune. but a hospital equipped to his fingers' ends was a different matter and he had accepted it gratefully. dr. carmon had not always found it easy to get on with the surgical staff of his old hospital; partly perhaps, as aunt jane always maintained, because he was "too fond of having his own way"; and partly because he was of the type that must break ground. there were things that dr. carmon saw and wanted to do. and there was always a flock of malcontents at hand to peck at him if he did them. he accepted the berkeley house of mercy with a sense of relief and with the understanding that he was to be in absolute control. and he in turn had installed aunt jane as matron of the hospital--not with the understanding that she was to be in absolute control, but as being, on the whole, the most sensible woman of his acquaintance. the result had not been altogether what dr. carmon had foreseen. gradually he had awakened to the fact that the hospital and everything connected with it was under the absolute control--not of dr. frederic carmon, but of aunt jane holbrook. each member of the white-capped corps of nurses looked to her for direction; and the cook and the man who ran the furnace refused to take orders from any one else. it was no unusual sight for the serene, white-framed face, with its crisp strings, to appear among the pipes and elbows of the furnace-room and leave behind it a whiff of common sense and a series of hints on the running of the hot-water boiler. even dr. carmon himself never brought a patient to the house of mercy without asking humble and solicitous permission of aunt jane. it was not known that she had ever refused him, pointblank. but she sometimes protested with a shrewd twinkle in her eye: "oh, i can't have that miss enderby here. she's always wanting to have her own way about things!" then dr. carmon would laugh and bring the patient. perhaps he gave her a hint beforehand. perhaps the fame of aunt jane's might had reached her. perhaps it was the cool, firm fingers.... whatever the reason, it is safe to say that miss enderby did not once have her own way from the day that she was carried into the wide doors of the house of mercy, a sick and querulous woman, to the day when she left it with firm, quick step and, turning back at the door to fall with a sob on aunt jane's neck, was met with a gentle little push and a quick flash from the white-capped face. "there, there, miss enderby, you run right along. there's nothin' upsets folks like sayin' good-by. you come back some day and say it when you're feeling pretty well." iii aunt jane was thinking, as she went along the wide corridor to room , that the new patient was not unlike miss enderby. it was an hour since the operation and aunt jane had been in to see the patient two or three times; as she had stood looking down at her, the resemblance to miss enderby had come to her mind. there was the same inflexible tightening of the lips and the same contracted look of the high, level brows. a nurse coming down the corridor stopped respectfully. "dr. carmon has finished his visits," she said. "he asks me to say he is in your office--when you are ready." aunt jane nodded absently. she went on to room and looked in at the door. the patient lay with closed eyes, a half-querulous expression on the high brows, and the corners of her lips sharply drawn. aunt jane crossed the floor lightly and bent to listen to the breathing from the tense lips. the eyes opened slowly. "it's you!" said the woman. "comfortable?" asked aunt jane. she ran her hand along the querulous forehead and straightened the clothes a little. "you'll feel better pretty soon now." "stay with me," said the woman sharply. aunt jane shook her head: "i'll be back by and by. you lie still and be good. that's the way to get well." she drifted from the room and the woman's eyes closed slowly. something of the fretted look had left her face. aunt jane stepped out into the wide, sun-lit corridor and moved serenely on. her tall figure and plump back had a comfortable look as she went. one of the men in the ward had said that aunt jane went on casters; and it was the irishman in the bed next him who had retorted: "it's wings that you mean--two little wings to the feet of her--or however could she get along, at all, without putting foot to the floor!" however she managed it, aunt jane came and went noiselessly; and when she chose, she could move from one end of the corridor to the other as swiftly as if indeed there had been "two little wings to the feet of her." she was not hurrying now. she stopped at one or two doors for a glance, gave directions to a nurse who passed with a tray, and went leisurely on to the office. over by the window, dr. carmon, his gloves in his hand, was standing with his back to the room, waiting. aunt jane glanced at the back and sat down. "did you want to see me?" she inquired pleasantly. he wheeled about. "i have been waiting five minutes to see you," he said stiffly. "the man in number is coming along first-rate," replied aunt jane. "i never saw a better first intention." the doctor glared at her. his face cleared a little. "he _is_ doing well." "i want you to put miss wildman on the case," he added. "she's put down to go on at eleven," responded aunt jane. "humph!" he drew out his note-book and looked at it. "i suppose you knew i'd want her." "i thought she'd better go on," said aunt jane serenely. "and miss canfield needs to go off--for a good rest. i shall need her on tuesday. there are two cases"--he consulted his notes--"a mrs. pelton--she'll go into the ward--after a few days." "poor," said aunt jane. "yes. and herman g. medfield----" "he's not poor," interposed aunt jane. "he could give us a new wing for contagion when he gets well." the doctor scowled a little. perhaps it was the unconscious "us." perhaps he was thinking that herman g. medfield had scant chance to give the new wing for contagion.... and a sudden sense that a great deal depended on him and that he was very tired had perhaps come over the surgeon. aunt jane touched the bell by her table. "you sit down, dr. carmon," she said quietly. dr. carmon picked up his hat. "i have to go," he replied brusquely. "you sit down," said aunt jane. he seated himself with a half smile. when aunt jane chose to make you like what she was doing...! the white-coated boy who came, took an order for meat broth and sandwiches and returned with them promptly. "you're tired out," said aunt jane, as she arranged the dishes on the swing-leaf to the desk. "up all night, i suppose?" "no." the doctor nibbled at a sandwich. then he broke off a generous piece and swallowed it and drank a little of the hot broth. she watched him placidly. he was a short, dark man with a dark mustache that managed, somehow, at once to bristle and to droop. his clothes were shabby and creased with little folds and wrinkles across the ample front, and he sat well forward in his chair to eat the sandwiches. there was something a little grotesque about him perhaps. but to aunt jane's absent-minded gaze, it may be, there was nothing grotesque in the short, stout figure, eating its sandwiches.... she had seen it too many times roused to fierce struggle, holding death at arm's length and fighting, inch by inch, for a life that was slipping away. to her dr. carmon was not so much a man, as a mighty gripping force that did things when you needed him. "i suppose i _was_ hungry," he said. he picked up the last crumb of sandwich and smiled at her. aunt jane nodded. "you needed something to eat." "and some one to tell me to eat it," he replied. and with the words he was gone. the next minute aunt jane, sitting in the office, heard the warning toot of his motor as it turned the corner of the next street and was off for the day's work. iv in the reception-room a man was waiting. he was thick-set, with dark hair and eyes and an obstinate chin. he looked up with a doubtful flash as aunt jane came in. "how is she?" he demanded. he had sprung to his feet. aunt jane descended into a creaking chair and folded her hands quietly. "sit down, mr. dalton," she said; "i'm going to tell you all about it." the words seemed to promise limitless details. he sat down, chafing a little and looking at her eagerly. she smiled on him. "hard work waiting, isn't it?" she said. his face broke a little. "has she come out of it?" aunt jane nodded. "yes, she's got through." she rocked a little in the big chair. "she's standing it pretty well, considering," she added after a pause. "will she get well?" the question burst at her. she looked up at him slowly--at the dark eyes and obstinate chin. "i don't know," she said. she waited a minute. "i suppose you'd rather know the truth," she asked. "yes--yes." "i thought so." the muslin strings nodded. "when my husband died they didn't let us know how sick he was. i've always thought we might have saved him--between us--if we'd known. they wanted to spare my feelings." she looked at him inquiringly. "yes." he waited a little less impatiently. the world was a big place. everybody died.... would edith die?... he looked at her imploringly. she returned the look with one full of gentleness. "i don't see how she's going to live," she said slowly. the face under its white cap took on a trance-like look. the eyes were fixed on something unseen. she drew a quick breath.... "but i guess she will," she said with a tremulous laugh. the man's lips parted. she looked at him again. "if i were you, mr. dalton, i'd go home and feel pretty big and strong and well, and i'd hope pretty hard." he looked at her, bewildered. she was on her feet. she ran her eye over his face and person. "i'd wear the cleanest, freshest clothes i could get, and i'd look so 'twould do her good just to set eyes on me." he flushed under the two days' growth of beard and ran his hand awkwardly across his chin. "but they won't let me see her?" he said. "well, i don't know," responded aunt jane. "it'll do her good--whether she sees you or not," she added energetically. he rose with a smile, holding out his hand. "i believe you're right," he said. "it gives me something to do, anyway, and that's worth a good deal." "yes, it's something to do," she responded, "and i don't suppose any of us knows just what cures folks." "could i see her to-morrow, perhaps?" he asked, watching her face. she shook her head emphatically. "not till i think best," she replied with decision. his face fell. "and not then," she said, "unless you're feeling pretty well and strong and happy." he gave a little abrupt laugh. "oh, you've fixed that all right. i shan't sigh--not once--in a dark room--with the lights out." aunt jane smiled serenely. "that's good." at the door she paused a moment. "i wouldn't reckon too much on seeing her," she said. "i shan't let any one see her till she asks. she won't pay much attention for three-four days yet." a peculiar look crossed the man's dark face. "that's all right," he said. "i can wait." outside the door he lifted his face a little to the fresh breeze. his eyes stared absently at the drifting sky. "now, how did she know edith wouldn't want to see me?" he said softly: "how did she find that out?" v aunt jane bent her head and listened to the heavy breathing. then she spoke softly to the nurse in charge, who listened obediently and went away. it was not an unusual thing for aunt jane to assume control of a case at any moment. perhaps she was most likely to do this about three or four o'clock in the morning when all the hospital was asleep and a chill had crept into the air. the nurse in charge of a critical case would look up to find aunt jane standing beside her, fresh from a cold bath, with a smile on her big, restful face and a whispered command on her lips that sent the tired nurse to bed with a clear conscience. the patients that aunt jane assumed in this peremptory fashion always recovered. perhaps they would have recovered in any case. this is one of the things that no one knows. it may be noted, however, in passing, that the patients themselves as they came into the new day, holding fast to aunt jane's hand, cherished a belief that had it not been for that firm, plump hand, the new day would not have dawned for them.... they had no strength and no will of their own. but through the cold and the darkness, something held them; and when the spirit came creeping back with the morning, the first thing that their eyes rested on was aunt jane's face. the woman's eyes opened suddenly. they looked for a moment, dull and unseeing, into aunt jane's. then they fell shut. aunt jane's fingers noted the pulse and passed once or twice across the high, fretted brow. slowly a look of sleep passed over the face and the strained lines relaxed. aunt jane, watching it, gave a nod of satisfaction. out in the orchard the robin sang his twilight song, slow and cool and liquid, with long pauses between, and the dusk crept into the white room, touching it. aunt jane sat passive, waiting, the eyes under her white cap glowing with a still, deep look. all the threads of life and death in the hospital gathered up and centred in the quiet figure sitting there. not a pulse in the great building beat, or flickered and went out, that aunt jane did not know it. but she sat waiting while the twilight deepened, a look of restfulness in her big face. now and then she crooned to herself, half humming the lines of some hymn and falling silent again, watching the sleeper's breath. the night nurse paused outside the door, and a little rush of gaslight flickered in. aunt jane rose and closed the door and shifted a screen noiselessly to the foot of the bed. the long night had settled down for its sleep. and edith dalton's soul was keeping watch with death. slowly it sank back into the grim hold ... only a spark left, with aunt jane keeping guard over it.... so the night passed and the day, and another night and another day ... and the third day dawned. edith dalton would have said, as the spark glowed higher and blazed a little and lighted her soul, and her eyes rested on aunt jane's face, that the figure sitting there had not left her side for three days. down through the deepest waters, where death lulled her and heaven waited, she had felt a touch on her soul, holding her, drawing her steadily back to life; and now she opened her eyes and they rested on aunt jane's face and smiled a little. then the lids fluttered together again and sleep came to the face, natural and sweet. aunt jane's eyes grew dark beneath the white cap. she touched a bell and gave the case over to the day nurse that came. "she will be all right now," she said. she spoke in the low, even voice that was not a whisper and not a tone. "give her plenty of water. she has been very thirsty. but there is no fever. don't call me unless there is a change.... then send at once." she departed on her rounds. no one would have guessed, as the fresh, stout figure moved in and out among the wards, that she had not slept for two nights. there was a tradition that aunt jane never slept and that she was never tired. dr. carmon laughed at the tradition and said that aunt jane slept as much as any one, more than most people, in fact, only she did it with her eyes open--that it was only a superstition that made people think they must shut their eyes to sleep. the hindoos had a trick worth two of that. aunt jane knew the trick, and she might tell other folks if she would, and save the world a lot of trouble. but aunt jane only shook her head, and smiled, and went her way. and when the fight with death came, she went with each one down into that other world, the world of sleep and faith and unconscious power, on the border-land of death, where the soul is reborn, and waited there for life. she had no theories about it, and no pride; and if she had now and then a gentle, imperious scorn of theorists and bunglers, it was only the touch of human nature that made the world love her. vi it was late monday afternoon that a card was brought to aunt jane--a thin, slim bit of card, with correct english lettering in plain type on it. aunt jane read it and glanced up at miss murray who was on door duty for the afternoon. "he's in the front room," said the nurse. "and there's a woman--came the same time but separate. i put her in the back room." "tell miss crosby and miss canfield to be ready to go on duty in number and suite a," said aunt jane. she said the last words almost with a sniff. if aunt jane had had her way, there would have been no suite a in the house of mercy. for suite a was a big, sunny, southeast room, with a sitting-room on one side and a bath on the other--a royal bath, with overhead shower and side sprays and all the latest words in plumbing and fitting, all the most luxurious and costly appointments of nickel and marble and tile. aunt jane always went by suite a with her head a little in the air and her nose a trifle raised. and woe to the man or woman who occupied suite a. for a week or ten days he was left severely to the care of nurses and doctors. it was only after he had experienced to the full what a desolate place a hospital may be, that aunt jane condescended to look in and thaw the atmosphere a little. it was perhaps her feeling for suite a that led her to attend to ward patients and occupants of humble rooms before those of suite a. "they'll be comfortable enough when they get to their suite," she had been known to say. so it was the back room that she entered first--with the card in her hand. a little woman at the side of the room got up quickly. "i came alone," she said. she fluttered a little and held out her hand nervously as if uncertain what might happen to her in a hospital. aunt jane took it in her plump one and held it a minute. "sit down." the woman sat down and looked at her. "john wanted to come. but i told him to stay home," she said. "much better," replied aunt jane, nodding. "i told him he'd better kind of make supper for the children. so if they should miss me!" the look was wistful. aunt jane regarded it comfortably. "all the happier, when you get back home." she had seated herself in a large chair and she rocked a little. the woman's face relaxed. she looked about her more happily. "it seems kind of like home, don't it? i didn't think a hospital would be like this--not just like this. i don't seem to mind being here," she said with a little note of surprise. "you won't mind it," said aunt jane. "you'll like it. everybody likes it. maybe you won't want to go away." the woman smiled faintly. "i guess i shall be ready to go--when the time comes," she added slowly.... "there's one thing i wanted to ask somebody about--it's about paying-- how much it will be, you know? i asked the doctor once--when he said i'd have to come, but he didn't tell me--not really." "dr. carmon doesn't think so much about his pay." there was something almost like pride in aunt jane's voice. "you needn't be afraid he'll overcharge for it." "it isn't that--only maybe we _couldn't_ pay," said the woman. her forehead held little wrinkled lines and her face smiled. "and it don't seem quite right to be done--if we can't pay for it." aunt jane rocked a minute. her eyes travelled to the door leading to the front room. the door was ajar and through the crack there was a glimpse of a light overcoat lying carelessly across the chair. it had a silk lining. aunt jane nodded toward it. "there's a man in there----" "yes, i know. i saw him. he got here the same time i did--in his motor-car." "in his motor-car--that's it! well--" aunt jane smiled. "_he's_ going to pay dr. carmon--for your operation." "why--!" the little woman gasped. "he don't have any reason to pay for _me_!" "well--" aunt jane rocked, turning it over and making it up as she went along: "well-- he's rich. he has a plenty-- and he won't be comfortable without." she spoke with conviction. "but he don't know me," said the woman. "unless maybe he knows john!" she added thoughtfully. "that's it," aunt jane responded. "maybe he knows 'john.' anyway he's going to pay." she touched a bell. "well--" the woman looked down at the hands in her lap, the fingers were working in and out. "i'm sure i don't know how to thank him!" she said. she looked up. her eyes were full of tears. she brushed a quick hand across them. "i don't know how!" she said softly. "you don't need to thank him," replied aunt jane. "he won't expect any thanks, i guess." a nurse stood in the door. aunt jane's hand motioned to the woman. "this is mrs. pelton. she's going to be in room . take good care of her." the nurse held out her hand with a smile. and the little woman got up. "i've got a bag here somewhere--? that's it--yes. thank you! i seem all kind of upset, somehow. i didn't know a hospital would be like this!" aunt jane watched her with a smile as she went from the room. there was a gentle look in her eyes. then she got up, with the card in her hand, and moved toward the front room. she had become serene and austere. a tall, thin man rose courteously. "i am dr. carmon's patient. i understand a room has been reserved for me?" he looked up. "there's a room, yes," admitted aunt jane. the man's face waited. there was astonishment and a little amusement under its polite gaze. aunt jane rang the bell. "won't you sit down," she indicated a chair. "thank you. i prefer to keep standing--while i can." he said it smilingly. if there was an undertone of appeal for sympathy in the words, aunt jane's face ignored it. she turned to the nurse who entered. "show mr.--?" she consulted the card in her hand with elaborate care. "mr.--? medfield, yes, that's it--show mr. medfield to suite a." the man bowed and took his coat on his arm. the nurse led the way. and aunt jane watched them from the room, holding the little card in her hand. a little later when she entered the name on the card in the hospital register, she added something after it in tiny hieroglyphics that made her smile as she closed the book and put it away on its shelf. vii herman medfield sat in the spacious sitting-room of suite a, his paper spread out before him and his breakfast on the invalid table that had been wheeled up to the window. he had found the table with its tray of coffee and eggs and toast, an easy chair drawn up beside it, and the morning paper by his plate, ready for him when he came from his comfortable bath. he had opened the paper, but not the eggs.... he read a few lines in the paper and glanced down at the table with a little scowl and pushed it from him. dr. carmon had insisted on his being at the hospital for three or four days before the operation. he wanted to watch him and control conditions, he had said. it would make his decision easier. the millionaire sitting in the window frowned a little and drummed with his fingers on the arm of the chair. he took up the paper and glanced at it again and threw it down. one of the conditions had been that he should have no cigars. he had understood and agreed to it. but this morning he was impatient with himself and annoyed with dr. carmon. these doctors had no end of theories--useless theories--that did more harm than good. he should be in no shape for an operation--if he could not keep his nerve better than this. he really needed a cigar. he pressed the knob of the electric cord that reached to his chair and took up the paper again. when the nurse came in, he glanced up and motioned courteously to the table. "you may take it away, please." she looked at the untouched food and lifted the tray without comment. at the door she paused, at a word from the window. the man had turned over his paper, and he glanced down another column as he said carelessly: "and--ah--would you be kind enough to telephone to my house for a box of cigars. i seem to have forgotten to bring any." the nurse waited the merest fraction of a second. "i will see if they are on your order," she said quietly, and went out. he lifted his eyes a trifle and returned to his paper. the nurse closed the two doors of suite a noiselessly behind her. she went down the corridor, bearing the rejected tray. half-way down the corridor she encountered a plump figure. aunt jane's mild glance rested on the tray. "anything the matter with it?" she asked. "he doesn't want it," said the nurse. "he said, 'take it away.'" her lips smiled, ever so little, as she watched the round face in its cap. the cap strings did not exactly bristle; but there was a look of firmness in the plump chin. "take it back," said aunt jane. "tell him it is what was ordered for him. he is to eat it--eat all of it." she spoke back over her shoulder, half turned away. "i've got a good many things on my hands this morning. i can't be bothered with fussy folks and notions." she passed on and disappeared in the door of room . the nurse, with her tray, returned to suite a. she opened the door softly and went in. two minutes later, she emerged, still with her tray--and a high, clear color in her face. aunt jane coming out of room , caught a glimpse of her and stopped. the nurse shook her head, the color in her cheeks mounting. "he doesn't want it." her eyes twinkled a little in spite of the color that flooded up. aunt jane reached out her hands for the tray. she gave a half-impatient click. "more bother'n they worth!" she said. "always are in that room!" she bore the tray before like a charger, and entered suite a without parley. herman medfield looked up and saw her, and rose instinctively. aunt jane set the tray on the table and pushed the table gently toward him. "sit down," she said. he sat down in his chair by the window, looking up at her inquiringly. "everything's there," said aunt jane. she glanced over the tray. "you're to eat it all--all there is on the tray." the man laid down his paper and smiled at her quizzically. "but, madam, i have no appetite," he said courteously. aunt jane regarded him mildly over her spectacles. "folks that come here don't generally have appetites," she said. "they come here to get 'em." something crossed in the air between them and the millionaire's eyes dropped first. he drew his chair toward the table. a half smile hovered on aunt jane's lips. she took up the coffee-pot and reached to the sugar. "how many lumps?" she asked pleasantly. "two, please," responded herman medfield. she placed them in the cup and poured in cream and filled the cup with coffee. "looks like good coffee, this morning," she said quietly. "you got everything you want?" "i think so, yes." he looked at the tray with a little more interest and pecked at an egg. aunt jane nodded shrewdly and kindly and went out. it was only after she had gone that herman medfield remembered he had not spoken of the cigars. on the whole, he decided to wait until to-morrow for his cigar. viii in room mrs. john pelton lay staring at the wall, with quiet face. from a clock-tower came the sound of the striking of the hour. she counted the strokes--nine o'clock. she wished it were ten and dr. carmon had come.... after he came and things began--the operation was only "things," even in the background of her mind--after dr. carmon got there and things began, it would not be so hard, she thought. it was the waiting part that was hard. she had had a restless night. there had seemed so many hours; and she had thought of things that she ought to have done before she left home.... she had forgotten to tell any one about tommie's milk. he always got upset so easy! she wondered if mrs. colby would know. it had been good in mrs. colby to say she would come in and look after the children a little. but mamie was really old enough to cook for them.... and she did hope john would be all right--and not worry about her.... he would be at work at ten--when "things" were going on. that was good!... mrs. john pelton knew that it was work that would carry john over the hard place--work that would take every nerve and thought for itself. john was a puddler and they were to "run" at ten o'clock--or about ten. he would have his hands full--enough to think about and not worry--till things were over.... he would come, after work hours, to see how she had got through. then she had fallen asleep and dreamed she was slipping down a steep place--down, down, and couldn't stop--and some one had caught her arm.... and it was the nurse, waking her gently for something. and then she had dozed a little and wakened and wondered about the children again.... and no one had brought her any breakfast--not even a cup of coffee. "nothing to eat this morning," the nurse had said, smiling, when she had plucked up courage to ask for something. the nurse was a nice girl--a good girl, mrs. pelton thought--but hardly older than mamie, it seemed. that older woman was so good yesterday! aunt jane's look and cap came floating hazily to her; and she slipped a hand under her cheek and fell asleep, thinking of it. the thin face on the pillow, with the hair drawn tightly back and braided in its two small braids, had somehow a heroic look. there were lines of suffering on the forehead, but the mouth had a touch of something like courage, even in its sleep--as if it would smile, when the next hard thing was over. aunt jane, who had come in silently and stood looking down at it, called it "the woman look." "they always have it," she sometimes said--"the real ones have it--kind of as if they _knew_ things would come better--if just they could hold on--not give up, or make a fuss or anything--just hold on!" the woman opened her eyes and smiled faintly. "i didn't know as you came to see us--in the rooms," she said. aunt jane nodded. "yes, i'm 'most everywhere." she seated herself comfortably and looked about the room. "you've got a good day for your operation," she said. "it's a good, sunny day." the woman's startled eyes sought her face. she had been living so alone in the hours of the night, that it seemed strange to her that any one should speak out loud of--"the operation." her lips half opened, to speak, and closed again. aunt jane's glance rested on them and she smiled. "dreading it?" she asked. the lips moistened themselves and smiled back. "a little," said the woman. aunt jane's face grew kinder and rounder and beamed on her; and the woman's eyes rested on it. "you never had one, did you?" said aunt jane. the woman shook her head. "i thought likely not. folks don't generally dread things that they've had--not so much as they do those they don't know anything about.... you won't dread it next time!" she said the words with a slow, encouraging smile. the woman's face lighted. "i hope there won't be any next time," she replied softly. "more than likely not. dr. carmon does his work pretty thorough." aunt jane made a little gesture of approval. "he does the best he knows how.... you won't mind it a bit, i guess--not half so much as you mind thinking about minding it." "do they carry me out?" asked the woman quickly. all the troubled lines of her face relaxed as she asked the question. it was the look aunt jane had been waiting for. the blessedness of talking out was a therapeutic discovery all aunt jane's own. long before scientists had written of the value of spoken expression as a curative method--long before "mental therapy" was fashionable--aunt jane had come to know that "a good talk does folks a lot of good." "let them kind of spit it out," she said, "get it off the end of their tongues 'most any way.... it seems to do them a world of good--and it don't ever hurt me-- seems to kind of slide off me." she watched the light break in on the tense look, with a little smile, and bent toward the bed. "no, you don't have to be carried--not unless you want to. i guess you're pretty good and strong; and you've got good courage. i can see that." "i'd rather walk," said the woman quickly. "yes, i know." aunt jane nodded. "i'll go with you--when the time comes. we just go down the hall here a little way--to the elevator. the operating-room's on the top floor-- it's a nice, sunny, big room. and you'll have the ether in the room next to it. there's a lounge there for you to lie on and a nice comfortable chair for me." "shall you go with me?" it was a quick word. "yes, i'm going up with you. i go, a good many times, with folks that want me----" "yes, i want you." the small face had grown relaxed; the eyes were clear and waiting. the unbleached nightgown, with the bit of coarse edging at neck and wrists, seemed a comely garment. something had taken place in room , for which scientists have not yet found a name. at ten o'clock dr. carmon would perform his difficult operation on the frail body of mrs. john pelton. but the spirit that would go under the knife was the spirit of aunt jane, smiling and saying placidly: "there, he's just come. that's his car tooting out here. now we're ready to go." ix the room had a sunny stillness. the sun poured in at the window on the whiteness and on the figure lying on the couch and on the young doctor bending toward it and adjusting the ether cone with light touch, and on aunt jane rocking placidly in her chair by the couch. "you won't mind it a mite," said aunt jane. her hand held the thin one in its warm clasp. "you won't mind.... dr. doty'll give it to you, nice. he's about the best one we've got--to give it." the doctor smiled at the words--a boyish, whimsical smile at flattery. he adjusted the cone a little. "breathe deep," he said gently. there was silence in the room--only a little burring sound somewhere, and the soft creak of aunt jane's rockers as they moved to and fro. the door of the operating-room stood open. through the crack aunt jane could see a round, stout figure, enveloped from head to foot in its rubber apron, bending over a tray of instruments. the great arms, bare to the shoulders, the exposed neck, and round head with short bristling hair, a little bald at the top, gave a curious sense of alert power and force. aunt jane had never seen a picture of st. george and the dragon, or of st. michael. she had scant material for comparison. but i suspect if she had seen through the open door of the operating-room, either of these saints fastening on his greaves--whatever greaves may be--and getting ready for the dragon, he would have seemed to her a less heroic and noble and beautiful figure than the short, square man, bending over his case of instruments and selecting a particularly sharp and glittering one for use. the young doctor leaning over the figure on the couch moved a little and lifted his head. "all right," he said quietly. he nodded toward the door of the operating-room. a nurse appeared in the doorway. aunt jane pushed back her chair; and the nurse and doctor, at either end, lifted the movable top of the couch by its handles and carried the light burden easily between them to the open door. aunt jane watched till the door was shut.... her work began and ended at the door of the operating-room. inside that door, dr. carmon was supreme. elsewhere in the hospital aunt jane might treat him as a mere man; she might criticise and advise, and even rebuke the surgeon for whose use the hospital had been built and endowed. but within the operating-room he was supreme. she allowed patients to enter that door without word or comment, and she received them back from his hands with a childlike humility that went a long way--it may be--toward reconciling the surgeon to her rule elsewhere. "aunt jane knows what she knows--and what she doesn't know," dr. carmon had been heard to say. and if she regarded him as a mere man, it is only fair to say that he, in turn, looked upon aunt jane as a woman; a mere woman, perhaps, but remarkably sensible--for a woman. when the door of the operating-room closed upon her, aunt jane stood a minute in the sunny room, looking tranquilly about. she drew down a shade and returned the rocking-chair to its place and went quietly out. in the corridor, nurses were coming and going with long, light boxes or tall vases and great handfuls of fragrant blossoms. the florist's wagon had just come; the corridor was filled with light and movement and the fresh scent of flowers. aunt jane beamed on it all and passed on. it was one of the pleasantest hours of the day for aunt jane. she knew that scrubbing and sweeping and dusting were done--every inch of the hard floors clean with carbolic and soap, every patient bathed and fed, and the beds freshly made--everything in order for doctor's visits--and inspection. through an open door, here and there as she went, she caught a glimpse of a black-coated shoulder or arm by the side of some bed. aunt jane had no fear of adverse criticism on her hospital or of complaint of her way of doing things. she moved serenely on. then, at a door, she stopped. it was at the far end of the corridor; and through the half-curtained glass of the door she looked into a great sunny room that extended across the width of the house and opened on one side to the sky and all outdoors. it was filled with small cots and beds and cribs. x aunt jane stood in the doorway a minute, smiling and looking down the long room. presently from somewhere there came a piping cry: "aunt jane's come!" and then another cry--and another: "aunt jane's come! aunt jane's come!" no one knew who had started the custom. but some child, some sunny morning, had broken out with it when aunt jane appeared. and the others had taken it up, as children will; and now it had become a happy part of the day's routine, as regular as the doctor's visit--or the night nurse's rounds. "aunt jane's come--aunt jane's come!" they broke off from picture-books or blocks, to look up and call out and pass the word along. then they chanted it together.... and the newcomer in the ward, a boy lying with bandaged face and eyes half closed, turned a first curious, questioning look--to find the white-capped face smiling down at him. at the top of the house, at either end of the long corridor--in dr. carmon's operating-room and here in the children's ward--aunt jane was not the implacable personage that ruled elsewhere in the hospital. she beamed down the ward. a dozen hands reached out to her and she smiled to them and nodded and scolded a little and fussed and drew them all into a happy sense that this was home--and aunt jane a kind of new and glorified mother for little children. all the sick ones and lame ones, and the bruised ones and bandaged ones were aunt jane's children-- it did not seem like a hospital, as one looked down the sunny room, so much as a place where children were gathered in; pinched faces lighted up--for the first time in life, perhaps--with round, shrewd, loving smiles for aunt jane; delicate bandaged faces looked out at her wistfully and happily; and laughing, rosy ones turned to her. there were no unhappy ones there. "children suffer and don't know," was aunt jane's comment. sometimes as she stood among them she marvelled a little at the quiet unconscious force that ignored pain, or adjusted itself to twinges. some child, with a look almost of impatience, would shift a bandaged leg or foot to an easier position, as it listened to the story she was telling or entered into some game of her contriving. sometimes it was a guessing game that was played by the whole ward at once--a kind of twenty questions, shouted at her as she came in, her hands held carefully behind her.... and, curiously, it was always some little one that guessed first; some feeble one, just beginning to take notice, that had a glimpse of aunt jane's broad back as she turned casually with a serene unconscious look, or moved a little and revealed the hidden thing behind her. the whole ward was interested this morning in jimmie sullivan's new leg. it was a frame-leg that got in the way when he walked and tripped him up. he was a little proud of it, but more annoyed, as he came hurrying down the ward to meet her. aunt jane adjusted her spectacles and looked. "well, well!" she said. jimmie glanced down at it, a little proud and abashed. "it can't walk," he admitted. "want me to carry you?" asked aunt jane. "no, sir!" he slipped a proud hand into hers and stumbled happily and awkwardly along. aunt jane moved toward a bed where a child lay strapped on his back, hands and feet and head held fast, only his eyes free to turn to her with a smile. "how's alec?" said aunt jane. "all right," replied the child. "you going to tell a story?" "well--maybe. i don't know as i know any new stories," she said slowly. she considered it. "tell an old one," said the boy. "any old story," he added with a grim smile under the crisscross bandages of the stiff face. "tell about the little red hen," piped a voice from the next bed. "no--about billy-goat," from across the room. "tell about the old lady that runned away," came shrilling close at hand. aunt jane put her hands over her ears. "i can't hear anything," she announced. their faces grew still and alert till she should move her hands a tiny crack and they could shout again: "billy-goat!" "the little red hen!" "the lady that runned away!" jimmie sullivan, half leaning against her, looked at them reproachfully. "she can't tell nuthin' while you make such a racket!" he said. "she likes it!--she likes it!--_she_ don't care!" they returned. aunt jane looked at them and smiled. she took down her hands. "let me see--" she glanced from one bed to the other. "i am going to let edna choose.... she can whisper it to me." she went to a bed across the room, jimmie sullivan's frame-leg clanking happily beside her, and bent to the pillow. the girl lifted a thin arm and threw it about aunt jane's neck to draw her close. aunt jane listened and lifted her head and smiled. "all right," she announced. the room was so still you could hear a pin drop. a nurse passing the lower end of the ward, with a dish in her hand, paused and looked down the quiet room. every eye was fastened expectantly on the motherly figure moving serenely about.... it crossed to the side of the room and adjusted the skylight shade and brought a big rocker and placed it in the middle of the room under the skylight and put a low chair for jimmie sullivan, and another beside it for the child that was limping slowly across to her.... a girl in a wheeled chair propelled herself swiftly down the ward and came to a stop as close to the big rocker as she could get. aunt jane glanced slowly about the ward--at the expectant faces looking at her from every bed. "now, the rest of you stay where you are!" she said severely. they laughed and adjusted themselves, and then they were quiet again, watching her intently. she sat down in the big chair and rocked a little. "let me see--" she sat smiling thoughtfully; the smile ran along the pillows--waiting. "once when i was a little girl----" the pillows nestled a little and sighed happily and settled down; and aunt jane's voice went on with the tale and the nurse at the end of the ward passed out with her dish. the door swung to behind her. the great sunny room was left to happiness and to aunt jane and to the children and: "once when i was a little girl." xi in suite a, herman medfield had eaten the last of his breakfast. it might almost be said that, sitting in the window with the paper spread before him and the sun shining in, he had enjoyed his breakfast.... it was a long time since herman medfield had eaten a complete breakfast served in the ordinary way. the road to the house of mercy was strewn with a vast wreckage of fads and hopes and breakfast foods. there were long vegetarian streaks that excluded milk and eggs; and gusts of fletcherizing--chewing wind hopefully and patiently; and there were wide negative deserts--forbidden fruits--no starches-and-sweets together, no sweets-and-acids, no potato-and-meat, no proteids-and-carbons. a long, weary, hopeless watching and coaxing of gastric juices, and infinite patience and cunning toward the vagaries of indigestion. he had "rolled the stomach gently," and he had lain with "a pillow under his back and head down." he had become a finical, peripatetic amphitheatre of constant, cautious experiment and investigation. and it had brought him at last to suite a and the sunny window. and now in a breath, it seemed, in the berkeley house of mercy aunt jane's touch had broken the habit of years. he felt like a very small boy, who has been taken up and set down gently in his chair--and told to eat his breakfast and keep still. he had thrown caution to the winds and had eaten like a hungry human being. he had drunk great swallows of the delicious brown coffee--with cream and sugar in it--without a thought of diluted gastric juice, or secretions, or fads, or fermentations.... he felt almost well as he ate the last of his toast and read his paper and basked in the sunny quiet. and behind it all was a sense of security and protection; no telephone could get at him, no clicking of the tape could reach his ear and set his tired brain to work. so he had finished his breakfast and read his paper and had been almost happy. but now he had read the paper through three times, gleaning last scanty bits of news; he had opened the elaborate writing-desk across the room and investigated the neat assortment of pens and blotters and paper and ink--each sheet with its neatly stamped heading of the house of mercy; and he was feeling a little bored. he stood looking down at the desk and fingering the keys in his pocket. then he went over and stood by the window and looked out, and turned away and paced the room once or twice, fingering absently at the keys in his pocket. he wondered whether perhaps his breakfast had not been a little heavy, after all--two eggs for a man who had been dieting! and all the time his restless fingers--whether thrust deep in the pockets of his black velvet coat, or twisting a little as he walked, or jingling the keys--were rolling imaginary cigarettes and reaching toward a swiftly struck match--and the fragrant in-drawn breath of smoke. it had not occurred to him when dr. carmon had told him that he would probably have to undergo an operation and that he must have him at the house of mercy for a few days to watch the case--it had not occurred to herman medfield that he would be a prisoner in the house of mercy. he stepped impatiently to the window and looked out again and shrugged his shoulders.... it was all very well to have an operation--very likely he did need something of the sort.... but this coming beforehand and being shut up by himself--while his machinery was going, full tilt--all this fuss was ridiculous!... down in the yard a maid was hanging out clothes; he watched her strong arms lift the wet sheets and swing them to the line; the wind blew her hair a little.... it was more than likely it was largely for effect--this having him come beforehand and shutting him up like a prisoner in a cell, and taking away his tobacco--it was more than likely that it was all for effect. herman medfield knew most things that could be known about advertising and about the value of advertising methods.... it might very well be a good card for the hospital and for dr. carmon to have him there, and to get the advertising that would come from having it known. the reporters were sure to get hold of it.... it flitted across his mind that there might be an interview.... it was years since herman medfield had granted an interview. but even a reporter would relieve the monotony a little. he glanced at his watch and felt a little cheered at the thought of the reporter. then something occurred to him. he wondered whether the efficient person, who seemed to have charge of the berkeley house of mercy, would _allow_ him to see a reporter!... he had eaten his breakfast--and, on the whole, he felt better for it--the eggs seemed to be taking care of themselves after all.... he foresaw that for the next three or four weeks he was not going to do what he chose, but what the person thought best for him. then his sense of humor came to the rescue. he recalled the cap strings--and smiled. it would not be such bad sport, matching one's wits against the cap strings.... but there was still the morning to get through! he wandered across and stopped again by the elaborate writing-desk and looked at it. he might write to some one. he sat down and drew a sheet of paper toward him and looked at the neatly cut inscription across the top--"the berkeley house of mercy"--his prison cell, he thought grimly. his fingers reached out for a half-smoked cigar--and drew back and smoothed the paper thoughtfully and took up the pen and dipped it in the ink and waited. he would write to julian. he had not written to julian in his own handwriting--not since the boy was a pupil at exeter--that was ten years ago.... he was his own secretary those days. he wrote: "my dear julian." then he waited. he was seeing julian as he used to look when he was at exeter; he had been such a fresh, clear-faced boy; he had been proud of him--and julian's mother.... the millionaire was living over those first days of life together--the time when julian was born--he had not thought of it for years--all her pretty ways in the house--and the garden he had made for her, and her coming to meet him when he came from the office at night.... and then the days when she had seemed to fade like a flower and they had carried her out of the house--and there had been no one but the boy to come running to meet him when he came home-- but the boy had hurt him and he had sent him away ... and the loneliness since.... the empty house at night, and the great void spaces of life that opened on every side. he had thrown gold into them--and he had reached out for more gold--great heaped-up masses of gold and bonds and thrifty investments; and the gold had mounted higher every year--till it seemed to shut him off from every one.... no one came to him now except for money--or about money. even julian hardly wrote except to ask for a check or to acknowledge one. and he only knew the boy's address through his bankers.... it was somewhere on the riviera, the last time. he dipped the pen again in the ink. there was a knock at the door and he turned. it was miss canfield, the nurse who had been assigned him. she carried a long, light box. she held it out. "some flowers for you." he reached up his hand, half pleased. he had not expected any one would send flowers to him. she undid the wrapper and handed him the box.... on the top lay a card edged in black. he put on his eye-glasses and took it up. "mrs. cawein----" his face fell a little. she was his partner's wife--his late partner's widow, that is--she had a right to send flowers to him, of course--if she chose. he set the box down on the desk and took up his pen. the nurse brought a large vase and placed it beside him and arranged the flowers. they were huge yellow roses, with long stems and crisp leaves--a kind of salmon-pink yellow. herman medfield glanced at them grudgingly. it seemed to him they were a singularly displeasing color. he had not supposed there were any roses of that shade of yellow! he grew roses himself, and he knew something about them. he shrugged his shoulder a little toward them and took up the pen. "put them somewhere else," he said irritably. a little clear color flushed up in her face. "would you like them on the table?" she asked. "yes--please." she removed the vase and placed it on the table across the room and went out. he stared at the heading on the paper: "my dear julian." after all, what was there he could say to the boy? he could tell him he was in a hospital. but that might seem weak--as if he wanted sympathy--because he was down.... herman medfield never asked for sympathy; his heart was especially hard toward men who did. they were always the devils who were down and out--that asked for sympathy--and hoped to get some of his money to waste--as they had wasted their own. he would give hundreds to a man who stood up to him--when he would not give a dollar to the one that whined. he dipped the pen again and wrote rapidly--a mere note, telling the boy that he was away from home for a while--under the doctor's orders, nothing serious, nothing to worry any one; he should be around again in a few days. he signed it grimly and hunted up the banker's address and directed and sealed it.... that was done! he pushed the letter from him. he was tired. he wanted a cigar. there was a quick knock at the door. dr. carmon had finished his operation and made his round of visits in the hospital and he was doing suite a. herman medfield greeted him with relief. "come in," he said. "come in and sit down.... i am sorry i cannot offer you a cigar," he added with a little humorous sigh. the doctor sat down. "hard work, is it?" xii he drew his chair in front of herman medfield, leaning forward a little, with his elbows on his knees. "find it hard, do you?" he asked pleasantly. "i've known easier things," replied herman medfield dryly. the doctor regarded him without comment. he reached out a hand to his pulse and took out his watch and sat with bent head a minute. then he slipped the watch back into his pocket and stood up. "i'd like to put you on that couch a few minutes," he said. "that's right--over there." he rolled up the window-shades and moved the couch nearer to the window. herman medfield lay down, half grudgingly. "now, if you will relax and breathe easily--" the doctor's face had grown absorbed. he seemed not to see herman medfield, but something that might have been an abstraction--the essence, or spirit, of medfield. and while he gazed at this medfield abstraction, dr. carmon's hands were busy. they thumped the liver and sounded the heart and pounded the back of herman medfield with quick, absorbed movements that left no depth unsounded. "um-m!" he said at last. and then--"ah!" he straightened his back and beamed down on herman medfield from behind the spectacles. "all right--am i?" asked medfield. "you'll be all right--in three or four days," responded dr. carmon, with his round, successful diagnosis smile. "you won't have to operate?" medfield's face lighted. "operate--? oh--! yes--i shall operate." the doctor spoke absently. it was the tone of one to whom it could never occur not to operate. "i shall operate. it's fine!" "better than you thought?" asked medfield hopefully. the doctor's absent-minded gaze broke. he smiled. "worse! much worse than i thought. you could not live three months--as you are." herman medfield sat up. dr. carmon surveyed him proudly. "and in three months you'll be a new man--made over--top to toe!" "when do you operate?" asked medfield a little dryly. "um--this is wednesday? yes--about friday, then." he got up. "there is something i want you to do meantime." he rang for the nurse and called for a roll of bandage. when she brought it, he asked her to send aunt jane to suite a. "do you know where she is?" he asked. "in the children's ward, i think," said miss canfield. "very well. ask her to come. i want her to have special charge of this brace for me." he turned back to the window. "now, if i may have you here. i want to take measurements, please." the man stood straight as a tailor's dummy while the surgeon's hands flitted over and around him. the tall figure outlined against the window had a singular grace and charm; and the short, square one moving jerkily around it, taking measurements and jotting down figures had an added absurdity from the contrast.... now, dr. carmon was on his hands and knees on the floor; and now, stretching tiptoe to pass a tape-measure over the tall, thin shoulders of the aristocratic figure. it was thus that aunt jane saw the two men as she opened the door. she stood for a moment in the doorway. then she closed the door and came in. but between the opening of the door and the closing it, she had seen for the first time dr. carmon as he really was--a homely and grotesque and brusque little man. it added, perhaps, a touch of severity to the expression of the round face and its crisp cap strings. he looked up quickly from his thumb that marked a place on the tape-measure, and glanced from one to the other. "you know mr. medfield?" he said. "i met mr. medfield when he came--yesterday," said aunt jane safely. "yes, we have become acquainted," rejoined herman medfield, with a little polite gesture of the hand. aunt jane's face was non-committal. dr. carmon turned to it. "i want a brace made--for temporary use. here are the measurements. be sure to give it plenty of room here--and here." he drew a few lines and jotted down the figures and handed the paper to her. she received it in silence. the millionaire stood at his ease, smiling at her. he did not look like a man condemned to die in three months. his eye was keen and there was a little line of firmness under the smile of his lips. "i want to see my lawyer," he said. "i will go to my office in the morning. there are things to arrange." dr. carmon paused abruptly. "i thought you attended to all that before you came." his tone was brusque. "i told you----" "i did not understand," said the millionaire quietly. "i did not think you knew." he looked at him. "well--of course--if you have to--" dr. carmon's gaze was reluctant and his brow puckered itself.... standing beside the millionaire and looking up at him with the puckered forehead, he may have seemed an awkward and fussy and ineffectual little man. "he can't go!" it was aunt jane's voice, prompt and decisive--and the two men turned and looked at her. "he can't go," she repeated calmly. "he's got to have this on." she motioned to the paper she held in her hand. "he's got to have it on right away and go to bed." "but--" said herman medfield. "you can't go to bed and go to an office, too," replied aunt jane firmly. the millionaire looked at her. his glance travelled to dr. carmon's face. there was the merest hint of a twinkle behind the round professional glasses, and herman medfield regarded it. "do i understand that this is _your_ order?" he asked politely. "it's better for you--not--to wait," admitted dr. carmon slowly. "you mean i'm taking chances?" "yes." the millionaire's glance fell. "very well. i shall do as you say, of course." he moved a little away and sat down. aunt jane's glance followed him--the look in it changed subtly. something that had been in it up in the children's ward came back. "you can have your lawyer here," she said almost kindly. "we've got plenty of pens and paper and ink. and you can tell him all you want to without going to any office, i guess. now i'll go get this made for you; and you be ready to have it on when i come back." she opened the door and went out. the two men looked at each other like two boys--and smiled. both boys had had mothers. herman medfield's mother had worn a cap, an aristocratic affair of ribbons and lace that had little relation to the clear-starched whiteness of aunt jane's muslin strings; dr. carmon's mother had never known what it was to cover her smooth-parted hair under a cap--she had been a hard-working woman and far removed from mrs. oliver medfield's way of life. but the two men, as they watched aunt jane disappear, had a sudden common sense of motherly protection and wisdom; and they smiled across to each other in almost shamefaced understanding. "it really _is_ better not to wait--" said the doctor, half apologetically: "it _might_ be all right. but we're taking chances enough as it is--without that." the professional look had come back to his face. he was looking absently before him at something unseen. xiii it was the sixth day, and edith dalton was doing well--the wound was doing well. as for the woman, she lay with indifferent eyes looking at the white wall of her room and waiting recovery. the only time that the look in the eyes changed was when aunt jane appeared in the doorway for a moment, or sat by her bed. then it would deepen to a question and flicker toward hope. "doing well?" aunt jane would say. "they give you good things to eat, don't they?" the woman smiled faintly. "yes." "that's right. eat and sleep. and hope don't hurt--a little of it." "aunt jane?" the voice had a sharp note. the invalid was resting against the pillows that had been raised on the bed. "yes?" aunt jane turned back. "hasn't he been to see me--once--my husband?" there was a shamed, half-imperious note in the words. aunt jane sat down comfortably by the bed and looked at her. then she shook her head chidingly.... "i've never seen a sick person yet that wasn't unreasonable," she said. the woman's face relaxed. "i know," she said apologetically, "but when one is sick the days are long." "you told me, that was four-five days ago," said aunt jane, "that you didn't want to see him or hear his name mentioned. at least, that's what i understood." the woman was not looking at her. "so when he's been here, time and again--three times a day, some days--i've told him you couldn't see anybody--not even your husband.... i thought that was what you wanted." "yes," said the woman faintly. aunt jane nodded. "and now you're acting hurt and keeping yourself from getting well." the woman flushed a little. "i don't think i am." "yes, you are," said aunt jane comfortably. "of course it don't make any real difference. you'll get well sometime.... only it seems foolish. well, i must be going on my rounds. keep up good courage." she stood up and moved toward the door. "aunt jane." "yes." "you haven't time to stop a few minutes?" "why, yes. i've got plenty of time, if you want me. there's two operations this morning, but everything's ready." "two operations?" the woman's lips grew white. "one's a man with five children. got to lose his leg.... his wife's plucky. she's gone right to work earning money. but she's coming this morning to be with him for the operation. she says he'll stand it better. i guess she's right. they seem pretty close together.... that's the only thing i really envy in this world," said aunt jane slowly, ... "having a husband that loves you and cares." she sat quietly watching the locust leaves outside the window. they shimmered in the light. the woman raised a hand. "you don't understand," she said. "like enough not," said aunt jane. "it's hard work understanding other folks' feelings. i don't more'n half understand mine.... i suppose you were kind of disappointed in him...? "i don't know--" the words faltered. "they be, mostly." "is every one unhappily married?" the voice flashed at her. "well, i didn't say just that. but most of 'em find it different from what they expected--men being men.... women are women, too. i'll have to go now. it's time for the man, and she'll be waiting in the parlor. i told her to wait there." she rose slowly. "you don't want to see him, if he should happen to come to-day?" "no." the lips trembled a little and closed over the word. "all right," said aunt jane soothingly. "take plenty of time to get well. he can wait. he's a good kind to wait, i can see that." she had drifted out. the woman's eyes followed her eagerly with a question in them. she put up her hands to cover them. "yes," she said softly, "he can wait." as aunt jane opened the waiting-room door the man sprang to his feet. he was radiant with a look of courage, and his eyes glowed as he came toward her. she shook her head, smiling a little. then she turned to a young woman waiting by the door. she was strong and fresh and a look of purpose gleamed in her face. aunt jane looked at her approvingly. "go down to room , mrs. patton, on the left-hand side. i've told dr. carmon you're to be there. it's all right." as the young woman left the room she turned to him again. "won't she see me?" he asked. "have patience three or four days more," she said slowly. "she'll be wanting to see you before long now." "how do you know?" he reached out a hand. "i don't know, but i seem to feel it in my bones. she's most well.... she's well all through." and she left him standing there, a glad light in his eyes, while she went down the corridor to the man waiting in room . xiv in herman medfield's room, the night-light was carefully shaded. through the dimness one guessed rather than saw the figure lying straight on the high bed, motionless under the blanket, and the night nurse standing beside it. the nurse bent a little toward the figure and listened. through the half-opened window a breeze came in, swaying the curtains, and the night-light cast reaching, moving shadows across the ceiling and along the bed. the figure on the bed stirred a little and moaned, and the nurse spoke softly. there was no response--only an inarticulate sigh, and quickened breath for a moment, and rigid silence again. the nurse touched the clothes gently, straightening them, and returned to her chair by the table. the light fell on her face, the fresh face with clear features and half-reddish hair gathered up under its white cap. she sat bending forward, her hands relaxed in her lap. the breeze from the window came in and mixed with the shadows and crept through the room toward the bed. a thoroughly successful operation, dr. carmon had said. but he had been in twice since to look at the motionless figure, and the nurse sitting by the table had careful instructions to call him at any moment.... the operation had been a success, but who knew what subtle forces had been attacked, perhaps overthrown, in those sharp, fierce minutes in the operating-room while the knife was at work? dr. carmon knew that he could cut clean and quick and sure; he knew that he could follow a nerve almost as a dog follows a scent, without fear or flinching; but it was something within the nerves, the unseen, unguessed something--that was life itself--that might undo his work and leave him helpless.... he could only look at the silent figure and repeat again his careful instructions and go away and leave it to the power that no man understands, and no man can help or hinder. the curtains moved in the breeze; and the nurse rose now and then as the night wore on and went to the bed and waited a minute and returned to her chair. then some movement in the room--something unseen, drew her and she went again to the bed. she moved the light so that it fell, half-shaded, on the pillow, and bent forward and looked. her hand sought the wrist under the blanket and held it a minute and she lifted her face and turned the light quickly away. she was moving toward the door--but it had swung softly back into the shadowy room, and aunt jane was nodding to her and smiling--with a subdued half-gesture toward the bed. "i'll take him now," she said in her low voice. "shall i call dr. carmon?" "not yet." she went on toward the bed and the nurse passed out. in the dimness of the room, nothing had happened. the curtains swayed a little in the breeze--the motionless figure on the bed lay rigid as before under its blanket--and the shadows crept toward it and back. but in the turning of a minute, forces had ranged themselves in the quiet room. aunt jane turned off the light and pushed back the curtains from the window and brought a chair to the side of the bed, and sat down quietly with the forces. she had moved with the certainty of one who sees what is to be done. she knew that presently there would steal out from the shadows something that has neither name nor shape. she slipped her hand along inside the blanket and found the lifeless one and rubbed it a little and touched the wrist with firm, quick fingers and clasped the hand close. then she sat with her head bent, as motionless as the figure beside her. the moments came and went. outside, the clock-tower boomed the hour softly, and then the half-hour; and somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed--a shrill, clear call, like light.... something ran through the figure on the bed--the man stirred a little. half-way through the lifeless fingers something crept toward warmth, and lay chill--and went slowly back and came again--and aunt jane's hand closed on it, clean and soft.... the man stirred and opened his eyes and stared vaguely out. the shadows in the room were clear gray--the east light had touched them. the eyes looked out on the light, unseeing, and fell shut. a half sigh fluttered to the parched lips and escaped and the man turned his head. aunt jane bent forward, waiting. the eyes opened and saw her and closed, and an even breath came through the lips. then a deep groan broke from them and aunt jane smiled.... it was a quiet, brooding smile like the light of the morning that was flooding in through the room.... the man groaned again. aunt jane nodded happily and got up. she opened the windows wide and let in the freshness and stood for a moment breathing it in. then she went back to the bed. the man's eyes regarded her dully. "you feeling all right now?" she said cheerfully, bending over him. he turned his head with a groan and aunt jane touched the bell. it was the nurse with the reddish hair who responded, fresh from her nap. "how is he?" she asked. she looked toward the drawn face on the pillow. "he's all right," said aunt jane. "he's just begun to suffer. he'll get along all right now." "you don't think we need to send for dr. carmon?" she asked doubtingly. "no, we don't need dr. carmon," replied aunt jane. "he did _his_ work yesterday. it's our turn now-- it's mr. medfield's turn." she nodded toward the bed and smiled and went out. xv through the open door of room , aunt jane heard voices and stopped to listen. then she went in. "this is my husband," said the little woman on the bed. "he says they're getting along real well." the man by the bed rose awkwardly, turning his stiff hat in his hands. he wore a high collar with sharp points turning back in front and a bright-blue necktie. a large stick pin was thrust through the tie, and his hair was combed carefully in a wide, flat curl on his forehead. he stood with his feet close together, and bowed to aunt jane over the hat. she held out her hand. "how do you do, mr. pelton?-- your wife is getting along first-rate!" she nodded toward the bed. the little woman's face flushed with clear color. "the doctor says i can go in ten days!" she announced. aunt jane considered it. "well, you can go as soon as you can go--it may be ten days and it may be eleven. i wouldn't begin to say just how many days 'tis--if i was you. we mean to make you comfortable as long as you stay here." she looked at her benignly over her glasses. "you're comfortable, aren't you?" "oh, i'm comfortable!" said the woman. "everybody's real good to me, john." she turned to him. "tommie don't miss me, does he?" it was wistful. john tugged at something in his pocket. "he kind of misses you, i guess. but we're getting along _fine_!... i got these for you--so's you could see." he put a fat envelope in her fingers and she received it doubtingly. she held it up and looked at it. "i don't know where they put my spectacles--i can't see very well." "you don't need to see--not for them. here--i'll show you." he took the envelope proudly and stiffly and drew out a card and held it toward her. "there you be!" she took it in questioning fingers. "why, it's mamie!" she turned her face to aunt jane and held up the card to her: "that's my oldest girl--that's mamie!" her voice had a happy tone--with quick tears somewhere in it. the man smiled broadly. "i've got another one!" he took it from the envelope and extended it. "and here's two more!" he held the group of pictures spread before him like a fan in his big hand and gazed at them. "why, john pelton! you don't mean you had 'em all done!" "the whole family," he said proudly. "john--_pelton_! here--let _me_ see!" she took the pictures from him, one by one, and her fingers trembled with them. "that's tommie! he's got on the little sack aunt minnie made for him! "he looks nice--don't he?" she held it toward aunt jane. "and that's wesley. his tie don't set quite straight." regret and pride mingled over the tie and smiled at it fondly. "and that's lulie! it's the whole family!" "well, i _am pleased_!" she lay back and looked at them, proud and content, and aunt jane praised the children. "i've got another one here," said the man. he looked half shamefaced as he drew it out. aunt jane took it and smiled, and glanced from the picture to his face. "yes, it's good-- looks like you," she said. the woman raised a curious hand to it---- "why--john!" he stood smiling almost bashfully. "i thought you'd better have the whole family while you were about it," he said. she gathered her family into eager hands. "i'd rather have them than anything in the world!" she said softly. "they didn't cost much," he volunteered. "twenty cents apiece--the kind you send on post-cards, you know." "i don't care what they cost!" said the little woman. "it's worth it!... the doctor says i'm going to be real well, john, when i get up." she was looking at the baby, in his knitted sack. "but there won't be any more babies," she said half wistfully. john blew his nose violently and looked out of the window. "i'd better be going," he announced. "yes--time for you to go," said aunt jane. she moved with him toward the door. in the corridor he turned to her. "tickled most to death, wa'n't she?--i was kind o' 'fraid she'd think it was foolish." "if more men were foolish, the world would get along a good deal better," said aunt jane cryptically. she beamed on him. "you better not come again for four-five days now, mr. pelton. she'd ought to keep quiet and not think about what the children are doing and what's going on. "she can think about her pictures for a while," she added kindly as his face fell. "there's times when picture children help more than real ones--more handy for sick folks sometimes." "i guess that's so," said the man. "i don't know as i ever saw her look so pleased--not since before we were married," he added thoughtfully. aunt jane watched him march happily down the corridor. then she turned back to the room. the woman had spread the children in a little row along the ridge of the blanket, and was looking at them with happy eyes. she turned her gaze to aunt jane as she came in. "wa'n't that just like a man!" she said deprecatingly. "just like a man," assented aunt jane. "one of them senseless things that comes out all right!" she sat down comfortably by the bed. "sometimes i think men don't know any more'n big grampuses--they just go blundering along!" she looked benevolently at the row of faces on the blanket. xvi half-way down the corridor aunt jane encountered miss canfield. the nurse stopped her with a word. "mr. medfield keeps asking for you." she raised her chin a little as she spoke. aunt jane regarded it mildly. "anything the matter with him?" she asked. miss canfield hesitated. "he's irritable," she said safely. aunt jane nodded. "that's good for him---- that won't hurt any! he's got his suite and he's got the best 'special' in the house on his case." miss canfield's face softened subtly. "you tell him i'm busy," said aunt jane. "tell him i'll come by and by, when i get around to it---- there's miss manners with a baby! i was just looking for a baby!" she hurried off. miss canfield watched, with amused face, while aunt jane gathered the baby into her ample arms and disappeared in room . then she turned back to report to herman medfield in suite a that aunt jane would come when she was not so busy. aunt jane gazed shrewdly over the little bundle of blankets in her arms at edith dalton, sitting propped against her pillows and scowling a little discontentedly. aunt jane sat down and undid the blanket. "they're such cute little things," she said. "it don't seem as if there'd ever be enough of _him_ to make a man of, does it!" she held up the coming man in his long white gown. edith dalton glanced indifferently--and glanced away. the baby, out of his blue eyes, gazed at something unseen. "i always do wonder what they're looking at and what they're thinking about!" said aunt jane. she had gathered the baby comfortably up against the curve of her breast and was rocking gently back and forth. "i don't suppose they think about anything," said edith dalton with a look of unconcern. "i used to think maybe that was so," said aunt jane. "but since i've had so many of 'em----" "how many have you had?" asked the other quickly. "of my own--you mean?" aunt jane paused. "i never had but one of my own," she said regretfully. "but here--i've had three hundred and sixty-nine." edith dalton smiled a faint smile. aunt jane watched it and rocked. "it's different when you've a good many," she said placidly. "you begin to see what they mean--just plain baby! not because it's _your_ baby, you know--but what they're like and what they mean." "they don't mean much of anything, do they--except to cry?" the indifferent look held itself, but something had stirred in it. "yes, they cry!" aunt jane was silent.... "they cry, good and hard sometimes.... and that means something, too. folks don't let 'em cry half enough, _i_ think! i don't know what it means--their crying so," she admitted. "but it sounds as if it meant something--something more than just tummy-ache.... and their smiling's like that, too. it isn't just smiling at something you do to them, or something you say. it's more as if they were smiling at something inside--kind of as if the whole world was a joke to 'em, and being alive was a kind of beautiful joke--if we could see how 'tis." she was looking down at the bundle in her arms and smiling to it. edith dalton eyed it curiously. aunt jane shook her head reproachfully at the baby, still smiling a little. she looked significantly at edith dalton. "he's trying to get his thumb in," she said. "they won't let him do that in there." she nodded toward the other wing. "he kind of knows, i reckon. he knows his aunt jane will let him do it--if he can." she watched him happily. "there! he's done it!" the woman glanced at the baby indifferently and then at aunt jane's face, and the softness crept out a little. "you think a great deal of babies and children, don't you?" she said it almost jealously. "yes, i love 'em," said aunt jane. she rocked happily. "you didn't ever have any children, did you?" "no." aunt jane's face made no comment. she rocked a minute. "i reckon women always wants children.... every woman wants 'em--even when she doesn't know.... she wants 'em--way in back somewhere; she kind o' misses 'em." she rocked again--slowly. "i only had that one baby myself--and he died. but i've always been thankful i had him--even if he died.... that was a good many years ago. but even now, every once in a while, i'll dream i'm holding him in my arms; and then i'll wake up--and i'm not holding anything.... when i wake up like that, when i've been dreaming, i generally throw on my wrapper and run down to the mother's ward and wander around a spell, tucking 'em in and seeing that everybody's comfortable. then i can generally go back and go to sleep all right." her face was beautiful and gentle as she talked, and edith dalton watched it wistfully. she had relaxed a little, and rested back against the pillow. "you don't want children unless you have a home for them," she said half rebelliously. "that's so. children do need a home! i guess that's what homes are for--little children playing round in 'em." the two women were silent and the room grew darker. aunt jane watched the face on her arm. "he's going to sleep," she said. "i'll have to take him back to his mammy." she got up quietly and moved toward the door, jogging her arms as she went. at the door she paused and looked back, over the sleeping child, to the woman on the pillows and smiled to her--as if they knew something together. then she went out. and edith dalton lay staring at the wall. slowly her eyes filled with tears that sobbed and ran down her face. she covered them with her hands and sobbed again and nestled to the pillows and cried happily--as if her heart were breaking in her. xvii "mr. medfield is asking for you again," said miss canfield. aunt jane, coming out of the children's ward, stopped and looked at the nurse and smiled. "i suppose he's fussing and tewing a good deal?" she asked. "he is," admitted miss canfield. "well, i'll be in by and by. you can tell him i'm coming." she went leisurely on. when she had made the rounds of the top floor and had descended to the office and entered a few items in her day-book and given directions for linen and had a conference with the cook, she turned toward suite a. she knocked on the outer door, and bent her head a little to listen--and as she listened she had a sudden sense of the room on the other side of the door--she saw it lying in the darkness, and she heard the rooster's clear, shrill call through the window, and saw the straight form on the bed. it all came before her and vanished as she put her hand on the door and knocked. "come in!" the voice was sharp and a little imperious. aunt jane opened the door. a burst of light and color greeted her. the shades were rolled to the tops of the windows. and there were flowers everywhere.... roses on the table, a great bunch of carnations on the desk, violets on the stand at the head of herman medfield's bed, foxgloves and snapdragons filling the window-sill and spilling over into the room. it was a riot of color; and in the midst of it, propped on his pillows on the high white bed, the millionaire looked out with a scowl. he wore an embroidered chinese shoulder coat of blue and gold; and his hair, carefully combed, stood up a little on his forehead. the vandyke beard was clipped to a point. "you look pretty as a picture," said aunt jane cheerfully. the scowl deepened a little--then it broke. "will you sit down?" said medfield politely. aunt jane drew up a chair. he watched her descend into it and his brow cleared. "i have been wanting to see you." aunt jane nodded. "i've been meaning to come. there's a good many things to do in a hospital." the chair adjusted itself--"was it anything in particular you wanted to ask me about?" the millionaire's eyes had been resting on the quiet face. they turned away, a little startled. "why--um--yes! i was thinking--i was thinking--" his eyes fell on the roses and he swept a hand toward them. "these flowers--all of them!" he said. aunt jane turned a little in her chair and beamed. "they look nice, don't they?" "they're well enough," said medfield grudgingly. then--with petulance: "i'm tired of them. i want them taken away--all of them!" "sick folks get notions," said aunt jane placidly. "where shall i take 'em to?" "why, take them--" he looked about impatiently. "take them where you usually take flowers!" "we generally take them to the folks they're sent to." she leaned forward to the violets and touched them with cool, gentle fingers, looking at them kindly. "there's something about violets makes me think of home places," she said. "would you like them?" said herman medfield. he was watching the cool, firm fingers with a quiet look--almost a pleasant look. "me?--mercy, no!" the fingers withdrew to her lap. "you couldn't _send_ 'em to me. i'm here." "yes, you are here--that's so!" he almost smiled at her. his eyes returned to the fingers resting in her lap. "i have not had a chance to thank you--for your great kindness the other night." "you are welcome," said aunt jane. "it wasn't any great kindness," she added after a minute, "i always do for folks that need me." "i suppose you know--" he stopped a moment, as if he could not quite speak of the thing that was in his mind. "i think you _made_ me--come back," he said slowly. "it makes a difference whether somebody cares," admitted aunt jane. "did you care?" the sharp, pointed face was turned to her. "did you care--!" "yes, i cared," said aunt jane. "but--" he looked at her, bewildered, and was silent--looking before him. aunt jane regarded him and smiled. "there didn't seem to be anybody _but_ me--to care," she said cheerfully. "no--there wasn't." "but i see now that there's a good many of them--" she motioned to the flowers. "i don't know as i ever see anybody have more flowers the first week." "flowers don't care--the people those came from don't care!" the tone was scornful, almost bitter. "don't they!" she beamed on the flowers. "somehow i can't ever believe flowers don't mean what they look," she said thoughtfully. "these don't!" his little cynical smile rested on them. "those roses there--they must have cost ten dollars at least----" "i never saw bigger ones," assented aunt jane. "my partner's widow sent them.... she sent them for business." "_did_ she!" aunt jane looked at the roses with interest. "mere business!" said medfield. "and the carnations on the desk there--are from the men in the office----" "there's always something fresh about carnations." she got up leisurely and went over to them and lifted the vase and brought it to him. "just smell of those!" she held them out. "aren't they just about the freshest things you ever smelled!" he sniffed at them reluctantly and motioned them aside. "and those foxgloves there----" he was talking out all the bitterness that had been in him as he had lain and watched the great boxes opened and the flowers ranged about him--"exactly as if i were a funeral!" he finished up at last. aunt jane smiled to him. "what would you like me to do with them for you?" she asked tranquilly. "do whatever you like. _i_ don't care!" his indifference had returned and he looked tired. she leaned forward a little. "i'm going to take out that head-rest," she said, "so's you can lie down." she removed the frame from behind the pillows and shook them a little and let them gently back. "there--now you can lie down and have a good rest; and pretty quick now you're going to have some broth and then you'll go to sleep.... it don't do any good to get stirred up over folks' flowers," she said quietly. "no." there was a little smile on his lips. he looked up at her, almost like a boy, from his pillow. "but it did me good to tell you!" "i reckoned it would," said aunt jane. "now i'll go get your broth for you." she disappeared from the room and herman medfield's eyes closed--and opened again to find her standing beside him, the cup of broth in her hand. she gave it to him through the crooked tube and watched the liquid lower in the cup with benignant eye. "just a little mite more," she said as he turned away his head--"just a mite. there! you've done first-rate!" she set the cup on the stand. "now i'm going to take all these flowers--" she gathered the carnations in her hands as she spoke: "i was thinking about it whilst i was heating your broth for you--i'm going to take them up to the children's ward. they'll be happy enough--when they see 'em!" she held the flowers at arm's length and looked at them with pleased eyes. he watched her with a faint smile and a look almost of interest. "and i'm going to tell them that mr. medfield sent them----" he raised a quick hand. "no----!" she turned in surprise. "don't you want me to tell them?" "no." he waited a minute. "you can say a man sent them." "yes, i can say that--" aunt jane's face cleared. "i see how 'tis-- you don't want them to know about you--who you are." "no." he was looking almost embarrassed. she considered it a minute. "what is your first name?" she asked. he cleared his throat like a boy. "herman," he said meekly. "herman g. medfield." aunt jane smiled. "i remember about it now--'herman,'" she said it softly, as if it pleased her. "herman-- that'll do! we don't need the g.--just herman.... i'll tell them mr. herman sent them." she smiled at him cheerfully. "very well." aunt jane went over to the window and gathered up the foxgloves--as many as her hands could hold--and turned to the door. "i'll come back for the rest." but the door had opened and the white-coated boy was standing, holding out three large boxes and grinning pleasantly. herman medfield, from his pillow, groaned. aunt jane glanced toward him with reassurance in her look--"i shall take them all-- you don't need to worry. you won't be bothered. you go get the wheel-tray, preston, and we'll take 'em all at once." they filled the cart--the three great boxes underneath and the loose flowers on top covering them and trailing over the sides and ends: and preston wheeled it out the door. aunt jane, still with her hands full of blossoms, looked back with a smile. "now you'll rest comfortable," she said. xviii when the wheel-tray appeared in the door of the children's ward and aunt jane--with her arms overflowing--close behind it, there was silence for a breath, and then a cry---- "look there!" "my goodness!" "see the flowers!" they leaned forward with eager hands, or raised themselves on a hand or elbow, as she went down between the beds, pushing the wheel-tray before her. she smiled and nodded and came to a full stop by the big table in the centre of the ward. she laid her armful of flowers carefully on the table and turned to the tray. the room was in a joyful bubble. "where did they come from? look at the roses. my!" they reached out hands to her--"where'd they come from, aunt jane?"... "who sent them to us?"... "my! look at the vi'lets!" she smiled and heaped the blossoms on the table and disclosed the three boxes beneath. there was a hush of expectancy. there were always flowers in the ward--a bunch or two here and there--but not such a feast as these! they waited, impatient. aunt jane took her time. she polished her glasses and returned them to her nose and adjusted them carefully. then she took up one of the boxes and read the florist's name printed on the top--"j. l. parker & co. he always sends nice flowers," she said heartily. "did he send them to us?" "well, they came from his greenhouse. he raised them--planted them and took care of them, and so on." her fingers were busy with the tape, untying it. "but another man _sent_ them--a man by the name of--herman." "mr. herman sent them!" they waited. she lifted the cover and held out the box and a little cry went up from the ward, half repressed and full of awed delight.... it was a happy thing to see a great trayful of blossoms come rolling in; and it was a still more beautiful thing to have the cover lifted from the box, and all that color and fragrance leap out! they watched with eager eyes. aunt jane lifted a card from the top of the flowers and looked at it and tucked it away in the pocket of her big apron. the card had a narrow black edge. "what did it say, aunt jane? what was on it?" aunt jane looked at them over her glasses. "just the name," she said. "the name of the one that sent them. people always send names with flowers, don't they?" she lifted a handful of the blossoms and shook them loose till they filled and overflowed the box. "they send names--so you'll know who it was sent them." "mr. herman sent these, didn't he?" "yes, mr. herman sent them and you're going to each have one for your own. i'm going to let you choose." there was laughing and chatter and a happy stir as aunt jane carried the boxes from bed to bed. she watched the hands reach to the choosing--and hesitate--and the eyes fill with light--and little smiles come as they sank back contented.... she had a sudden glimpse of herman medfield in his blue-and-gold chinese coat, waving them away. "seems a pity he can't see them," she thought, watching the faces. "they're all different--just as different as the flowers be!" for some of them held the flowers in both hands; and some of them laid them on the pillows and some were smelling them and some were only looking; and one blossom was caught into the iron framework of a bed where the sun fell on it and the child was looking at it with wonder-filled eyes.... it was her own--her flower--that some one had sent--a crimson rose with soft dark color clear to the heart of it where the sun went in. it nodded down to her. aunt jane, looking at her, thought of the people who had sent the flowers to herman medfield. "i guess they didn't any of them think anything quite as nice as this would come of their flowers!" she said to the nurse who had brought the vases and jars for the flowers and was standing beside her at the table. the nurse glanced down the ward. "they like them, don't they? but it seems a pity, almost, not to have them in water. they fade so soon!" "well, i don't know"--aunt jane surveyed the room slowly--"i guess they're doing about as much good now as they ever will. there's something about a flower--about holding it right in your hand--that does something to you. it isn't the same thing as having it in water." "i don't see why not." the nurse glanced again, a little puzzled, down the room. "well, i don't know why _not_," said aunt jane. "seems as if it would be the same.... but it isn't! when it's in water somehow you know it's safe--_your_ rose.... you know it's going to keep--just as long as it can; and you look at it--kind of on the outside. but when you have it in your hand--it's all there! maybe you know it can't last very long and you just take it in all over----" the nurse laughed out. "yes, i know that sounds foolish," aunt jane nodded. "but we don't any of us know just what happens to us." she was looking down the ward as if she saw something beyond the beds and the sun shining in on them. the nurse gathered up the bits of leaves and the stems and litter from the floor and table and threw them on the wheel-tray and pushed it from the room. the children's eyes watched it go and returned to their blossoms. jimmie sullivan had clumped over to aunt jane, carrying his carnation. his new leg worked better to-day. he reached up an arm and aunt jane bent her ear. she listened and shook her head. "no, i can't tell stories to-day. i'm going to hold susie a little while, and then i've got my work to do. i can't be bothering with you children all the time!" she went over to the bed where the crimson rose was and held out her arms. the child climbed into them and laughed. she was a gay little thing--not four years old. to-morrow she would be sitting up and the next day she would go home. aunt jane knew the home.... the father and mother drunk, perhaps. the child had been broken, between them, and had come to the house of mercy for repairs.... she held her in her arms and rocked a little--and thought.... something must be done to protect the child.... dr. carmon must do something. he always did things--if he had to. aunt jane rocked back and forth, thinking. she must take him when he was in good humor--to-morrow morning perhaps. the child raised her hand to aunt jane's face. "you don't smile!" she said imperiously. aunt jane looked down at her severely. the child laughed out, and nestled close and presently they were playing a game. it was not a new game in the ward; other children played it sometimes. but you were only allowed to play it if you had been very ill and were getting well; or perhaps if you were going home--day after to-morrow, and father and mother might be drunk and might break tables and chairs--and perhaps a child's arm if it got in the way of their playfulness.... the game was to catch aunt jane off guard and take off her spectacles and cap--and see how she looked. the child reached up a quick hand and laughed.... aunt jane dodged and shook her head, and escaped the hand. and then--perhaps because susie was going home day after to-morrow--she had caught off the spectacles and aunt jane's cap lay on the floor and the hair was escaping from its pins and coming down all about her face and shoulders--and the child was lying back against her arm, looking at her and laughing happily. the door from the corridor swung silently, and dr. carmon stood looking into the room. the children in the beds turned merry eyes to him. but his hand made a gesture and they held their breath, laughing as he came down between the beds and stood looking sternly at the figure in the big chair. aunt jane was groping at the tumbled hair and she was laughing gently, watching the child's face. then she looked up---- "mercy sakes!" her hand reached for her cap. but dr. carmon had bent to the floor and picked up the cap. he was holding it and looking at her. "how old are you, aunt jane?" he said sternly. aunt jane, out of the maze of her hair, looked up. "i am forty-five years old," she said. "give me my cap!" "say, 'please,'" said dr. carmon gravely, holding it at arm's length. from the beds, the children looked on with shining eyes. aunt jane looked at the cap--and at the child in her arms--and felt the eyes encircling her--and smiled a little. "please," she said meekly, and her hand reached up. but dr. carmon held it still at arm's length. "say, 'please, frederic,'" he insisted.... not even the nearest bed could have guessed the words that went with the laughing gesture of the hand holding the cap. but aunt jane's face flushed swiftly. she gathered the child in her arms and carried her to her bed and put her down gently. then her hands caught up the tumbled hair and fastened it in place and smoothed it down, and she came placidly back to dr. carmon. his face was very grave. but something in behind his eyes laughed. he held out the cap with a low bow. she took it and put it on her head, with dignity, and looked for her spectacles. "they're on the table," said dr. carmon. he handed them to her and she put them on and gazed at him in serene competence. "i'll send miss simpson up to you--i suppose you'll want her," she said. "yes--_please_," said dr. carmon, polite and grave. aunt jane hesitated a second. then her hand motioned to the beds. "the lord never see fit to let me have any of my own--not to grow up.... i've always thought he was making it up to me this way," she said, and there was something almost like an appeal in the quiet words. the doctor looked at her, and then at the children's faces. "i should say he's making it up to _them_," he said gruffly. he watched the serene figure as it passed through the swinging doors.... his face, as he went among the children and questioned them and listened absently to their replies, was full of gentleness and kindness, and a little, shy, flitting happiness that beamed on them. xix the cards aunt jane had taken from the boxes of flowers remained untouched in her apron pocket. she had intended to take them to herman medfield at once. but the days that followed the flowers in the children's ward had been busy ones. serious cases had come in and dr. carmon's face had been severe and a little anxious. no one would have guessed from its puckered gaze as he looked at aunt jane and gave minute directions for the case in room that he had ever seen the correct muslin cap except as it looked now, framing her serene face. he gazed at it absently and fussed at his pocket and took out his notes and consulted them. "i am to be sent for, you understand, if there is the slightest change!" he looked at her severely. "we'll send for you," said aunt jane quietly, "same as we always do." there was a tap on the office door and she went leisurely across to open it. it was the laundress with three cards in her wet thumb. she half drew back as she caught a glimpse of dr. carmon's bulky form. "i found 'em in the pocket of your apron," she announced in a stage whisper. "they got a little mite wet, but i dried 'em off." aunt jane received the cards and returned to dr. carmon. he glanced at them inquiringly. "some cards that came with flowers." she laid them on her desk. "somebody been sending you flowers!" he relaxed a little over the joke. "mr. medfield's flowers," said aunt jane tranquilly. his pencil stopped and he regarded the cards stiffly. "how many cards does he send you with flowers?" he asked. aunt jane smiled. "he didn't send them. they came with some flowers for _him_." "umph!" dr. carmon's pencil went on with its notes. when he had gone and aunt jane was alone in the office--she took up the cards and looked at them. she might take them up to mr. medfield now, before dinner--there would be time. herman medfield had summoned aunt jane several times during the hurried days, and she had sent back word each time that she would come when she was not so busy. she smiled a little as she looked down at the cards. she could see him, fuming and giving instructions that she was to come at once, and miss canfield's face as she took the message. she put the cards in her pocket and went along the hall to suite a. herman medfield propped up in bed, surrounded by books and papers, looked up with a little scowling frown. aunt jane glanced at it and crossed the room. she gathered up the books and papers from the bed and carried them to the table and laid them down. "i guess you won't want these any more, will you? it's most dinner-time." she sat down by him. his face relaxed. "i haven't seen you for four days," he remarked dryly. "i've been busy," returned aunt jane. "a good many folks suffering." he was silent. she watched the face with a shrewd, kindly smile. "you hadn't thought as anybody _could_ suffer, maybe--anybody except you?" "no--i hadn't thought of anything." he looked ashamed, but he held his point. "_i've_ suffered--horribly!" he said. "i thought likely you would." aunt jane was placid. he stared. "you're the kind that's liable to suffer," she said slowly, "--all sort o' tewed up inside.... that kind has to suffer a good deal." he looked down at his hands. probably no one had ever spoken to herman medfield just as aunt jane was speaking. she held the cards toward him--the black-edged one on top. "they came in your flower-boxes." he took them without seeing them. then he glanced at the black one and pushed them away. "the same one that came before--isn't it?" remarked aunt jane serenely. "yes." "i thought it was the same name. the flowers were nice that came with it--roses--red ones." he was silent. "i gave susie cannon a bunch of them to take home with her. her folks drink--both of 'em." he stared at her. then his face smiled a little. "it's a new cure for the drink habit, isn't it--red roses?" he laughed a little cynically. aunt jane regarded him impartially. "your folks didn't ever any of 'em drink, did they?" "you mean--?" his face was politely puzzled. "get drunk, i mean-- you don't come of a drinking family, do you?" "no." his eyes were still a little amused. "i reckoned not. steve cannon does--and his wife drinks. they'd broke susie's arm between 'em. so she came to us." he was looking at her thoughtfully. "how old is she?" "three," said aunt jane, "three--going on four." "good god!" she nodded. "yes, he's good. but somebody's got to look after susie." he waited a minute. then he spoke, almost hesitatingly. "i don't suppose that money would do--any good?" she shook her head. "i don't know what'll do good. dr. carmon's got to find out and do it. he generally does--when things get too bad." there was a knock on the door. "your dinner, i guess," said aunt jane. but it was preston--with a box. when he saw medfield's eyes he half retreated. aunt jane held out her hand. "i'll take care of it," she said. she laid it on her lap. "miss canfield said you wasn't having 'em brought here any more.... i guess preston made a mistake, maybe." "_i_ 'guess' he did," replied medfield. his eye was on the box, balefully. aunt jane took it up and undid it slowly. when she looked in she smiled. she took out a black-edged card and handed it to him. "she's sent another one!" he groaned softly. "i don't know what we'll do--if they keep coming in like this," she was fingering the blossoms tranquilly and looking at them. he lay back on his pillows. "that's your affair!" he smiled more cheerfully. "you said _i_ should not be bothered!" he closed his eyes. "the children's ward is full," said aunt jane thoughtfully. "it's a regular flower-garden--every bed a posy-bed." she laughed comfortably and looked at him. "you'd ought to have seen the way they looked when they got your flowers. they were tickled most to death with 'em!" "i am glad they enjoyed them," said medfield tamely. "i felt as if it was 'most a pity they couldn't know you sent 'em," she added. he started a little and aunt jane put out a hand. "don't you worry, mr. medfield. i didn't tell 'em. i just said it was a man--by the name of 'herman'.... but maybe you'll get it, all the same." he stared at her. "get--it?" she nodded. "they'll be thinking about that mr. herman--and kind of talking about him and loving him.... i reckon it'll do him good--whoever he is." she was looking at 'mr. herman' in space, regarding him with kindly gaze. medfield smiled grimly. "i don't suppose you know what it is--not to want any one to know who you are?" she looked at him. "i should hate terribly not to have folks know i'm jane holbrook!" she was thoughtful a minute. "seems as if it wouldn't be _me_--not more than half me--if folks didn't know i was aunt jane!" she was looking at him questioningly. he shook his head. "you've never been in my place." the words were dry. "no.... i have a good many things to be thankful for," she added impersonally. his eyes were looking at something before him and there was a little hard smile in their gaze. "let some of them try it awhile," he said, as if answering an accusation. "let them try!" he turned to her. "i can't go in a street-car or a restaurant or a store in town--i can't walk along the street like other men--without being beset by people with axes to grind." he looked at aunt jane as if he thought she might have an axe concealed somewhere about her person. "they carry them around with them in their pockets," he said savagely, "ready the minute they see me coming down the street. they line up with them and wait for me to appear. the minute a man hears my name, he doesn't think of _me_--he's thinking what he can get out of me." his mouth set itself close. "i'm not a _man_--i'm money!" aunt jane's look was full of twinkling sympathy that went out to him. "it's a pity you didn't think about that sooner, wasn't it?" he stared. "you might 'a' give away most of it--if you'd thought in time." the stare broke. "you think it is easy, don't you?" he scoffed. her face grew sober. "no, i don't think it's easy.... money seems to stick to folks' fingers--kind o' glues 'em together, i guess." he rubbed his thin fingers absently and looked down at them. "it seems to me i could find a way, but i suppose i should be just like the rest, if i had it--holding on to it for dear life!" she smiled at him. he was silent a minute, looking before him. "sometimes i think i would give every dollar i have in the world," he said slowly--"to have some one think of me apart from my money!" he looked at the face in its muslin cap. he knew he had never spoken to any one as he was speaking to aunt jane. he had a sense of freeing himself from something. he watched the face in its cap.... "i don't suppose any one can understand--" he broke off with a sigh. "yes, i understand, i guess." she was looking down at the box of flowers in her lap. "we all have our besetting sins. i have 'em! i guess money's a kind of besetting sin!" xx "if i felt the way you do, mr. medfield, i'd do something." "what would you do?" he watched her face. "well--i'd find things." the face in its cap filled with little thoughts that came and went.... "dear me! there's so many things, i wouldn't know which to do!" "suppose you tell _me_ a few." "well--there's things.... jimmie sullivan needs a new leg, for one thing. he needs it the worst way----" "_who_ is jimmie sullivan?" asked the millionaire. "he's in the children's ward. belongs to nobody--as you might say. we're kind of carrying him along till he gets on his feet." "gets on his legs, you mean?" his face had lost its fretted look; it was smiling a little. "it's a frame leg he needs--one of the kind that lets out and stretches as he grows. dr. carmon's made him one--a sort of make-shift leg.... a good one costs two hundred and twenty-five dollars." "would you mind giving me a pencil and paper?" said medfield. aunt jane brought it from the table and he made a note. "two hundred and twenty-five, you said?" she nodded. "if he don't have it--a good frame one--his leg will be the kind that flops all round.... i've seen beggars with 'em sometimes, selling pencils and so on. i can't hardly bear to see 'em that way!" "i should think not! horrible!" "then, there's mrs. pelton----" "i don't seem to remember--mrs. pelton?" he said politely. "why she's the one you're--" aunt jane stopped suddenly. "yes?" "she's a woman that came the same day you did," she said safely. "oh!" his mind seemed to be looking back--to the day when he came to the house of mercy, perhaps. aunt jane did not disturb him. presently he took up his pencil with a little sigh. "what were you saying about a mrs. pelton?" he asked. "she came the day you did and _she's_ sitting up! and her case was a good deal worse than yours." she was looking at him almost severely. "but-- she had her operation sooner--than i did! _i_ had to wait--almost a week--you know i had to wait!" he was like a sick boy--with his excuses and his injured look. "yes--she was operated on--a day or two sooner--maybe. but she's acted better than you have, every way." she looked at him over her spectacles. "and she's a little mite of a thing. don't come up to your shoulder hardly." he smiled ruefully and took up the pencil. "i am going to try---- what about this mrs. pelton? what would you do for her if you were as badly off--as i am?" she gave him a quick smile, out of her cap. "why--i'd--i'd--i declare i don't know just what you could _do_ for her! she's got so much pluck, it 'most seems as if you couldn't do much.... but i can kind of see her--" she was looking at it. "i can see that if she had, maybe a hundred dollars, say--of her own, unexpected like--when she left the hospital--i can just see the things she would do with it! there's four of the children and a kind of fiddling husband--_good_, you know-- but the way men are----" "yes, i know." his pencil was making absent notes. "what's his business?" "she told me--he's a puddler. i don't know just what puddling is.... he works in a shop. you know, maybe, how they 'puddle'?" "i've heard of puddling, yes." "it's a respectable business, i guess. it sounds something the way he looks." "the way he looks!" she nodded. "'puddler' makes me feel the way he does. it's a kind o' queer word." he glanced at his paper. "is there anything else you happen to think of for me to do?" the tone was dry, but a little amused. "well, there's folks--plenty of folks. you don't have to be in a hospital very long before you begin to know about folks--and begin to wish you was made of money." "it's a good place for me, then.... i may get cured all through!" he laughed a little harshly. "i hope you will," said aunt jane. she was looking at him with a deep, big kindness that suddenly broke through the little crust of cynicism in his face. he leaned forward and held out his hand. "thank you," he said. xxi "i wonder what i'd better do with these." she looked at the flowers in the box in her lap. "they're about the prettiest ones she's sent you--forget-me-nots." she lifted a handful of the blossoms and held them out. he regarded them cynically. "i'm not likely to forget!" he said. she looked at him over the flowers and smiled. "_she_ doesn't seem to forget either.... i guess she thinks a good deal of you," she added quaintly. he shook his head. "you'd be wrong. she doesn't care any more for me than--that clothes-pole there!" aunt jane looked at it uncritically. "she sent those--" he motioned to the flowers, "to herman medfield's money! she began on the boy," he said scornfully. "she's a dozen years older than julian and twice as clever. i packed him off to europe when i found out--then she started in on the old man!" aunt jane looked at him with interest. "i didn't know as you had a boy--how old is he?" she said quickly. "twenty-two," said medfield. "that's an interesting age, isn't it?" aunt jane was thoughtful. "that's just the age my boy would have been--if he'd lived. i'm always wondering what he would be doing now." she was silent a minute. then she looked at him and smiled. "europe isn't so very far off," she said. she gathered up the flowers in her lap, and glanced toward the door. herman medfield's dinner was being brought in. miss canfield carried the big tray in both hands. aunt jane glanced at it and got up. "i guess i'll give your flowers to mrs. pelton," she said slowly. "she doesn't happen to have any flowers. nobody's sent her any--yet. she'll be real pleased with 'em." she cast another glance at the tray. "they've brought you a good dinner to-day--beefsteak and onions and green peas." from the door she looked back. "i'll tell her mr. herman sent them." the nurse who was bending over herman medfield, tucking the napkin into his coat, saw a quick flush come in the thin face. she seemed not to notice it as she placed the tray before him. "shall i cut your meat?" "yes--please." he watched the efficient fingers cut the juicy steak in strips and he glanced at the face bending above the tray. the reddish hair drawn trimly up under the cap and the look of competence in the face and in the firm hands. she gave him the knife and fork and glanced at the tray. "you have everything you need? here's your bell." she placed the cord where he could reach it and turned away. but herman medfield's look stayed her. "you didn't know my name was herman, did you?" he said it with a little quizzical smile. "i thought it was medfield," replied the girl. she looked at him with clear, straight eyes. "the flowers come to herman medfield." "that was a mistake," he said. "they got it wrong when i came--on the books--and it was in the papers, i suppose.... it's quite a joke that i should have had all herman medfield's flowers." he chuckled a little. "he's a distant relative of mine--herman medfield-- but quite a different sort of man," he added quietly. "i don't see any salt here----" she glanced quickly at the tray and went out to bring the salt. he smiled at his dinner blandly and began to eat. he would get rid of the incubus of herman medfield's money for a while--and see how it felt. his whole body relaxed as the weight of herman medfield went sliding from his shoulders.... no more suspicions, no more watching while people talked to him, for the inevitable money to crop up, or for some philanthropic scheme to put its hand in his pocket, on the sly.... they seemed to think, if a man had money, that he doted on orphan asylums and libraries and dormitories! he wished, fervently, that he might never hear of another college or foundation, or any sort of institution for doing good. he longed to be rid of it all. he wanted to be like other men--a human being--for a month, for six weeks.... he began to wonder how long a patient could stay in the berkeley house of mercy--how sick he had to be?... they shouldn't turn him out _too_ soon. he could invent an ache or two. he would take a long vacation from his money. miss canfield brought the salt. she looked at his face as she put it down. "you're feeling better, aren't you?" she said. he relaxed the cheerful look. "a little better," he admitted. "some pain still." she smiled. it was only in the children's ward that they were glad to let the pains go--that they ignored them or forgot them as quickly as they could.... men were all alike--men and women were the same in cherishing their pains and the memory of their pains--women a little more reluctant than men, perhaps, to see them go. men were more like children. this gray-haired man, eating his dinner happily, was a little like a child, she thought as she watched him. he seemed to have grown younger--even in a day.... it was curious they should have got his name wrong on the books.... it was probably because of the aristocratic look. he was a very stately figure, leaning back there against the pillows, in his embroidered chinese coat, with his gray hair and little pointed beard.... she turned to go. "won't you sit down? can't you stay?" said medfield politely. "there's another patient waiting. they've put me on double special since you are better." she nodded to him and went out. he watched her go, almost regretfully. it was wonderful what a difference it made, wanting to have people around--now that money could not get between.... he would have liked to talk with the girl. ask her about her family and how she came to be a nurse. he wondered what sort of a home a girl like that had come out of, and what she expected to do. more than once, as he had watched her moving about the room, absorbed in her work, he had thought of julian.... it occurred to him to wonder what julian would be like now. he had not seen the boy for two years--not since he sent him off to europe. he glanced a little resentfully at the black-edged card lying on the stand beside him.... if it had not been for julia cawein and her airs and fascinations, the boy would be here now. his thought recurred to the girl who had just left him. he had never seen any one work just the way she worked--as if she loved it. she moved quietly and easily, as if there were plenty of time to do all that must be done in the day.... she would make a good wife for some man.... and it suddenly struck him that a rich young fellow would be lucky to marry a girl like that.... he wondered when julian would be coming home. xxii he had finished his dinner and pushed aside the tray. he wondered where julian was--whether he had got his letter and whether he would care--a little.... it was ten days now since he sent the letter--just before the doctor told him ... that was the day aunt jane took charge of his case. he smiled a little, thinking of aunt jane and her ways.... since she took him in hand, he had eaten and breathed and slept only as she permitted.... but, after all, it was a relief to get rid of thinking and do what one was told--like a boy.... he wished his own boy were here--to play with.... he found his imagination always coming back to julian. he had hardly thought of the boy before as an individual; he had been a responsibility--some one to be kept out of scrapes--and, in a vague way, he was the successor to the medfield fortune and business.... now he wondered what the boy was really like.... two years might have changed him--body and soul almost. he closed his eyes a little wearily, and rested back against the pillows. the room was quiet and filled with sunshine. he felt suddenly at home in it--as he had never felt at home in his own house across the town.... the rooms were very lonely there.... he rested quietly. a knock came on the door--perhaps the nurse for the tray. he did not turn his head or open his eyes. he was resting in the quiet. a light step crossed the room and stopped--and presently herman medfield looked up. the boy was smiling down at him. "hallo, father!" he put up a swift hand to brush the vision away. and the boy took it, and bent down and kissed him, almost shyly. then herman medfield reached out both hands. "why--julian! i was thinking about you!" he threw his arms around him hungrily. "i was wishing you would come!" "were you?" the young man laughed happily and drew up a chair to the bed. "i'm just in time, then." he sat looking at his father; and it came to herman medfield that the boy was fond of him. there was a look in the clear eyes of affection and pride. he gazed at it. "you didn't get my letter?" "which? the one with the check for three thousand?" "the one telling you i was--here." the boy shook his head. "i got ballantine's cable, and took the next boat." "i didn't know ballantine cabled," said medfield thoughtfully. "it came ten days ago--the thirtieth, wasn't it--just as i was starting for norway. i'm pretty glad it didn't miss me!"--they sat quiet a minute. then the boy looked at him. "you're looking fine, sir!" "i'm all right! doing splendidly!" he felt suddenly that he could let his pains go. the house across the town was not so empty, after all. he had a sudden vision of julian running up the long stairs--two at a time--and he looked at him happily. the boy leaned forward. his eye fell on the black-edged card; he looked at it and smiled and half reached out a hand, incredulous. "how is--" he hesitated. he had always been afraid of his father. but the man on the pillows was, somehow, a different sort of father; he leaned forward with a swift twinkle at the card. "how is the--widow?" he asked. "very well, i suppose," said medfield. "it is some time since i saw her." he spoke a little formally. but his heart leaped at the touch of comradeship. "how about this?" said julian. he touched the black-edged card. herman medfield's face flushed--almost guiltily. "flowers," he said. "i say!" the boy whistled softly. then he laughed. "i say!" he put down the card and looked at it. "three boxes!" acknowledged medfield. the boy held out his hand. "would you mind shaking hands, sir?" herman medfield took the hand, laughing a little, and his eyes filled with quiet pride and happiness. "i am glad you've come home, julian." "looks to me about time!" said the youth. he glanced again at the card and chuckled. then he stood up. it was miss canfield for the tray. she came around to the other side of the bed; and herman medfield looked up at her--and glanced from her to his boy. "this is my son, julian, miss canfield." he was watching the two faces that confronted each other across the bed. the young man's had lighted with a little look of admiration. he held out his hand across the bed. "it's a long-distance introduction, isn't it?" the girl took the hand quietly. "how do you do, mr. herman," she said pleasantly. "i'm glad to meet you," said julian out of a puzzled look; and the two hands fell apart. herman medfield flashed a twinkle at her. "his name is not herman," he remarked dryly. "nor mine," he added after a minute. "'herman' is for the hospital-- aunt jane invented it." "i see." the girl held it. "i wondered a little----" "don't let anybody else wonder," said medfield. "i want to get rid of myself--for a while." the young man smiled whimsically. "where do i come in, sir?" "you stay where you are," said his father tolerantly. "you're well enough as it is--if you behave!" he was looking with satisfaction from his son to the young girl. she had turned to the tray and her fingers were busy with the dishes. "she takes good care of me," said medfield, with a little gesture toward the competent fingers. "i don't doubt it, sir.... i might almost say i wouldn't mind being ill--myself!" a kind of shyness in the words redeemed them and the girl smiled. "people who are not ill, generally think they wouldn't mind," she said quietly. she lifted the tray and set it aside. "i'll take out your pillows now. it's time for you to rest." she removed the pillows and shook them a little and placed the fresh one beneath his head and straightened the clothes for him, with her firm, competent, comfortable hands. the boy's eyes followed the white figure as it left the room, carrying the tray lightly. they came back to his father's face. "i think i've had my orders," he said laughingly. "i'm to go now, i understand. i'll be back by and by, sir--when you are 'rested.'" he hesitated a minute. then he bent down and kissed his father, almost shyly, and left the room. the door closed behind him and herman medfield fell asleep and dreamed--"as if he really cared," thought herman medfield, as he drifted away into sleep. xxiii in room , mrs. pelton was sitting in a big rocking-chair by the window, her feet on a hassock and her eyes fixed on the great bowl of blue forget-me-nots on the table beside her. she had been looking at the forget-me-nots ever since aunt jane appeared with the big box, just before dinner.... she could hardly eat her dinner for looking at them. she had had the bowl of flowers set on her tray--where they crowded the soup and vegetables, and made her happy.... she wished john could see them, and the children could see them--or that there was somebody she could divide with. the beauty of the forget-me-nots was too much for her. it was such a great bunch--it filled the bowl and overflowed the sides. she had never seen so many forget-me-nots in one bunch!... now and then, sitting in the big chair, she reached out a hand to them and touched the flowers delicately. she wished she were bigger--the happiness of the flowers crowded on her. perhaps if she were bigger, she could enjoy them more. aunt jane had not seemed overcome by the flowers when she brought them in. she had taken them from the box and shaken them apart with brisk fingers and arranged them in the bowl and moved the stand over by the window close to mrs. pelton's chair. "there!" she had said. "makes you quite a nice bunch, don't it!" she stood off and admired them.... mrs. pelton was thinking now of aunt jane, and she was thinking that she did not even know who had sent them--"a man by the name of herman," aunt jane had said. mrs. pelton had gone over in her mind all the people she had ever known--but there were no hermans that she knew, or that john knew. it seemed very strange for any one to send a great bunch of flowers to her--any one she didn't know! she wished she could thank him. she wished mamie could see them. mamie loved flowers so. she looked at the flowers and thought of mamie and the children and john--and her face was happy. she looked at the row of photographs ranged along the bureau in front of the mirror.... it had been such a comfortable time at the hospital. and she had dreaded it so before she came! and there wasn't anything to dread. somehow, it was a beautiful place.... and there was the man who was going to pay for her being here.... she had gone over and over it, in her mind--his paying for her--wondering about it.... they had worried, she and john, and they had turned and twisted every penny, and after all there was not enough.... but of course she had to come. the doctor had said it wouldn't do to put it off; and so she had come, worried and anxious about it all--and right in the room next to her, while she waited--was the man who had offered to pay everything.... it was a beautiful place--with such a good man in it--and aunt jane, always doing something for her--and the forget-me-nots. she sighed happily, her eyes on the flowers. aunt jane appeared in the doorway, and surveyed her shrewdly. "tired?" she asked. "not a bit." mrs. pelton shook her head. "i don't feel as if i could ever be tired any more." she was dressed in a long blue garment--one of aunt jane's wrappers--that enveloped her from head to foot. her parted hair, smooth and shining, was combed close to her head and she looked very small in the big rocking-chair, but resolute and brave. aunt jane regarded her mildly. "i reckon you'll get around to being tired, after a while--like the rest of us." she glanced at the bowl of forget-me-nots. "you enjoy your flowers, don't you!" "they make me 'most _too_ happy--they're so beautiful!" "i guess they won't hurt," said aunt jane. "being happy don't hurt--though sometimes it feels as if it hurt," she added thoughtfully. "--as you just couldn't hold any more." "yes. that's it! that's the way i feel!" the little woman spoke eagerly and sat up. "i've been thinking--" she waited a minute, looking at the flowers. "maybe i ought to go in the ward. i always meant to go in the ward, you know." aunt jane regarded her. "you like it here, don't you?" "i like it--yes!" she looked about her with grateful eyes--at the photographs and flowers and then at aunt jane's face. "it's beautiful!" she said softly. "well, i don't know as it's so beautiful." aunt jane was looking thoughtfully before her. she was thinking of suite a, perhaps. "it's a good, comfortable room and you get a little sun--along toward sunset." she glanced at the window, where the streak of sunshine was creeping in on the sill, and a little glow came from the sky. "it's a comfortable room--yes." "the ward would be cheaper," said the woman. she hesitated. "it don't seem quite fair to him--the man that's paying, i mean--not to get along as cheap as we can." "i wouldn't worry about getting along cheap," said aunt jane. "some folks need one thing, and some another. what _you_ need is to keep still a spell and rest.... you don't feel lonesome, do you?" "lonesome! oh, no!" she gave a little sigh. her thin hands were clasped in her lap. "it is so _good_ to be quiet!" she said. "i thought likely," aunt jane nodded. "you just sit still and enjoy your quiet and get well ... you don't need to worry about the man that's going to pay. he wouldn't want you to worry. he's comfortable and he'd want _you_ to be comfortable. _he's_ got a good room." the woman's eyes brooded on it. "i can't thank him, or do anything," she said a little wistfully. "i'd like to have him know how we feel about his doing it." "well, you can thank him by and by, when you get round to it--if you want to," said aunt jane. "i guess he'll let you thank him. you want to get well first." "yes." her eyes were on the forget-me-nots and she reached out a hand to them. "i might send him some of my flowers," she said eagerly. aunt jane's face wrinkled at the forget-me-nots--a little perplexed and surprised and amused look. "i _could_ send them to him, couldn't i? it would be proper to send them to him?" "yes--i guess it's proper," said aunt jane dryly. "i don't believe he's got any flowers in his room." her eyes twinkled. "i'll send them to him now--right off! you pick out a nice bunch for him." she reached to them with a happy gesture. aunt jane bent over the forget-me-nots, her smile full of gentle chuckles. "we'll make him a nice bunch," she said cheerfully. she selected a few meagre blossoms here and there. "you're not getting the best ones!" the little woman was excited and eager. "they're better on this side. see--there's one--and there!" her face had the soft, clear color of happiness. aunt jane drew out the flowers with half-reluctant touch and arranged them slowly. "seems 'most too bad to spoil your bunch," she said. "oh, i like it!" the woman laughed a little tremulously. "i told you it kind of hurt me to have so many, and it's a way of thanking him, isn't it? here, take this one!" her eyes were shining. "don't they look nice! you tell him i thank him, please, and i hope he's doing well." "i'll tell him," said aunt jane. her eyes rested on the flowers. "i shouldn't wonder if he'd be real pleased with them." she held them off and surveyed them thoughtfully. "i'll tell him what you said and i guess maybe he'll get a good deal of comfort out of it. he needs flowers--and some one to think about him--as much as anybody ever i see." xxiv aunt jane came in, bearing the forget-me-nots before her. the millionaire raised a hand. "take them a----!" but she came tranquilly on. "they were sent to you--special." she held them out. he scowled at them. then his look broke to bewilderment and a little amusement. "they're the ones you carried off!" he exclaimed. "the same ones," replied aunt jane with satisfaction. "a woman sent them to you." "i know who sent them!" "you don't know this one--it's a mrs. pelton." he stared at her. "the one i sent them to--the one you took them to?" she nodded. "she's sent 'em back." "didn't she like them?" his tone was hurt--almost stiff. "oh, she _liked_ 'em. she said they made her 'most _too_ happy." aunt jane was arranging the flowers and smiling at them. "she only sent part of them you see. she's divided with you." "i see!" he looked at the flowers vaguely. "she didn't know it was you that sent them," said aunt jane. she stood off to get the effect. "who did she think sent them?" he demanded. "why--'mr. herman,' i told her.... you know about mr. herman?" she looked at him. "yes," meekly. "i told her about him. so she's feeling thankful to him." her eyes twinkled a little. "but why should she send flowers to _me_?" he looked at her almost suspiciously, as if he had caught her. aunt jane shook her head reprovingly. "she sent them to you because you happened to come the same day she did. she saw you through the door whilst she was waiting for me to come in, and it made her feel acquainted with you, coming the same day--so--and both having suffering to go through with---- there, they look nice, don't they!" she gave a final touch to them and sat down. he glanced at them grudgingly. "i'll take them out if you say so--if you'd rather not have them?" "no, leave them.... i--want them." the words came almost quickly. "i thought you'd like them," she said placidly, "when you'd made up your mind to it. it's hard for any one to make up his mind sometimes." the millionaire was looking at the flowers. "i've been thinking about what you told me this morning," he motioned to the bowl of forget-me-nots, "--about mrs. pelton.... this hospital business must be a big bill for a workingman to meet.... i was wondering if it couldn't be arranged so that i could pay--without their knowing, of course," he added hastily. aunt jane was silent a minute. then, a little guiltily, she looked at him. "you _have_ paid already," she said. he had been looking dreamily before him, pleased with aunt jane, and with the flowers--and with himself--pleased with everybody. he moved irritably and stared. she nodded, the little wrinkles gathering about her eyes. "i didn't mean that you should find it out--not right off.... but it's just as well, i guess." "what do you mean?" "well." she rocked a little. "she was kind of anxious--the day she came, you know.... i see, as soon as i came into the room that she was worrying--" aunt jane rocked placidly, looking back to mrs. pelton's worrying face. "pretty soon it came out--they hadn't got the money; and she'd been just drove to come--as you might say--dr. carmon makes 'em come whether they want to or not, you know?" she looked at him inquiringly over her glasses. "yes, i know." the words were remote and dry. aunt jane smiled a little. "and just then i caught sight of you through the door, and your coat lying on a chair--it was a silk-lined coat, you know--your clothes are all pretty good." she looked at him with satisfaction. a glint of amusement crossed the remote face. "so it came to me, then and there, just the way the things do--the right ones, when you're bothering--and i said to her that _you_ were going to pay for her." she sat looking at him. "well?" she roused herself. "you never see anybody change so--right in a minute, that way.... i do wish you could have seen her!" she gave a pitying glance at the handsome figure on the pillow.... "it seems a pity, 'most, to do so much for everybody and not have the good of seeing it!" "how do you know i will pay the bill?" asked the millionaire grimly. she turned and stared--and a little gleaming smile twinkled at him. "why--you _have_ paid already! leastways, your lawyer's paid. he sends a check every week--the way you told him--to pay the bill; and i've made it out big enough for two, right along." her face was complacent and kind. "do you call that business?" he asked it almost sharply. "no--not business--just good sense, i guess--and decency." "i call it crooked dealing!" said the millionaire. something of the old, gripping look came into the shapely hands lying on the bed. aunt jane surveyed him and rocked on. "how much do you reckon your life is worth, mr. medfield?" she said after a little pause. "i'm insured for--" he stopped. she nodded. "that wasn't what i meant--but it will do. whatever you're insured for--you're worth it, i guess." she paused and regarded him doubtfully.... "you're probably worth as much as you are insured for--" her look considered it, and let it go.... "whatever it is, we've saved it for you--among us. we've given you the best care we knew how.... you've had good care, haven't you?" she bent a solicitous look on him. "the best of care," he said courteously. then, after a minute: "money could not pay for it--the kind of care you have given.... i have not forgotten the night--when i went down into the dark--and you held me." he was looking at something deep and quiet--then his gaze turned to her. aunt jane returned it a minute--and looked away.... there was something in the face of the millionaire that she had not seen in it before. she got up and went to the window. "looks as if it would be a good day to-morrow," she murmured. she straightened the curtains a little and shook them out and came leisurely back. she glanced at the forget-me-nots. "what i meant was," she said slowly, "some folks get big bills when they're here--and some folks get little ones, and some don't get any. it depends on what the lord has given 'em; and we mean to take good care of 'em all." he smiled. "well--the lord has given me plenty. i ought not to complain!" "i didn't expect you would complain," said aunt jane. "i put it in the bill under suite a--enough for two. and i told dr. carmon to make _his_ bill big enough for two--i guess he'll do it. he's a pretty sensible man." she rocked placidly. herman medfield relaxed a little and looked at her whimsically. "it's a human way to do," he said thoughtfully. "and i do get _something_ for my money. this is a pleasant room." "it's pleasant enough. but i've thought a good many times it's a pity you can't be in the ward." "me--in a ward!" she nodded. "you're lonesome, aren't you?" he looked at her with sudden thought. "you didn't know my boy has come!" he said. aunt jane stopped. "your boy?" "my boy--julian! i told you!" "you said julian was in europe--" replied aunt jane. "he came this morning!" the millionaire's voice laughed. "walked right in through that door--without a word!" he nodded to it--as if still seeing the boy coming toward him. aunt jane looked at the door and then at the man's face, and smiled. "i told you europe wasn't so very far off," she said. "but i didn't know it was _quite_ so near you as that!" xxv herman medfield, wrapped in a dark-blue quilted gown, was sitting in the sunny window that looked down into the back yards.... he remembered the day--only three weeks ago, was it--that he had watched the servant-girl hanging sheets on the line. he remembered how strong her arms were as she swung the sheets on the line.... he looked down into the yard. she was there now--singing just as she had then; the window was open and her voice came drifting in with the scent of the flowers that grew down by the fence. he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. he was tired; more tired than he had thought he should be. sitting in bed, he had felt strong--almost well. and he had demanded his clothes. "we'll let you wear a dressing-gown the first day or two," aunt jane had said with a twinkle. "you've got a real pretty silk one, i see." so she had brought out the quilted gown and laid it on the bed; and he had dressed slowly and come out here to the sunny sitting-room, where the big chair was drawn up in the window. he had looked down into the yard, with a feeling of strangeness and newness, and had wondered a little whether it was the change in the foliage that made the yard look different, or whether the change was in herman medfield's eyes. then he had closed his eyes and leaned back.... perhaps he had slept a little--with the fresh air coming in and the girl's voice singing and the sound of doves cooing from a roof near by--for when he opened his eyes again, julian was sitting at the desk, writing. he looked up and encountered his father's gaze and came over to the window. "how are you feeling, dad?" "first-rate. it seems good to get on my legs again." he was looking eagerly at the boy, taking in his fresh young strength.... it had been several days since julian came; but herman medfield was not yet used to his being there, or to the little proud feeling that came over him as he looked at this young man who was his son. he had never thought julian was handsome. but something seemed to have happened to him.... he carried himself more like a man; and there was a look behind the lines of his face.... he thought of the boy's mother, as he watched it.... europe had brought out the best that was in him. it had been a wise move--sending him off like that, to get him out of mrs. cawein's way.... and then it came to him that julian was looking even better than the day he arrived.... perhaps, after all, he was fond of his old dad! they had had many talks together--and had sat silent for long spaces of quiet; and the boy came and went as if his father's room were home to him. every one in the hospital had come to know the quick step and light figure and the laugh that ran through the hall.... he went across the town to the vacant house to sleep. but his meals were served with his father's--when he could persuade aunt jane to send them in--and when he could not coax her to send in the extra tray, he went to a restaurant near by. aunt jane and he had been friends from the minute he held out his hand to her, and she had taken it in hers and patted it and looked at him out of her muslin cap. "you're just the age of my boy," she had said, looking at him. "i always wonder what he'd be doing now--if i could see him." and the young man had reached up an arm--before she could catch the meaning of his look--and thrown it around her neck and kissed her, just under the muslin border of her cap. "i guess that's what he would do first," he said. and aunt jane's eyes had filled with quick tears as she turned away. "that's great foolishness!" she had said softly. but the boy had won his place; and he was always asking for her when he came. she appeared now in the doorway with a card in her hand--looking at it doubtfully. her glance ran to the figure in the window in its stately dressing-gown, and returned again to the little black-edged card. the young man's eye fell on it and his eyebrows lifted a trifle. he came over. "for me?" he held out his hand. she ignored the hand and passed on to the millionaire, extending the card. her face was impersonal and severe. the boy's quick laugh broke across it. "caught, dad!" he chuckled, looking at the card. the millionaire glanced down and his face darkened. "tell her i cannot--" he stopped abruptly-- suppose she had heard that the boy was home! his father's room was the best place for him--and for her to see him! he sighed and laid down the card. "very well. tell her to come in." the young man watched her go, and laughed out and then chuckled softly; his father smiled grimly. the door opened and the widow entered. she was dark, with a white throat and white hands and bewildering bits of jet that twinkled as she moved. they tinkled softly as she came in. aunt jane, following discreetly, closed the door behind her and went to a table across the room. the widow stood looking at the two men with a charming smile. julian came forward. "how do you do, mrs. cawein?" he was holding out his hand and smiling. "how-de-do, julie!" she touched the hand lightly and fluttered by him toward the chair in the window-- "and how is the dear man!" she cried. julian, the little smile still on his lips, watched the comedy. aunt jane from across the room regarded it mildly. the millionaire half rose as if warding off something---- but the dark lady only pressed his hand as it reached out; she lighted on a chair near by and twinkled a little and shone beamingly on him. herman medfield sank back in his chair. "it's so good to see you!" she exclaimed softly. "and do you know i might have missed you altogether!" she had clasped her hands and was looking at him reproachfully. "there was a nurse person met me in the hall, and she said you were not here--that it was all a mistake in the name!" she spread her hands dramatically; the jets twinkled fast like little eyes all over her.... "she said you weren't here--that they'd got the wrong name!... then _this_ good woman--" the little jewels on her hands glinted at aunt jane lightly. "this good woman met me--or i shouldn't have got in at all!" herman medfield cast a glance of due appreciation at "this good woman." her face was expressionless and cheerful; she was regarding the widow with uncritical eyes. "it was very good in her, i am sure," murmured herman medfield. "wasn't it!... i've quite been dying to see you, you know!" she leaned toward him a little and sparkled for him. "i think i must have been dying to see you," responded the millionaire politely. "though they told me i was doing very well." he said it reflectively, leaning back in his chair and smiling at her. the boy watched the play with amused eyes. he had no idea his father could be so courtly with women. the visitor bridled to it and used her eyes. "it's a mercy you're better! think of the interests you represent!" "i try not to think of them," said medfield dryly. "of course!-- you must not!" she quite cried out about it. then she turned to julian. "and where have you been--naughty boy?" the young man blushed and stammered. she had not held him at finger ends the last time he saw her. "i've been--been _everywhere_!" he said with a laugh. aunt jane had slipped quietly into the next room and through the doorway her ample figure could be seen shaking up pillows and moving softly about. the widow's eyes followed the figure reflectively and watched it disappear through a door that led into the corridor. "julian--dear----" the boy jumped a little. she was speaking over her shoulder to him and she leaned back smilingly. "would you mind, julian, getting my bag for me? i left it in the car-- so stupid of me!" "with pleasure." the young man went toward the door. he glanced casually as he passed her at the chair she sat so airily upon. there was a little smile on his lips as he closed the door. xxvi the widow's eyes followed him. "he is a dear boy," she said, with a motherly glance at the softly closing door. then her look changed and she leaned forward and touched the bowl of forget-me-nots with lightest finger-tip. "mine?" she said archly. "if you would like them," said the millionaire graciously. "naughty man!" she shook the finger at him and then pointed it at the forget-me-nots. "who sent them to you?" her chin tilted the question. he regarded it gravely. "a woman sent them," he said. she nodded and the little jets dingled at him. "this woman?" she placed the finger on her chest and looked at him reproachfully. the millionaire's look broke in startled confusion. he glanced swiftly at the flowers. "why--yes--of course!... i ought to have thanked you.... but--i have not been well, you know." he smiled whimsically. she motioned it aside. "i don't mind being thanked--so long as you got them!" her eyes travelled about the room. "they are the only ones you have!" she said reflectively. the millionaire's glance followed hers. "there were--others," he said vaguely. "but you have not kept them!" she leaned forward. "no." he admitted it. "these are the only ones--" she paused, looking at them pensively. "you don't know how happy you make me!" she said--and sighed it away. "i am glad to have pleased you," responded the millionaire feebly. "you don't know--" she touched the flowers as if they were something precious that must not be disturbed. "you--don't know how happy--you make me!" the millionaire glanced uneasily about. the door opened and julian flashed in. "i say! i couldn't find your bag, you know!" "never mind!" she was sweet with it. "perhaps i didn't bring it, after all." "you don't think it is possibly--in your chair," he suggested, smiling a little. he had come over and was standing quite close to her. she glanced at him deprecatingly. "how clever in you, julian!" her hand groped in the chair for the bag and found it--and she held it out, laughing at her mistake. the two men smiled. "so stupid--in me!" she took out a tiny handkerchief and shook it and the faintest scent of violets flew about the room. the door opened. it was miss canfield, with a glass of water on a small round tray. she came across to the millionaire. "it is medicine time," she said quietly. the millionaire drank it off and returned the glass to the tray and thanked her. she looked down at him. "is there anything else--you would like?" there was a clear, faint color in her cheeks, like a rose-leaf. the widow's eye rested on it. "nothing, thank you," said medfield. "you have sat up a little longer than the doctor said-- you must not get too tired." she left the room, carrying the little tray lightly before her, moving with noiseless step. three pairs of eyes watched her from the room. "they take good care of you, don't they?" said mrs. cawein patronizingly. her eyes were still reflectively on the door. "the best of care!" responded medfield. "well--" she sighed brightly and shook the handkerchief. "i think i was told to go?" she nodded archly. "yes--she told me!-- i feel sure of it!" she got up. "you must get well fast!" her hand touched his lightly and whisked away, and the violet scent was wafted about him. she moved toward the door, drawing julian into her wake. herman medfield's eyes watched them. his lips grew a little compressed. "you have forgotten your hat, julian," he said sharply. the boy glanced back over his shoulder and flashed a smile at him. "i'm seeing mrs. cawein to her car. i'll be back in a minute, sir----" she murmured deprecation as they went. "you really--do not need to come with me, julian." "but i want to," said the young man. he shifted his feet quickly and caught step with her as she plumed along beside him. "your father's looking very well!" she said. "isn't he!" the reply was absent. she glanced at him sharply. "you must come and see me--i have missed you!" his eye went past her to the car that was waiting. "it is very kind in you," he murmured. she tripped a little on the step and he caught her arm to save her. she glowed to him. "be sure to come," she said softly. "we must take up old times." julian looked at her and smiled ever so faintly. he opened the door of the car and put her in and bowed ceremoniously and closed the door. she nodded brightly through the window.... the car rolled away. he stood looking after it, smiling with a little amusement. then he ran lightly up the steps. the long corridor lighted by a great window stretched before him, and a figure at the end was outlined against it--a slender figure that carried itself very light and straight. she was walking from him, her face toward the window, and the white uniform and the cap glowed softly.... the reddish hair under the cap caught little glints of light. he watched till the figure disappeared in the distance. then he turned to the door of suite a. the light of the reddish, shining hair was still in his face as he came in. medfield grunted and stirred a little in his chair. he glanced at the absorbed face. "you find her attractive?" he said dryly. the young man stared at him. he had forgotten julia cawein and her car; he had forgotten everything except the window of the long lighted hall and the girl's head lifted against it. "i think she is charming!" he cried. "don't you?" he added after a little, uncomfortable pause. "no," said his father shortly. "what is the matter with her?" asked the boy. he was watching his father's face. "nothing is the matter if you don't happen to see it." "i don't!" the man was silent a minute. "sherwood cawein died of a broken heart," he said at last. the boy stared. then the look in his face broke and danced. "i was not thinking of mrs. cawein," he said quietly. "you were not speaking of julia cawein?" his father sat up, his hands on the arms of his chair, and looked at him. "no, i was not thinking of mrs. cawein. i'll tell you some day, father, what i was thinking of. but--" he looked at him straight. "i'd like you to trust me a little if you will, please." xxvii "i'm not going to bed!" said medfield irritably. "i don't want to lie down. i'm tired of lying down!" he looked out of the window and scowled. the nurse was silent a minute, regarding him thoughtfully. then she laid a light, cool hand on his wrist and her fingers found the pulse and held it. "there's nothing the matter!" he said crossly. "no, there doesn't seem to be." she released his wrist and went quietly out. the millionaire's eyes followed her.... a shrewd flash came into them. the little annoyance had left his face; it had the keen, concentrated look that men who knew herman medfield did not care to see on his face--if they had business with him. it was the look that meant he was on the track of something or somebody. he reached out to the bell. miss canfield came. she waited with an inquiring look. "i should like to see mrs. holbrook," said medfield politely. "aunt jane?" the nurse hesitated. "she's in the children's ward. is it something that can wait--or something i can do for you, sir?" her face was troubled. he smiled at her reassuringly. "i want to see aunt jane-- she will come, i think--if you tell her." he settled back comfortably in his chair and waited. he did not look up when aunt jane came in. his head rested against the chair and his face was drawn in the look of pathetic distress and helplessness that calls for pity. aunt jane took in the look with kindly glance. "you've been having too much company," she said. "i do feel rather done up," admitted medfield weakly. "well, you better go right to bed--" aunt jane moved toward the door of the adjoining room. "i'm not going to bed," said medfield. aunt jane stood arrested---- "i want the doctor," added medfield warily. "i'll send for him--soon as you get in," she said placidly. "you come right along." "no." he put his hands on the arms of the chair and looked at her like a spoiled child. aunt jane regarded him calmly. she went into the corridor and sent word for miss canfield to come to her office. then she went on to the office and took up the receiver and called dr. carmon's number; and stood waiting, with bent head, her cap strings reflective. the head lifted itself--and her face focussed to the little black cup on the desk before her. "it's about mr. medfield--herman g. medfield--yes." she said it severely into the blackness. "he won't do as he's told!" her ear listened. "well, that's all right. but you'll have to come.... no, i don't know. he's cross--for one thing!... in half an hour, you say?... well, that will do, i guess--i can handle him that long." she smiled and hung up the receiver and turned to miss canfield and looked at her through her glasses. "what is the matter with him?" she asked. the nurse shook her head. "he was all right until half an hour ago. i took him his medicine then," she replied. "it's the widow!" said aunt jane. miss canfield glanced at her inquiringly. "the one who was----?" "visiting him--yes. you saw her?" miss canfield smiled. "yes." aunt jane nodded. "she's done it, somehow." her face grew reflective. "i hadn't ought to have let her in," she said softly. "you had more sense than i did about that." "i wondered a little why you did it," said miss canfield safely. "well--" aunt jane considered. "i thought maybe he needed stirring up a little--so he would get along faster. i didn't mean to stir him up quite so much," she added reflectively. "i didn't know he'd act like this.... he's always making a fuss!" she added disapprovingly. miss canfield's face grew defensive. she turned it away. "i had thought he was a very good patient," she said quietly. aunt jane's glance flashed at her. the muslin cap covered a question. "i don't know as he's any better than any other patient," she said, watching her critically.... "he ought to be good--with his suite--and everybody running and waiting on him all the time!" a bell tinkled and buzzed on the board in the hall. aunt jane's cap turned toward it. "that's him now, i suppose, wanting something!" the nurse went to the board and scanned it. she reached up and threw off the number and turned down the hall toward suite a. aunt jane's gaze followed her reflectively. then she turned to her desk. when dr. carmon arrived she was sitting quietly at work on her books. "what's up?" he said brusquely as he came in. "i hope you'll find out," said aunt jane. her tone was tranquil. he shrugged his shoulders and removed his coat--throwing it carelessly across a chair. he took up his little black bag. aunt jane regarded the coat disapprovingly. she went across and shook it out and laid it in neat folds. "i think likely--it's a woman," she said, smoothing the coat. he stopped abruptly and looked at her. "anybody been here?" "yes--a widow." the doctor grunted a little. "who let her in?" "well--i don't _know_ that she upset him," said aunt jane. "something did! you can find out, i guess." her gaze was approvingly mild. he relaxed a little. "you want i should come with you?" she asked. "no," hastily, "i'll send for you--if i need anything. miss canfield's around, i suppose." "yes, she's there, i guess. she's there most of the time," said aunt jane. her face was non-committal. but he glanced at it sharply. then he went down to suite a. herman medfield, still sitting in his window, with the blue quilted gown wrapped about his legs, wore an unhappy expression. dr. carmon scanned it. he set down the black bag and drew up a chair. "what seems to be the matter?" he asked. he seated himself firmly in the chair and looked at his patient through keen glasses. all the little fine unconscious fibres that diagnosed a case for dr. carmon were alert and reaching out for signs; but the doctor himself looked as impassive as a stone jug, sitting in his chair, a hand on either knee--surveying herman medfield. "what is the matter?" he said. "i don't know." medfield's tone was indifferent. "i feel worse--general distress--heaviness." "any pain?" the doctor's hand burrowing in his pocket had brought out the stethoscope. he adjusted it to his ears and hitched his chair a little nearer. medfield made an obliging movement forward. "stay where you are," said the doctor gruffly. he leaned forward and placed the little metal disks on the blue quilted gown and bent his head. the two men were silent. medfield with his head against the back of the chair and his eyes closed was wondering guiltily what the two little flexible tubes were revealing to the listening ears. and dr. carmon, behind an impenetrable scowling mask, was wondering what the devil had gone wrong with herman medfield. and he listened--not so much with his ears, as with those little inner senses that never deceived him if he trusted them. he slipped off the stethoscope and sat up. "did you say you had pain?" he asked. "a little." the tone was weary. dr. carmon looked at him sharply. "whereabouts?" medfield turned his head restively. "everywhere," he said. "up my back and shoulders--the right one--and in my head." "your head aches, does it?" that was the outside question; and inside, all the little therapeutic fibres in dr. carmon's stubby figure were saying to him: "his head is as good as yours is, this minute! what's the matter with him? buck up--and find out!" he put his hand on the patient's wrist. "what would you like for dinner?" he asked. "i couldn't eat anything," said medfield passively. "not a nice chop--with some asparagus and mayonnaise?" the doctor was watching the face. medfield shook his head resolutely. "i don't feel like eating." "very well." dr. carmon sat back and looked at him. "i think you'd better go to bed--and stay there for a while." "you think i got up too soon?" medfield's voice was patient and full of acquiescence; it was very meek. "i don't think anything," said dr. carmon gruffly. "but when a man can't eat, he'd better be in bed.... there's nothing the matter with you." medfield's heart gave a quick little jump, and the doctor's hand that had strayed again to his wrist, counted it grimly. "you're tired. that's all! had company?" "some one came in--yes. she only stayed a few minutes," he added virtuously. "well." dr. carmon got up. "that didn't hurt you--probably. you'll be all right. how's the boy?" "all right. he's generally here," replied medfield. "doesn't tire you?" herman medfield's eyes opened quickly. "i want him here!" he said sharply. dr. carmon's thought followed the look swiftly. "it isn't the boy, but it's something about him. i'll see the boy." he rang the bell. "i'd get to bed right away if i were you." it was aunt jane who came leisurely in, glancing at the two men. "miss canfield's at dinner. she'll come pretty quick--if you need her." "we don't need her. he's to go to bed for a while." the doctor nodded to herman medfield, who had got up from his chair, and was standing beside him. the millionaire in his blue silk robe with the velvet girdle and tassel was a stately figure; and, for the second time, aunt jane had a lively sense of dr. carmon's short, uncouthness and rumpled clothes--there was a large grease spot on the front of his vest. her mind made a quick note of the spot while her eyes travelled placidly to herman medfield. "i'm glad you've made up your mind," she said pleasantly. he was moving toward the door of his bedroom. he stopped. "it isn't _my_ mind. it's the doctor's mind that's made up," he replied suavely. dr. carmon watched him and smiled a little and miss canfield, coming in the door, wondered what dr. carmon's smile meant. aunt jane and the doctor returned to the office.... she faced him. "what's the matter?" she said. he shook his head. "just one of those things to keep you guessing." he shrugged his shoulders. aunt jane's eye rested on the grease spot. "soap and water will take that off!" she said practically. she laid a finger on the spot. the doctor doubled his chin to look down on himself. "have the water hot--and plenty of soap," said aunt jane. he grunted, and drew his coat over the spot. "when i get time," he replied. xxviii aunt jane was in her office. it was monday morning and the wheels had gritted getting under way. she had poured a drop of oil here and another drop there, as it seemed needed, and had come back to her office for a general survey before starting again. it was well known in the house of mercy that the times when the whole hospital force went scurrying about, under some sudden emergency, were often the times that aunt jane chose, for some unknown reason, to sit quietly in her office, doing nothing. hurrying by the office door, with tense look and quick-running feet, they would catch a glimpse of aunt jane sitting placidly at ease; and they would slow down a little, perhaps, and wonder what she could be thinking of to sit there as if nothing were wrong.... and then, somehow, through the hospital would run a quiet, steadying force that seemed to hold them in place and use them for its ends; and they would be conscious, as they worked, of being bigger than they had guessed. aunt jane was not thinking now of any crisis. the troubles this morning were petty ones--"pin pricks," she called them. she was wondering about the millionaire--and wondering whether she would better go to suite a.... miss canfield had reported a good night and dr. carmon would be coming soon. she looked up. the doctor's figure was in the doorway. he nodded gruffly as he took off his coat. "everybody all right?" aunt jane's tongue clicked a little. she went to a corner of the room and moved back the screen and turned on the hot water. "come here," she said. the doctor looked at her inquiringly. "you didn't clean your vest! it's a perfect sight!" she tested the water with her hand and took up the soap. dr. carmon glanced down at the expanse of vest guiltily. he scowled. "i'm too busy--to fuss." he reached for his bag. "come here!" said aunt jane. and while he fidgeted and grumbled, her firm, efficient fingers scrubbed at him with soap and hot water and a bit of rough cloth. satisfaction shone on him. "i never knew a man that could keep himself clean!" she said briskly. "there!" she stood back a little. "it doesn't show much now. i'll do a little more on it--when it's dried off so i can see." he backed hastily away. "i'll send it to the tailor. i'll do it to-night." "you don't need to waste money on tailors," she said calmly. "a little soap and--" but he was gone. aunt jane smiled to herself and put back the soap and hung up the cloth and replaced the screen. she moved with the ample leisure of those who have plenty of time. a nurse came in from the waiting-room. "a man is here--a mr. dalton. he wants to know if he can see you?" "yes, i'll see him," said aunt jane. "he said he could come again if you are too busy." the nurse waited. "no, i'm not busy--no busier than i always am, i guess. you tell him to come in." he came in with quick step and a little light in his face--as if a glint of sun shone on a dark field. aunt jane looked at him approvingly. "you're doing first-rate!" he laughed. "i don't have to try. luck is coming my way now!" "folks generally have to go fully half-way to meet it," said aunt jane. "you seen your wife?" he nodded. "she has been telling me--i want to thank you!" he said it impulsively and came nearer to her; his dark face worked with something he did not say. "sit down, mr. dalton. you don't need to thank _me_," said aunt jane. "edith told me----" "yes, i don't doubt she told you. she thinks i did something, maybe. but i didn't.... when folks get well," she was looking at him and speaking slowly. "when folks get well they _get_ well--all over; and then no matter _who_ comes along and says to 'em, 'why don't you do so-and-so?'--they think it's something special.... maybe it's just as well to let them think it--" she was smiling to him--"if it helps any." "but it's true!" he said stoutly. "i've known edith longer than you have--she hasn't ever been the way she is now." "i'm glad for you, mr. dalton!" said aunt jane heartily, "and i know you'll be good to her. i can see it in your face--that you treat her well." the face clouded. "i mean to--but i never seem to know just how she'll take things----" "what's been the trouble?" asked aunt jane. "she didn't tell you?" aunt jane shook her head. "we didn't talk much--just visited together a little and got acquainted." he seemed thoughtful. "i think the real trouble is something that never gets put into words; and it isn't so easy to put in words.... i'm a failure, i guess!" he looked up apologetically. "i don't know that you will understand. but i've had chances--every sort of chance--and i've never made good." "never made money, you mean," said aunt jane placidly. he looked up quickly. "that's it!" "what seemed to be the matter?" "i don't know." he was looking before him. "when i got through college, i thought i was going to get on all right--thought i should be a big man some day." he looked at her and smiled. "you look pretty big and strong," assented aunt jane. he laughed out. "i'm big enough this way!" he reached out his arms from the broad shoulders and clinched the hands a little. "i can tackle anything in sight. but--" he leaned forward--"it's the things that are out of sight that i can't seem to come to grips with." "that's what bothers most folks, i guess--men folks special," said aunt jane. "i've known a good many men, and i like them.... i like men better'n i do women," she added a little guiltily, "but sometimes it seems to me, when i'm with 'em, as if they were blind--a little mite blind about what's going on inside." she rocked a little. "maybe it's just because they're slow," she said reflectively. "they can't see quick, the way women can, and they're kind of afraid of what they can't see--some like children in the dark." she was smiling at him. he nodded. "you've got it! i shouldn't wonder if that's the way edith feels. she's never said it just that way. but she doesn't seem to understand what i'm after; and i can't tell her--because i don't know myself," he added candidly. "so while you're figuring it out, she calls it something else?" said aunt jane. "that's it! and then we get--angry, and i can't even think. it seems to paralyze me, some way." aunt jane was smiling to herself. "'most seems as if it would have been a better way to have men folks marry men folks--" she looked at him shrewdly. "they'd get along more comfortable?" he shook his head and laughed. "i want edith just the way she is. but i wish----" "yes--we all do." aunt jane nodded. "we like what we've got--pretty well. but we're always wishing it was a little mite different some way.... i like my work here; and i do it about as well as i know how. but some days i wish--" she broke off and sat looking before her. the young man's face regarded her attentively. he leaned forward. "i'm taking too much of your time. i didn't think how busy you must be. i'll go now. and thank you for letting me talk." he stood up. aunt jane reached out a hand. "sit down, mr. dalton. that's what my time is for--to talk about things.... what was it you said you wished?" he sat down. "i'd like to tell you--if you really have time.... and it won't take so long--" he was looking at it thoughtfully. "you see, i've never made good, because i've never stayed long in one place. that is what frets edith--what she can't understand." "it's hard for a woman--always changing round," said aunt jane. "hard on the furniture." he smiled. "we haven't changed house so many times. it's been mostly in the city here. but each time i've had to start all over.... after we were married, i went in with clark & lyman; that's edith's father--george b. lyman; and i thought i was fixed for life. and it wasn't six months before i had to move on." "i suppose you'd done something they didn't like," commented aunt jane. he laughed. "it was what i _didn't_ do! they said i didn't take my chances. edith's father said i didn't." "take risks, you mean?" "no.... chances to make money--he said i let the best chances go by." "why did you do that?" asked aunt jane. her face, turned to him, was full of kindly interest. he sat with his hands thrust in his pockets, looking at her. "that's what i've never been able to tell edith," he said slowly. "but i think i can tell you--if you'll let me.... i've been thinking about it a good deal since she's been ill and i think it's because i always see something ahead--something bigger--that i'd rather work for." the hands thrust themselves deeper into his pockets and his face grew intent. "i feel it so strongly--that it seems wasteful to stop to pick up the twopenny bits they're scrambling for." he threw back his shoulders. "well, i'm going to try.... i've made up my mind--she means more to me than anything in the world and if she can't be happy, i'm going to give it up.... that's all! and thank you for letting me talk it out. it's done me more good than you know!" he held out his hand. aunt jane took it slowly. "i don't quite think i'd give up, mr. dalton." she was looking at him through her glasses, and the young man had a sudden sense that her face was beautiful. "i don't think i'd give up--not quite yet--if i was you." xxix dr. carmon and aunt jane stood in the sitting-room of suite a. the door to the bedroom was ajar, and through it miss canfield could be seen moving about and waiting on herman medfield. aunt jane went quietly to the door and drew it together with noiseless touch. "how is he?" she asked. "all right. there's nothing the matter--that i can find out." dr. carmon shrugged his shoulders a little. "temperature normal--no change, you see." he pointed to the chart lying on the table, and ran his finger along the lines. "pulse good. slept like a top, miss canfield says." "she's to go on ward duty to-day," said aunt jane. he looked up quickly. "i want her!" "you said, yesterday, i could have her for the men's ward," replied aunt jane. she was looking critically at the spot on his vest and he drew his coat quickly together. "that was yesterday," he said gruffly. "i can't spare her now." aunt jane sighed. "it doesn't seem right for one person to have everything." "he'll have to have things--for a while," replied dr. carmon. "he'll have to have what he wants--till i find out what's wrong with him.... he wants miss canfield--and i can't take the risk of having him upset!" he spoke a little brusquely at the end. aunt jane's feathers ruffled themselves. "i don't know what call he has to expect to have any particular nurse!" she said. "we shall take good care of him, whatever nurse he has!" "yes--yes--of course." dr. carmon was testy and placating. "but i told him he could have miss canfield--till he was out of bed--and she'll have to stay." "you told him--he could have miss canfield!" aunt jane's eye held something and looked at it. "when did you tell him that?" she asked at last, letting it go. "i told him yesterday--when you sent for me. "after the widow was here?" "yes." he looked at her. "anything wrong about that?" dr. carmon was not in his best humor. he felt aunt jane's eye boring through to the offending spot and there was subtle disapproval in her manner--something he did not quite fathom. "she'll have to stay!" he said--and the tone was final. aunt jane's only reply was a little chuckling laugh. he glared at her and went out. her smile followed him from the room. she went over to the window. from the next room came the sound of voices--miss canfield's low and quieting, and herman medfield's expostulating and fretful--and then silence. aunt jane went across and opened the door. she looked in on herman medfield. he was lying with his eyes closed and an almost peaceful expression on his countenance. miss canfield was not in the room. he opened his eyes and saw aunt jane and closed them quickly. his face changed subtly and swiftly to mild distress. aunt jane came leisurely in. the eyes did not open or respond to her questioning look. she sat down by the bed. "good morning," he said feebly. aunt jane smiled. "i didn't think it was good--not very good--not from what dr. carmon told me," she said slowly. medfield sighed. "some pain," he admitted. he turned his head restlessly. "well, we must expect _some_ pain." her voice was as big and breezy as all outdoors. medfield's face relaxed under it--to a kind of meek patience. aunt jane watched it kindly. "what you need, mr. medfield, is a good wife----" the eyes flew open--and stared--and closed again quickly. she nodded. "that's what i've been thinking--some one that has sense and can do things--not just talk about 'em." he smiled faintly. "i'm taken very good care of," he replied politely. "i couldn't ask for better care than i've had here." the eyes closed themselves again. "yes--miss canfield's a good nurse." she was watching the face and the closed eyes. "she takes good care--and she's got sense.... what i was thinking was, that you could go home now--if you had somebody to go with you to look after you and take interest--if you had a wife." "i'm not well enough," interposed medfield quickly. "oh, yes--you're well enough, i guess." "the doctor said i was to stay in bed!" his defense was almost spirited. "you and julian could go together," went on aunt jane ignoring it. "_he'll_ look after you some." medfield groaned. and aunt jane reached out a hand to his forehead. her cool touch rested on it. "your head feels all right," she said, smoothing it slowly. the little wrinkles went out of medfield's brow and aunt jane watched it relax. "better tell me all about it," she said gently. "you'll feel better to get it off your mind, maybe." "i _don't_ feel well, you know." it was almost apologetic. "no--and next thing you know, you'll be down sick--just pretending.... i've been thinking about it," she said slowly. "ever since you were took down yesterday--but i didn't sense what was the matter--not till this morning." "you don't know now!" herman medfield's tone was guilty and a little apprehensive. aunt jane smiled. "yes, i reckon i see it just about the way it is--now.... you don't _want_ to get well--not yet." "no." he admitted it feebly. "and you don't want we should take miss canfield off your case." he said nothing. "well, we're not going to take her off." his face brightened a little. aunt jane laughed softly. "that's right! you can chirk up--all you want to!... you _do_ need a good wife--much as anybody ever i see." he opened his lips--and stared at her--and closed them. "i--i believe i do!" his eyes rested on the fresh childlike color in aunt jane's face and the little lines that twinkled at him. "i believe i do!" he repeated softly. aunt jane nodded sagely, "that's what you need." she got up leisurely. "well, i must go do my work." he put out his hand. "when will you come again?" he asked. "oh--along by and by." she was moving from him. "you just tend to getting well.... you'll be able to sit up some time this afternoon maybe." she nodded to him from the door and was gone. he lay looking at the place where she had disappeared. a little wonder held his face; a gentleness had come into it and the eyes watching the closed door smiled dreamily. when miss canfield returned she glanced at him in surprise. "you're looking better!" she exclaimed. "i feel better!" said medfield almost gayly. "the pain is entirely gone." "that's good! we'll have you up--in a day or two." "i don't see why julian has not been in," replied medfield. she paused. "he did come," she spoke slowly. "but we thought perhaps it was better not to disturb you.... you were sleeping when he came--you seemed to be asleep." "did _you_ see him?" demanded medfield. "yes." the little dear color that was always in her face mounted a trifle. "he's coming after dinner," she added quietly. medfield's face was cheerful. "i want to see him when he comes-- if i am asleep, you tell him to wait." "very well, sir." "you tell him, yourself. don't trust any of those people out there!" he made a motion of distrust toward the hospital in general. "you have him wait--see him yourself." xxx in the linen-room at the end of the corridor miss canfield was busy with supplies for suite a. she stood on a chair in front of a great cupboard; and her shoulders were lost in the depths of the cupboard.... a sound behind her caused her to withdraw her head. julian medfield, standing in the door, looked at her. "what is the matter?" she said quickly. she got down from the chair. "i thought i should find you," replied the youth. "did you want me?" "yes." "what has happened?" he watched her smilingly. "i didn't say anything had happened.... i said i wanted you." the color mounted swiftly and she turned to the pile of linen on the table and gathered it up. "i am rather busy this morning," she said quietly. "i thought you meant your father needed something." "no--he doesn't need anything, i guess. they told me in the office, that _you_ wanted _me_--they said you had left word for me. they made a mistake, perhaps." he spoke half teasingly and she lifted her chin. "that was your father," she replied. "he didn't want to miss you." she sorted out the sheets impersonally. she had not looked at him after the first flurried minute. "do you want me to go away?" he said quietly. she looked up, startled. "why?" "i didn't know." her fingers returned to their work. "i think your father is awake," she said in a businesslike tone. "i will go and see." she placed the linen in the cupboard and closed the door and locked it. his hand made a little gesture. "would you please----" she waited. "i can't say anything if you look like that!" he said whimsically. she moved from him to the window. "there isn't any need to--say anything!" the reddish hair was lighted up against the window as he had seen it before, and he watched it. "that's the way _i_ feel!" he said softly. "how do you feel?" she wheeled about and looked at him. "as if there wasn't any need to say things. as if----" she had turned back to the window. he went toward her. "you've known all along!" he said. he addressed the little locks gathered up under her cap. he was quite near to her now. "you knew--the first day i came--when i saw you--in father's room," he declared to the little locks of hair. "didn't you?" there was no reply. "and every time i've seen you since!" he said exultingly. "and now that i've got you alone for a minute--you pretend----" "i'm not pretending!" the shoulders shrugged a little. "and turn your back on me," he added quietly. "it's very thoughtless!" she said, speaking to the window. "you make it awkward for me.... i hoped you would have sense enough--not to say anything!" "i haven't any sense," said the young man. "and you have so much.... that's why i like you. i fell in love with your sense--the first day!" she had turned and faced him now. "of course you don't care!" she said indignantly. "it is just a joke to you--to come, interfering with my work----" "i didn't mean to stop you!" he glanced helplessly at the linen-cupboard. "i mean my nursing!" she said with dignity. "i can't take care of your father if you're looking at me--and saying foolish things--all the time!" he reached out a hand. "i'm not saying foolish things," he said quietly. "and you know it----" a little bell buzzed somewhere and she lifted her head. "he's ringing--" she said quickly. "it's his bell! i'll have to go!" then she waited. and he took her hands and looked down at them, and bent and kissed them gently, and watched the little color come dancing into her face. "pretending you didn't care!" he said. he crushed the two hands hard and she cried out and drew them away--and lifted them to her face and began to cry into them--little hard sobs that shook her. and he held her close and patted the troubled shoulder. "there, there!" he said. his voice was very young and happy and surprised. and she looked up and smiled--a queer little reddened smile--under her crooked cap. the bell tinkled--and rang a long shrill burr. "i shall have to go! i know i look like a fright!" she reached to the cap. "you look dear!" said the young man exultantly. but she was gone and he was speaking only to the white wainscoted panels of the linen-room and to the sunlight flooding in. xxxi herman medfield glanced at her sharply as she came in. "i've been ringing some time," he said dryly. "i was in the linen-room. i'm sorry. i came as soon as i could." he looked at her face. "what is the matter?" he asked. "nothing." she shook her head. "you look as if you had been crying," he said, studying her. "i haven't anything to cry about. i am very happy!" she returned his gaze serenely, with a little fluttering look that came and went underneath. "you look happy," he admitted. "but i could swear you'd been crying." "it doesn't matter how i look, does it?" she straightened the clothes a little and shook out his pillows. "can i get you something, sir? i'm sorry you had to wait." "it doesn't matter. but i woke up, and thought of julian--i was afraid he would go away.... i told you to have him wait, you know; and it's after three--he ought to be here by this time." his tone was petulant. "i'll see if he is here," she replied. but the door of the sitting-room had opened and they caught a glimpse of the young man crossing the room. "there he is!" said his father with satisfaction. "now, don't you go--i may need you." the boy came and stood in the doorway. "hallo, father! how do you do, miss canfield." he bowed to her. "come in, julian," said medfield impatiently. "i missed you this morning. how did you find things at the office?" "all right, i guess." the young man crossed the room slowly. "i shouldn't know if they weren't right.... i know as much about the business as"--he looked about him and smiled--"as that brass knob over there!" he nodded to it. his father smiled contentedly. "you'll learn." then he looked at him quickly. "you like it, don't you?" "oh, i like it," said the young man comfortably. "i like it better than anything i've ever done--i feel as if i belonged there. i feel like my own grandfather, i guess." he laughed happily. "of course they treat me a good deal like a kid," he added. "you're not so very old!" responded herman medfield with a twinkle. the young man's eye rested impersonally on the nurse who was moving about the room. "i'm growing up every day," he declared cheerfully. miss canfield's face was not responsive. she was studying herman medfield's chart. she took it up and left the room. medfield's eyes followed her. "there's a young woman who knows her business," he said with approval. julian sat down. "she seems very competent," he responded. his father shot a keen glance at his cheerful indifference. "she's more than competent," he said severely. "you want to be tied up like this for a while--to find out what people really are." "i don't think i should mind it--so much." the boy smiled at him frankly. "you look very comfortable, sir." "i am better," admitted medfield. "what put you back yesterday?" medfield looked at the ceiling. "nobody seems to understand just what it was," he said quietly, "unless, maybe, aunt jane knows.... i think perhaps she understands the case--better than the doctor." "she's a nice old woman!" said julian pleasantly. "comfortable to have around." his father's glance was amused and a little critical. "how old do you suppose she may be, my son?" "oh--i don't know--fifty! any age!" said the boy. "you don't think of age--with a woman like that. you just love her!" his father smiled. "you have _some_ sense, i see...." "no, i don't want it!" he held up a warning hand. miss canfield had returned with his medicine. "i don't want it!" he said. miss canfield smiled. "the doctor said you were to have it, sir." "set it down," said medfield. "i'll take it by and by.... i'm not sick," he grumbled. "i don't need medicine!" he glanced at it with aversion. his son looked on with amused smile. medfield's eye rested on him and then on miss canfield. his face cleared. he motioned to her. "i want my son to see that catalogue that came this morning--the rose catalogue, you know. will you show it to him, please. it's in the other room." she started toward the door. "i will bring it." but he held up a hand. "no, i don't want it in here. i'm tired." he turned to julian. "it's the catalogue of foreign roses, from rotterdam--the firm that munson orders from. he wants to send in orders for fall delivery--right away. i looked it over and made out a list.... i showed miss canfield. she understands----" he closed his eyes. "i think i'll rest a few minutes," he said. "she'll show the list to you and tell you what i said, and you can give it to munson to-night. don't forget it." he waved them away and lay with closed eyes.... presently he opened his eyes and smiled a little.... through the open door he could see two heads bending over the catalogue. the murmur of voices came to him soothingly. he drew a sigh.... it was almost as if the boy were stupid! a girl like that--one in a thousand--right before him, every day for over a week now!... he lay listening to the voices--there were long silences, it seemed to him, and pauses.... the heads had moved a little. he could not see them and the gaps of silence irritated him.... his thoughts ran back to his own youth. _he_ had not been backward! he held it with a flitting smile. in less than two weeks from the day he met her, she had promised to marry him.... young people nowadays had no spirit--no fire! he fumed a little. it would probably take julian six months to discover that the girl was even pretty!... he could not lie in bed six months, waiting for his son to get his eyes open! he rang the bell impatiently and miss canfield came to the door. she glanced at the glass on the stand beside him. "you have not taken your medicine!" he looked at it guiltily. "i forgot.... did you make out the list?" "partly." she hesitated, and he fancied that a little fine flush crept along under the transparent skin. "i don't believe i remembered all you said about them." "never mind!" he was magnanimous and suddenly cheerful. "i'll go over them again to-morrow.... and i'd like you to see the place where they are to be put." he was speaking slowly. "i think you might help me--if it isn't too much trouble----" she looked at him questioningly. "my rose garden, i mean," said medfield. "oh--!" the little fine flush swept up again. he watched it with satisfaction. "julian has never taken much interest in the garden," said medfield. "he doesn't know one rose from another." "no--?" she was busy with the glass on the stand. "but women have a kind of instinct about such things." he was impersonal and gallant; and the little shadow of disturbance left her face. she moved about, making him comfortable. "i wish you would ask my son to come here," said medfield. the young man came--with the catalogue in his hand. his face was open and cheerful. "how far have you got?" asked medfield. "i don't understand all your hieroglyphics," replied the young man, seating himself on the edge of the bed. "this, for instance!" he held out the book, pointing to a brilliantly colored specimen with little pencilled dots on the margin. medfield glanced at it. "that means, 'try again,'" he said. "oh--!" he made a memorandum on the margin, smiling a little as he did it. "munson never wants to try things twice," said his father. "you'll have to watch him, or he'll leave that out, now." he nodded to the brilliant-pictured rose. the boy's eye dwelt on it. "looks worth trying for--several times," he said softly. "it is," replied his father. "it's hardy and fragrant and prolific--i am going to have miss canfield go out home--to see the garden," he added irrelevantly. the young man stood up. he looked at his father, a little bewildered, and then toward the door of the next room, where a white figure was flitting about at work. "i want her to see the garden," went on medfield. "she has excellent taste--and common sense. she can tell me what munson's up to--this is just the season he needs watching. no telling what he'll do!" "i see!" the young man turned over the pages of the rotterdam catalogue slowly. he was absorbed in them. "she's going to-morrow afternoon," said medfield. "alone?" "i suppose she'll go alone, yes--unless you want to spare time to take her," said medfield carelessly. "i shall be very glad to take her, sir!" "very well." medfield was indifferent. "you can arrange it between you--four o'clock is a good time to be there," he added. "the light is very good about four." he lay silent for a few minutes. it was growing dark in the room. "you might have them serve tea for you in the pergola," he said quietly. julian started. he had thought his father was asleep. he came over to the bed. "i'll see that she has a pleasant afternoon, sir." he stood looking down at his father, his hands in his pockets. "she's been very good to me--taken good care of me, you know," replied medfield. "i understand," said julian. "i'll do everything i can to make it pleasant for her." he looked at his father--and opened his lips to say something and turned away. miss canfield had come in and touched the electric light, and it flooded softly into the room. xxxii some one was singing in the linen-room. aunt jane, going by in the corridor, heard the little song and stopped and looked in. miss canfield, at work on her linen-cupboard, was singing happily as she worked. she had gathered up a handful of towels and carried them to the table and was looking at them with a little vexation, her lips still humming the song. she glanced up and saw aunt jane and the song stopped. she nodded to her. "things are in a terrible state here!" aunt jane came leisurely in. "what's the matter?" "look at that!" the girl spread out the towel rapidly "--and that! did you ever see such work! and--that! they ought not to be sent out like this!... and these belong in the men's ward!" she tossed them aside. aunt jane surveyed the confusion equably. "i must get around to the laundry," she said, "--and give them a good going over. i haven't given them a real good talking to--not for as much as three months, i should think!" "they need it!" said the girl crossly. but her lips were smiling. aunt jane glanced at them. "you're feeling pretty happy this morning," she commented. the face broke in little dancing waves. "i don't know-- am i?" "you look happy," said aunt jane. "it's your afternoon off-- maybe that has something to do with it?" she surveyed her kindly. "perhaps." the girl hesitated a minute, turning over the towels ineffectually--almost as if she did not see them. "i'm going out to mr. medfield's garden," she said at last. she was examining the torn hem of a towel with an absorbed look. aunt jane accepted the news without surprise. "it's a nice garden, they say.... he's given you permission, i suppose?" "he wants me to go--yes.... he's making plans for some new roses and he asked me to see where they are putting them." she did not look at the face, across the table, that was surveying her shrewdly. "i can get back in time," she added concisely--as if that were the main thing to be considered. "oh, you'll get back, time enough--i 'most wish i was going with you," said aunt jane reflectively. the girl looked up quickly and down again at her towels. "mr. medfield is going--with me." aunt jane's gaze remained in mid air--astonished and protesting. "he can't sit up!" "oh--i didn't mean-- it's his son that is going." "oh--julian!" aunt jane's tone was relieved. "julian can go all right, i guess.... he's a nice boy," she added impersonally. miss canfield made no comment. "they say it's about the prettiest garden anywhere round," added aunt jane. "i've heard there's only one or two gardens to compare with it--as beautiful as his." "yes, i've heard so." "it's real kind in him to think of it--sending you out there.... he's a good man," she added diplomatically. "he's cranky, but he's good!" "he's an old dear!" said the girl heartily. aunt jane stared. her countenance was subdued. "well--i don't know as i should call him _old_!"... she considered it. "i don't believe he's a day over fifty!" she concluded. "i don't believe he is," assented miss canfield. "i should say that's just about what he is--fifty." she gathered up the towels. aunt jane's face was a study. it opened out in little lines of protest--and closed slowly. "fifty isn't so very old!" she finished mildly. "of course not. and he's an active man--for his years." miss canfield carried the pile of linen to the cupboard and stowed it away and came back. "what shall i do with these?" she pointed to the discarded pile. aunt jane looked at it critically and sighed. "leave it there! i'll take 'em along when i go to give 'em their talking to. i can't stop for it now." she went into the corridor and presently the song floated out after her--light-hearted, and gay with little tripping runs in it. aunt jane heard the song faintly in the distance as she knocked on herman medfield's door, and her face smiled intently. he looked up almost benignantly from his place in the window and laid the newspaper on his knees and nodded to her. "good morning. i was wishing you would come in!" "you don't look as if you needed anybody," responded aunt jane. "you look first-rate! i'm pretty busy this morning," she added thoughtfully. she sat down. he beamed toward her; and the sunshine flooding in behind him lighted up the quilted robe in a kind of radiant haze of blueness. "it's a wonderful day!" said medfield, motioning toward the window. "i don't know as it's any better day than it was yesterday," replied aunt jane. "better inside, maybe," she added significantly. he laughed out. "much better! i'm all ready for business." he pointed to a pile of papers lying on a chair beside him. she regarded them thoughtfully. "you don't want to go to work too soon-- can't somebody do it for you?" "nobody but me can attend to these." he laid his hand on them almost affectionately, and patted them. "you're kind of tied down to them, aren't you?" she said impersonally. "they are my interest in life!" he replied quickly. "i shouldn't have anything to live for--if it weren't for these!" a note of regret crept into the last words and shadowed them a little. "no--i don't suppose you would." aunt jane's face was lost in something. he regarded the look curiously. "well--what is it?" he said. "tell me!" "i was just thinking you wouldn't need 'em so much when you got your wife," she said quietly. "my--wife!" his hand loosened its grasp on the papers, and he looked out of the window. "no." he turned to her and smiled. "i shall not need law papers, nor any other kind--when i have her." and suddenly something happened to aunt jane. she sat up, very straight; the muslin cap radiated lines of dignity about a disturbed face. "i guess maybe we weren't talking about the same thing!" she said quickly.... "miss canfield told me she's going out to see your garden this afternoon." "yes--she's going with julian." he spoke with satisfaction and a significance under-ran the words and laughed at her. aunt jane gave a startled gesture---- "oh!" she said. then, after a minute: "oh!" something had collapsed in her. she was gazing at the ruins, a little bewildered. herman medfield watched her and smiled. "you hadn't thought of that!" he said quietly. "well--" she made the slide gracefully and recovered herself. "no, i hadn't thought of just--that!" she looked at him over her glasses. "it's a good thing!" she announced. he nodded. "but it's a secret!" he cautioned. "nobody knows--except you and me." he looked at her happily and shared his secret with her. aunt jane's face grew inscrutable. she gave a little sigh. "when did it happen?" she asked. "it hasn't happened!" returned medfield. "but it's going to----" "well!" aunt jane got her breath. "it makes me feel as if i was a kind of blind--blind as a bat!" she said vigorously. "not to see.... i guess maybe i don't see anything!" she added with quiet scorn. he laughed out. "you see more than i wish you did!... you were the only one i couldn't fool. you suspected something right away." "yes, i suspected _something_--" said aunt jane. she let it go at that. she beamed on him. "i don't know _when_ i've been so pleased about anything!" she declared. "he's a nice boy!" "one of the best!" said medfield. "all he needs is backbone--and a little more steadying." "she'll help," commented aunt jane. "yes, she will help." medfield was thoughtful. "but he needs some one in the business--i'm going to put him right into the business and the older men will overrun him--if i don't look out. he's clever. but he's too eager to agree. he takes the first thing at hand. he doesn't look ahead." aunt jane's glance followed it. "he _is_ pretty agreeable," she said slowly. "he needs somebody kind of contrary, i guess----" "why!" her face lighted. "i know a man! mr. dalton would be a good man for him!" she exclaimed. "he'd be good for anybody!" "you speak as if he were a pill!" said medfield dryly. he had faith in aunt jane; and the more he studied the face under its muslin cap, the more faith he had--and something that was not faith, perhaps.... but as a man of business---- "he's just the one you want," said aunt jane with decision. "well--?" he resigned himself. "he's obstinate-- of course, any man is obstinate," she interpolated kindly. "but he's more set than anybody i've ever seen! seems as if it was part of his make-up, somehow.... i was talking with him the other day and he was telling me about how he'd never succeeded yet----" there was a little amused and courteous smile on the millionaire's face. he had seen men before who had not succeeded--yet. aunt jane nodded to it. "he said he couldn't stop to pick up the twopenny bits they wanted him to--because he saw something ahead--and all round him, kind of--that was worth more. so he was always having to move on." she rocked a little. medfield sat up. his hand reached out to the pile of papers and found a pencil. "what did you say his name was?" there was a keen little edge of interest to the words. "his name is dalton," said aunt jane. "his wife's been here a month and over, now. she goes home to-morrow. she's a nice woman!" "and what is the address?" his pencil was making little marks on the pad. "i'll get it for you in the office," said aunt jane. she got up. "he had to write it down for me when she came--the same as you all do." "of course he may have 'moved on'--by this time." she smiled back to him whimsically from the door. "if he has moved on, we will move--after him," said medfield. "i suspect he's the man i have been looking for--a good while!" aunt jane closed the door softly and left him to his happiness. at the far end of the corridor, as she looked down, she caught a glimpse of a dark, stubby figure pursuing its way. it disappeared in room .... dr. carmon had a difficult case on this morning. he had told her there was little chance for the man in number . she felt the concentration in the broad back as it disappeared from sight; and her thought left the millionaire in his suite and followed the shabby, grim figure into a darkened room. xxxiii "you look very well!" medfield glanced at his son approvingly. "new suit?" "i got it in vienna," said julian modestly. "um-m-- very good cut! turn around." the boy wheeled about. "yes--very good---- you have a nice day to go." medfield nodded toward the window. "first-rate!" the young man's face was full of careless light. it seemed to radiate about them. his father looked at it half curiously. "have them serve tea for you.... give her a good time," he said absently. he was searching among the papers beside him. "i ought to have some cards somewhere!" "what is it, sir? can i get something for you?" "over there in that desk-- that's it! lower drawer-- just see if there are some of my cards there, will you?" the boy took them out with an amused smile. "going calling?" he brought them across. medfield selected one and held his pencil thoughtfully poised for a moment--and smiled as he jotted something down. he slipped it into an envelope and pencilled the address and handed it to his son. "give that to munson, will you? tell him to pick three dozen of the best roses in the garden, and send them to-day.... tell him the _best_ ones!" he added exactly. the young man glanced at the address carelessly. his face lighted up. "fine! i'll tell him to send her some corking ones--a big bunch of them!" "you can tell him what i said," said his father dryly. "and have them sent to-day." "all right, sir." he half turned away. "i'd like to pick some roses myself--for miss canfield-- you won't object, i suppose?" his father's roses were sacred. but herman medfield waved it away. "pick all you like." he was gracious with it. "but not the best ones," laughed the boy. he tucked the card in his pocket and went out. aunt jane, sitting at her desk in the office, looked up as he went by. he nodded and smiled to her, thinking of the little card tucked away in his pocket. she got up and came across. "you going out home?" she asked. he radiated happiness. "a ripping good day, isn't it!" he waved his hand at all outdoors. "you'll have a good time," said aunt jane. "and miss canfield's a nice girl." she was surveying his new clothes kindly. "i'm glad you're going to take her." "so am i!" said the boy. "she's waiting for me--" and he hurried on. but miss canfield was not in the waiting-room. he glanced hurriedly about, and crossed to the open window and looked into the street. he could not sit down. it was a glorious day--floating clouds, everything fresh and flooded with light.... down on the walk under the window the man-of-all-work trundled a low cart, and the rumble of the wheels came up, chucking clumsily along. the young man scarcely heard the sound of the wheels. his ear was waiting for something in the corridor--for light footsteps that would come.... he shrugged his shoulders, looking down on the man trundling his cart, and he whistled softly.... then his ear caught the sound, coming along the corridor far off--light, tripping steps and the little swish of draperies--and he had turned to face her. it was not miss canfield! a young woman stood in the doorway, looking in inquiringly. she was tall and slender, with a certain quiet grace as she stood there, glancing into the room. there was something poised in the motion--a kind of freedom and lightness. the young man's eye rested on her a minute--and turned back to the window indifferent.... she was very late. he took out his watch and looked--five minutes past the hour. he put it back with a little impatient gesture. they would miss the best light for the garden! behind him, in the room, he was conscious that the young woman had come in. she was waiting for some one, it seemed, like himself--and he heard her move a little ... and then a subdued laugh. he half turned his head--it reminded him of something.... could he have met her somewhere--before he went abroad? the steps rustled and came nearer and a touch fell on his shoulder--very light, as if it might drift away--as if perhaps it were not there.... julian turned swiftly--and stared into her eyes; they were bubbling over with laughter, and the hair fluffing under the little modish hat, caught reddish gleams and glinted at him. and he stared! she laughed out--the hands hanging easily before her. "you didn't know me!" "you are not--_you_!" blurted julian. "you are--you're different!" then he seized her hands and looked at her--"i say! come on!... you are--you're stunning, you know!" "thank you!" said the girl. "yes--i'm ready." and they went out into the sunshine. and all the way, in the street-car, sitting beside her, the young man stole glimpses. she was different! he had expected that she would be changed, of course--a little different in her street clothes; and underneath he discovered he had been half afraid of the change--afraid perhaps that she might be a little common or awkward, without the distinction of her cap and uniform.... but this young woman-- he stole another glance, and his shoulders straightened in a gesture of pride and bewildered delight. this was the real thing! the other girl was masquerading. "who are you?" he said abruptly, as he put up his hand to help her from the car. "i don't know you! i thought i did--but you are somebody else!" he was looking at her keenly. "goose!" she laughed. "i am mary canfield, of course-- which way do we go?" "this way." they fell into step. and he was conscious that the light, tripping, hospital step had given way to a free, swinging movement of the whole body. she was like the radiant day about them.... and she was like the roses--when at last they stood among them.... her freedom had the same careful air of cultivation; and the crisp little color in her cheeks had the same dainty refinement. he plucked a rose and held it against her cheek. "just a match!" he said critically. "goes with you! will you have it?" she tucked it in her belt--among the endless frills--and he looked at it admiringly. when he saw the gardener's eyes following them, he walked with conscious pride. he had not known that any one felt like this! he would have liked to walk with her always--with the whole world looking on and admiring her.... she belonged to him! "i say!" he stopped short in the path. "you are engaged to me, you know!" "oh--am i?" she laughed. he went in a panic-- some girls were such frightful flirts! they had no decency--they didn't play the game! "you are _mine_!" he said fiercely and he glared at the gardener among his roses across the path. "oh--very well! have it so!" her voice was laughing and sweet. his courage came flooding back. "you are to wait here--please, and we'll have the tea brought out." "oh-- how pretty!" she was looking into the pergola. a green maze of branches crossed and recrossed the sides; and among them the scattered roses flushed transparently in the light. "how beautiful it is!" "will you go in?" he said, standing aside. "will you walk into my parlor?" she stepped lightly in and faced him. "now go and get tea! i like it here!" she sat down and he looked at her once--and was off. he hurried fast. suppose she didn't stay?... suppose it were not real! he fussed about cakes and sandwiches--and there must be strawberries. everything must be of the best. suppose she didn't wait! he hurried back. she had taken off her hat and sat with her hands clasped, looking up into the mazy green tracery and the bits of rose color shining through. "it is like us," she said with a little motion of her hand. "like you," he said soberly, sitting beside her. "_i'm_ not a rose!" "no!" she laughed out. "but it _is_ like us--it's just happiness--nothing to it!" she crushed it in her hand. and he stared at her. "no one takes us seriously," she said. "they just think how young we are----" "and how beautiful _you_ are!" "they know it won't last." she was looking at it musingly. "and they think _we don't_ know----" "it _will_ last!" said the boy vehemently. "will it?" she held out her hand prettily and he kissed it. "it's going to last forever," he said stoutly. "but we don't care if it doesn't.... do you know, i think that is what makes it beautiful--" she glanced at the leafy walls of the pergola. "we know it will not be like this always--and so we just--love it!" he stared a little. "you are not the least bit what i thought you were!" he said helplessly. "don't you like me!" her eyes demanded it. "i--adore you!" he said softly. "but all these ideas about not lasting-- good lord!--here's the tea!" he sprang up and took it from the man and set it out for her. and they drank it--with the light coming in through the crossing vines and checkering the table, and falling on her hair and gleaming delicately at him in little glints like stars--all through it. xxxiv "do you think we'd better tell dad?" they had gathered an armful of the roses and loitered along the winding paths, and were standing at last by the curb, waiting for the car.... she carried a few of the roses in her hand. she looked down at them thoughtfully. and suddenly the look of miss canfield, the nurse, flashed back to him. "we don't want to upset him," she said slowly. "i don't believe it will--upset him.... do you know, i believe he wants it--i half suspect he's been planning it all along!" "do you? what makes you think so?" she had turned to him curiously. he shook his head. "father's deep! i can't tell exactly why i think he knows.... but i never got very far ahead of him yet!" "very well--we will tell him." "to-night?" "if you like." "i want him to see you like this-- there's the car!" he hailed it. so they came into herman medfield's room and stood before him with the armful of flowers. and he looked up at them--and smiled. "god bless you, my children!" he said, after a critical glance at their smiling faces. "that is the proper thing to say, isn't it?" his eyes dwelt on them fondly. julian glanced at her. "i told you!" he said meaningly. "what did you tell her?" "that you knew all along, sir. i told her i never fooled you yet!" "well, you have tried hard enough.... come here, please, daughter." so she went over and stood beside him and bent a little for him. and he kissed her, and looked at the delicate color that came and went in her face, and at the slender freshness of her figure as it straightened itself. "i am glad my boy has done so well," he said quietly.... "i think i'll go to bed, when my nurse comes back. i am a little tired, i find." "she will be here in a minute, sir--as soon as she changes her gown." she nodded to him and was gone. and the boy and his father sat facing each other, with the light lessening in the room. "how was the garden?" asked medfield. "fine! i never saw it look so well!" the boy's voice was happy. medfield's eyes twinkled. "perhaps you were not altogether fitted to judge." he was leaning back in his chair and looking at the light in his son's face. "perhaps not. i was never so happy in my life--i know that!" and his voice was serious now, with a deeper note in it than his father had heard. and herman medfield began to speak of the business and of dalton, and of his purpose to see dalton.... they could use him, perhaps, in some minor capacity and see how he did. "i have an idea that he may be the very man for your secretary--for your personal work, you know. i've always depended a good deal on sully. you must have some one of your own.... suppose you see this man dalton yourself. see him to-morrow. get the address from aunt jane--" he paused.... a look came to his face. "you told munson to send the roses, did you?" "i told him. yes. he'll send them to-night." the reply was absent. the young man's mind was reaching out to business and to the responsibilities that he saw his father would lay on him. his shoulders straightened a little as he stood up. "i feel as if i had just come home," he said. "i've never felt at home before--anywhere!... it is curious to feel that way in a hospital, isn't it?" his father's eyes were fixed on him dreamily. "i've been feeling 'at home,' too. and i have an idea a good many people feel that way--in the berkeley house of mercy." he said the last words slowly and softly, as if they pleased him. "why should they, i wonder?" said the boy. "i wonder--" said herman medfield. "perhaps i shall be able to tell you some day. i feel as if i were beginning to understand a good many things i never knew before.... if you will just give me your arm now, across the room, i think i'll get to bed." xxxv aunt jane was tired. she would not acknowledge it--even to herself. but it had been a trying day. the people in the laundry had been surprisingly difficult--when she went to give them their talking to, and she finally had to put her foot down. she went slowly along the hall now, giving a last look for the night and glancing into shaded rooms, here and there.... at the door of she paused.... the case in troubled her. dr. carmon was anxious about the case. he did not need to tell her. she had known by the little hunched-over look of his broad shoulders down the hall.... she knew that look as far as she could see it.... and he had already been twice to look after room . she went in and gave a few directions to the nurse and glanced at the figure on the bed, and went on to her office. the room looked very inviting as she came in. her big chair stood waiting for her, the light comfortably shaded beside it, and she crossed to it leisurely. she would rest a few minutes, and make her entries in the day-book and go to bed. she sat down with a sigh of comfort and rocked gently. the house was very quiet. the softly creaking rockers seemed the only thing awake.... aunt jane's eye fell on a long pasteboard box resting on a chair across the room. she looked at it doubtingly. she was too tired to get up. but the sight of the long box irritated her subtly. she had thought flowers were over--for the day. sometimes aunt jane wished that she might never see another flower-box! she wished so now.... just as she wanted to rest! well, she would get up presently and take it to the ice-box. let it stay there till morning. it was no time of night to be sending flowers.... everybody in bed and asleep! she looked at it severely and got up from her chair and took it up. her eye fell on the address-- she looked at it disbelievingly--and put it back on the chair--and looked at it.... she fidgeted about the room and came back to the chair. aunt jane had never received a box of flowers in her life. she had handled hundreds of them--they had passed through her hands into the eager waiting hands held out for them. she had watched the faces light up, and she had looked on and smiled tolerantly. folks' faces were _her_ flowers, she had said.... she had never wanted to keep the flowers herself. flowers were things to be passed on to some one else. no one had ever sent them to her. they knew better! she looked down at the innocent box as if it contained something baleful--something that would disturb the quiet routine of life for her. she did not want to be disturbed--she did not want flowers! and she reached out her hand to the box.... it was very long and big. she wondered how she could have overlooked it when she came in.... if she had not been so tired she would have seen it--perhaps. who could have sent it, she wondered; and a little, mild curiosity came under the white cap as her fingers undid the tape, and rolled it methodically, and lifted the lid of the box and raised the bit of waxed paper underneath-- aunt jane gave a pleased sigh. herman medfield's best roses--three dozen of them--shed their fragrance about her; and the little card lying on top of them held their message. she took it up gingerly and read it and put it down sharply--as if it had burned her--and looked at it. then she gathered up the roses in her hands and held them against her face--until her very cap was lost to sight.... it was a subdued face that emerged from the roses at last. something of their hardy color seemed to have been caught in its disturbed quiet. she laid them on the table and brought a great vase of water and shook them loose in it--standing off to look at them and touching them here and there.... the subdued look glanced softly at the roses as she lifted the vase and set it on her desk--and stood back again to admire them. they made a gorgeous show--lighting up the wall behind them. the room was filled with rose fragrance. she moved slowly backward, gazing at them--a troubled, happy look in her face.... then her eye fell on the little card lying on the table. she looked down at it, fascinated, and took it firmly in her fingers and carried it to the desk and slipped it beneath the vase--with herman g. medfield's name exposed.... there was no reason why mr. medfield should not send flowers to her! she surveyed them complacently. it was very natural for mr. medfield to send flowers--and the little card announced to all the world--how natural it was.... the words jotted on the other side of the card were safely out of sight. aunt jane sat down at her desk and folded her hands on the edge of the blotter and looked at the flowers. her peaceful face gave no hint of anything but the most serene admiration and pride. her hand reached out for the big day-book and drew it forward and opened it and took up the pen; and aunt jane's finger found the place and moved along the dotted lines composedly.... and two great tears fell on the spotless page and blurred it and aunt jane sat up and sought swiftly for her handkerchief. she dabbed at two more tears that were sweeping down--she moved the handkerchief quickly across her face and wiped it over the page, and once more across her face--that kept breaking up in little incredulous, ashamed waves. she shut up the day-book impatiently and folded her arms on top of it and dropped her face on her arms and sobbed--a great, shamed, bewildered sob that shook the quiet shoulders; then they were very still. presently she sat up. she shook out her handkerchief and blew her nose methodically and opened the book. "i am a fool!" she said softly. "room --" and two left-over tears splashed down on room and flooded it-- tears enough to wash room out of existence. they overwhelmed aunt jane. she got up abruptly and closed the book and turned down the light--groping for it and glancing hastily at the open door. the light shone dimly on a very disturbed and crumpled face. she looked about her for a minute. then she went to a small door and drew a key from beneath her apron and inserted it in the lock. no one in the hospital knew what was behind the small door. it was popularly supposed to hold aunt jane's private supplies--dangerous remedies for emergencies, perhaps. no one knew. she opened the door slowly and stepped in, closing it gently behind her; the key still dangled from the lock. there was no light in the little room--except for the moonlight shining through a small window and lighting up the bareness of the place; it shone on a single chair by the window. there was nothing else in the room. aunt jane went across to it and sat down.... she was not crying now. she folded her hands in her lap and sat very quiet, and the moonlight filtered in through the window and touched the muslin cap and the white figure, and passed silently across it and fell on the floor, making a luminous path in the blackness.... and aunt jane did not stir. often when she was sought for in the hospital and could not be found, high or low, aunt jane was sitting by the window of this tiny room, gathering up the tangled fibres of pain and discord and holding them steady.... she knew all the stars that moved across the window--at every hour of the night, and every night of the year. it was not a new experience for her to sit very quiet, while the stars travelled across.... but to-night she was not reaching out to stars and drawing them down into the pain of the world to heal it. she was looking into a very queer, disturbed heart--that seemed breaking up in little bits. curious things bubbled up and startled her as she gazed at them.... no one had loved her for twenty years!-- why _should_ any one love--an old woman like her?... why should she _want_ to be loved? her thought was full of gentle scorn for all old women that wanted to be loved--and for aunt jane!... she would have to get a new day-book, or tear out the page! what would mrs. samuel hotchkiss, chairman of the woman's board of directors, say to that page if she happened to come on it!... it was a disgraceful page! aunt jane was a disgrace! and something in her heart ached so with the happiness and the misery of it, that aunt jane's lips fell to quivering.... any woman that had as much as she had to be thankful for, ought to be ashamed!... and what was herman medfield? just a man! but it wasn't herman medfield--it was all the repressed heartache of years.... "women are not fit to live alone!" she had said it many times. but she had not thought of aunt jane when she said it. _she_ was superior to such things--with her hospital and her patients and dr. carmon-- her thought stopped suddenly--and flashed on.... she had always thought she depended on the lord--and here was this great lonely ache in her heart. it didn't seem to make any difference how ashamed she was! her handkerchief brushed fiercely at her eyes. there was a sound in the outer office. aunt jane sat up-- some one looking for her! the hand felt again for its handkerchief and she turned her head to listen.... the steps crossed the office and a bright line of light ran along under the door. aunt jane's eye rested on it. she brushed the traces of crying from her face and reached up to her cap. then she leaned forward to the door--she could reach it from her chair in the little room without getting up; and she turned the handle softly, opening it a crack. there was no sound in the office. from her crack, aunt jane could see the table and the shaded light on it and a man standing by the table looking down. xxxvi his back was toward the door, but aunt jane had no doubt about the shabby, wrinkled coat and the shrugging shoulders. she waited, holding her breath. she was not quite sure of her cap--she put up her hands to it cautiously, adjusting and smoothing it.... the figure by the table moved across to the bell and rang it sharply. his face was toward her now. she saw that he was smiling a little. aunt jane nodded shrewdly. number was better!... from her place in the dark, she watched the man move about the room. he was humming softly--a half-meaningless little tune, with a tumty-tumty refrain, and his face was absent. a nurse appeared in the door and looked at him inquiringly. he glanced at her. "i want mrs. holbrook--yes." "aunt jane? i don't know where she is. i thought she came into her office." "well--she isn't here. you can see she isn't here, can't you? find her--please." aunt jane behind her crack, shivered a little as the girl turned. but the nurse had eyes and ears only for the surgeon and his impatience. she hurried away. aunt jane drew a free breath. the surgeon crossed to her desk and halted there. his eye rested absently on the great bunch of roses. presently his face lighted up; he was seeing the roses! he looked at them with an air of appreciation. the little smile was still on his lips, and the tumty-tumty tune.... slowly he leaned forward, on tiptoe, and--smelled of them and nodded approval. aunt jane's hands made swift, darting touches at her cap and her apron and her hair and she got up quickly.... perhaps he would go away! but dr. carmon's eye had fallen on the little card under the vase and he took it up--and read the name with near-sighted curious gaze, and turned it over---- aunt jane stepped out from her place. "how is number ?" she asked placidly. he wheeled--the card in his hand. "oh! you're here! i just sent for you." he waved the card. "i know. i was busy." "funny, i didn't hear you come in!" he looked at her thoughtfully. "you were thinking of something else, maybe," said aunt jane tranquilly. she came up to the desk. he looked curiously at her face. "what is the matter?" he asked. "nothing," responded aunt jane. "do i look as if anything was the matter?" the face under its ink stains was serene. dr. carmon regarded it critically. "soap and water--" he suggested. he pointed a helpful finger at the smudge of ink on her cheek. she lifted a quick hand. he nodded grimly. "and there's a little over there by your left ear," he said wickedly. she rubbed at the place blindly. "i must have got ink on me--when i was making up my book--" her glance flitted toward it. dr. carmon's eye fell on the open page and on the smudge of room . he bent forward, tapping the place with the card in his hand, and laughed out. "i never saw your book look like that!" he gazed at it and then at aunt jane's face--a little suspiciously. she leaned forward to inspect it. "somebody must have spilled water--or something on it!" she said casually. "folks are so careless here!" she laid a blotter methodically across the smudge and closed the book and put it away. dr. carmon surveyed the roses. "handsome bunch of flowers!" he said carelessly. he waved the card at them. "they look nice," admitted aunt jane. "they're some mr. medfield sent--they came from his garden." her tone was quiet and businesslike--there was no nonsense about those roses. she looked at them impersonally. "i saw it was his card." dr. carmon's hand motioned with the card and dropped it to the desk. he might almost have been said to fling it from him--as if it were a challenge. "who did he send them to?" he asked. "why--to me!" said aunt jane. she tried her best to look commonplace and unconcerned--as if she had been receiving roses all her life--as if she had large bunches of them every day, flaming away there on her desk. dr. carmon's glance twinkled across the roses--to the placid face. "humph!" he said. "how is number ?" asked aunt jane. "fine!" dr. carmon's face lighted with it. he forgot roses--"he's going to pull through all right--i think." "that's good! i kind of reckoned he'd come through." she had turned a leisurely glance to the door. the nurse stood there. "i can't--" she began. "oh--you're here! i looked everywhere for you!" "yes, i'm here. i've been here quite a spell," said aunt jane. the nurse withdrew and dr. carmon and aunt jane and the roses were left alone. he looked suspiciously and grudgingly at the roses and shrugged his shoulders and turned away. he took his hat. "i want you to look in on number --sometime later." there was no "please" about the request--or "will you kindly." but aunt jane understood. "i was planning to go in by and by--along about four o'clock," she said kindly. "that's the time he'll need somebody most, i guess!" dr. carmon looked again at the roses. "i shall want suite a, friday--for a new patient," he said abruptly. aunt jane's mouth opened--and closed. "medfield's well enough to go," said dr. carmon. he nodded to the roses--as if they knew of herman medfield's health. "he'll be better off at home!" he said shortly--and shot out the door. aunt jane gazed after him, a minute. she took up the card from the desk and held it off and looked at it severely and shook it a little--as if it might have known better--and dropped it into a small drawer behind the roses and locked the drawer--and put the key in her pocket. then she turned off the lights and left the room. and the great bunch of roses that had flamed up so bravely, lost their color in the dark. perhaps they went to sleep. all night the fragrance of the roses stole out into the room and filled it--as if little flitting dreams of roses came and went there in the dark. xxxvii things were moving happily in suite a. herman medfield had been awake and stirring since daybreak. he had written one or two notes in his own hand, and had dictated a longer one to miss canfield. it was addressed to thomas dalton, and it lay on the stand beside his chair in the window. the girl had grasped its import swiftly, as she took down the crisp words. "it is just what julian needs," she said compactly as she folded and sealed and stamped it. he nodded. "you understand him surprisingly well--considering that you love him," he added smiling. she returned the smile. "that's _why_ i understand, isn't it?" "perhaps----" he watched her move about the room, contentedly. julian was a lucky dog! luckier than he knew, to win a girl like that--sweet and sensible and poor! "i will mail this now," she said. she took it from the stand. he watched her go, and looked out of the window, and fell to thinking of the things life was bringing him.... everything seemed coming to him out of this great, comfortable hospital--that he had looked forward to with dread!... a wife for julian--he might have searched the world over to find a girl like that! straight, and as true as steel, and best of all--she was poor; she would know the value of money. she had had to work for it-- he had always spoiled julian. he knew it, guiltily. julian had never known what it was to want for anything that money could get--except, perhaps, a widow or two! the millionaire's lips smiled grimly. that danger was over--thank heaven! the boy would marry a poor girl--and a lady!... herman medfield had perhaps old-fashioned ideas as to what makes a lady; and the nurse who moved so noiselessly about his room suited him to perfection.... his thought dwelt on her happily.... then there was this man, dalton--thanks to aunt jane!... ah, that was the secret! "thanks to aunt jane!" the millionaire leaned back in his chair, smiling thoughtfully. he had known that he was coming to that--as he sat there in the window, looking idly down into the little squares of back yards--he had known all along--under his thankfulness for julian--that he was coming to the thought of aunt jane.... he had held it to the last.... it was not julian he was thinking of now--with the little smile that kept coming to his lips. he was smiling at aunt jane and her crispness and her goodness and her little managing wilful ways that kept him straight.... he was like a small boy in the very thought of her. a man ought to feel that way toward his wife, he told himself--all men really feel like that! there was a gentle tap on the door and he sat up. he smoothed the dreams from his face. "come in!" the whole room seemed to become a place of comfort, as she came leisurely across to him. "i hear you've been doing considerable this morning." she looked at him uncritically. his response was guilty. "only a letter or two-- sit down, won't you?" he reached out to a chair for her. but aunt jane interposed--"when you're well enough to wait on folks, you're well enough to go home," she said. "oh-- i'm not well enough for that--i feel sure!" he sank back in his chair. "i shall be very careful what i do!" she surveyed him. "i liked the roses you sent-- they're real handsome!... i don't know as i ever had any handsomer roses sent to me!" "i am glad you liked them." he was suddenly a little formal and polite. he had not expected quite such frank and open delight in his offering. "and the card--" he said softly, after a minute. "i hoped you liked that, too?" he was almost shy about it! aunt jane looked at him inquiringly and rocked a little. "was there a card--?" she seemed considering it. "maybe it got lost out." she shook her head. the shadow crossed his face. "you're sure there wasn't a card with them--no message?" his tone was vexed and he sat up. "that's munson's carelessness!" he said dryly. "i can't seem to remember any card," said aunt jane. a little smile broke up his face. "you would remember it--if you had read it! i made sure of that!" he chuckled gently.... "never mind--i will send you another--with some more roses." "you don't need to send them right away--not for some time," said aunt jane hastily. "these will last quite a spell. i cut the stems every day, you know--same as if i was a patient!" her eyes twinkled at him. and he smiled at the round trustfulness of her face. he was vexed at munson for carelessness. but there was plenty of time--to send roses! and he enjoyed sitting there and teasing her a little and watching the guileless face, turned so comfortably upon him.... she little knew what was on that card! he chuckled. "you'll be ready to go home in a day or two now," she said impersonally. he cast a quick look at the face in its cap. "no use to borrow trouble!" he responded lightly.... "i have some news for you!" "for me!" a quick flush swept under the cap and subsided. "i hope it's good news," she said tranquilly. "yes--it's good for you.... you'll think it's good some day! my son is going to be married." he leaned back to watch the effect. she nodded. "we talked about that yesterday." "but it hadn't happened then!" "hadn't it?" there was no contradiction in the response. but it brought him to a sudden pause. "why--of course not! i don't believe it had! do you know anything?" he turned on her swiftly. "no, i don't know anything." aunt jane was cheerful. "not anything i could put my finger on," she added slowly. "but i kind of sensed, somehow, that they'd got things settled--between 'em." "oh, you 'sensed'!" he scoffed gently. "well--she'll make him a good wife," aunt jane rocked. "of course, he don't need a rich wife----" "no, i don't want him to marry money!" medfield spoke with satisfaction. his magnanimity overspread the poverty of his son's wife--and welcomed it and exulted in it. aunt jane's face was tranquil--and somewhere deep below, little twinkles came up to the surface and stirred it. "well, he doesn't need to marry her money--" she said slowly. "he can't help her having it, of course. but she'll make him just as good a wife." he stared. "i must have given you a wrong impression." he was polite about it. "julian is going to marry miss canfield." "mary canfield has money--more money than most folks. she's going to make a good nurse, though. she came in and took the training as if she hadn't a cent to her name--she said she wanted to be something besides sheldon canfield's----" "sheldon canfield!" he took it up. "was sheldon canfield her father?" "his name was sheldon," said aunt jane. "maybe you've heard of him?" herman medfield laughed shortly. "he did me out of a million dollars! sheldon canfield!" he looked at the thought and shook it. "i fought him for ten years. i swore i would break him before i died-- but _he_ died first! sheldon canfield's daughter!" he held it before him. "so sheldon canfield's daughter has been taking care of _me_!" "she's taken good care of you!" said aunt jane. it was almost defensive; and he gave her a quick look. "the best of care!" he said emphatically. "couldn't have been better--unless you had done it yourself," he ended gallantly. aunt jane's look cleared, and then became a little confused--under something that danced in the eyes bent upon her. "i must go do my work," she said. "and leave me to my juliet?" "julian, i suppose you mean," aunt jane corrected him kindly. "he's romeo--of the house of montague!" he said dreamily. she stared a little. he waved a hand. "go away, aunt jane, and do your work. you have disturbed me--even more than usual. i want to collect my thoughts!" she went out almost soberly, turning it in her mind, on the way to her office. she had upset him and she was a little remorseful! she ought not to have let him run on like that! there was no telling that he would not have a setback.... and they needed suite a for dr. carmon's new patient friday.... he had said herman medfield was well enough to go home--that he would be better off at home. she entered the office--and stopped. on a chair across the room, was a long, light box. aunt jane almost fancied she had been dreaming, and had never opened that box.... she contemplated it and went over to it slowly--and looked at her desk, where the great flaming roses gave out their fragrance.... she went back to the box and took it up slowly, and undid the tape. it was filled to the brim with roses--great pink-and-white heads glowed through the transparent waxed paper at her--and on top of the paper lay a card--with the name uppermost---- "dr. frederic h. carmon." aunt jane stared at it. she reached out a hand to it--as if fascinated and almost afraid--and took it up and turned it over slowly.... there was no writing! she laid it back with a little quick sigh of relief--and stared down at it.... presently a shrewd look of amusement overspread the stupefaction in her face and she nodded to the little card and took it up and carried it to her desk and unlocked a drawer--moving the great flaming roses to reach it. she dropped the card beside the other one that lay there--and the amusement in her face grew to soft chuckles that filled all the spaces in her roundness. when she had arranged the pink-and-white roses and carried them to her desk and placed them opposite the flaming ones, she stood back and surveyed them--and shook her head--and smiled radiantly to them. a man, who had come quietly down the hall, stood in the open door of the office. he watched her a minute. he cleared his throat circumspectly. she turned swiftly--and saw him--and moved a reproachful hand to the flowers. "you never ought to have done it!" he smiled on the roses complacently and removed his gloves. "like 'em?" he asked. she shook her head. "i haven't any call to like them--or not to like them!" it was severe disapproval. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "i'm not!" he looked at them with satisfaction. he was whistling softly. "i didn't know you wanted flowers--or i'd have sent them before." he had turned--his glance was on her face. something in the glance sent aunt jane hastily across the room. she straightened the furniture a little and came back to the desk and looked at the bunches of roses on either side, regarding them impartially. "i hadn't ought to want flowers--goodness knows!" she said slowly. "i see enough of 'em, around every day, to make any one sick of them for life." she paused and studied the pink-and-white blossoms. "somehow, it's different--when they're your own! i guess maybe i did need to have them sent to me--so i'd know how folks feel inside--when i open their boxes for them and they look in and see the flowers and see somebody's card on top--somebody that's thought about them--somebody that loves 'em!" she ended it triumphantly and happily and smiled--sharing it with him. dr. carmon looked at the two great bunches of flowers--and grunted--and went out. xxxviii the sunshine in the children's ward glinted happily; it touched on bits of brass here and there and gleamed, and slipped across the skylight, making shadows in the room. the white-capped nurses had finished their work. every bed was freshly made, picture-books and toys were scattered through the ward. flowers stood on the little stands by the beds; and a great bunch of roses was on the table in the centre, under the skylight. aunt jane standing at the door of the ward, looked in, touching the arm of the man beside her. "those are your roses over there--the ones that came yesterday-- they look nice, don't they?" she spoke in a half-whisper--not to attract the attention of the children. she had wanted him to see the ward like this; and she had wanted him to see jimmie sullivan's new leg. and, most of all, she had wanted a good excuse for persuading herman medfield to try his strength a little.... if dr. carmon's new patient was to have suite a on friday, there was no time to waste; and herman medfield had been obstinate in refusing to exert himself. "i'm very comfortable where i am!" he had declared. and he had refused to budge, or to wear anything except the æsthetic, blue quilted gown. it was only by deep guilelessness that aunt jane had succeeded in bringing him as far as the door of the children's ward. herman medfield's glance followed the motion of her hand and rested on the roses. it grew interested as it travelled slowly through the ward to the faces of the children. he was taking in the clean, cool look of the place and the sunlight coming in and the happiness that shone everywhere. it was not what he had imagined the children's ward in a hospital would be.... and he had a suspicion that all children's wards were not like this--a suspicion that the woman beside him had more to do with the quiet charm of the room than one might have guessed from the unconcerned look of her face. beyond the ward, opening out through big doors and the low, wide windows, he had a glimpse of a balcony--with growing plants along its edge and a striped awning; and drifting clouds and the blue sky beyond the awning. his glance came back to his roses in the centre of the room. they were a great bunch of the choicest ones that grew in his garden. they looked very well there, he admitted. "but i did not intend them for the children's ward--" he said, turning and looking down at her. "i told them mr. herman sent them," said aunt jane. "i knew you'd like them to have 'em. they take comfort with 'em, you see." she nodded to a child who was lying with her eyes fixed on the flowers. there was a patient look in the small, shrewd face. "she likes 'em," said aunt jane. "they'll do her a world of good!" she avoided herman medfield's eye. she had been a little surprised to find that it was difficult to meet his gaze.... he was almost like a stranger--dressed in the gray business suit and looking down on her with keen, clear eyes.... she had forgotten that herman medfield was tall. as she had remembered him, that first day when she went into the waiting-room with his card in her hand, he had not been so tall. she seemed to remember that she had looked down on him and had put him in his place--easily.... perhaps his thinness made him seem taller--or was it the little triumphing twinkle that had crept into his eyes. aunt jane refused to see the twinkle. she felt sorry for herman medfield--somewhere in the back of her mind. "there's jimmie sullivan!" she said. "that's your leg--the one you got for him!" "looks like his own," commented medfield. aunt jane opened the door--and a child looked up from her picture-book. "aunt jane's come!" the ward took it up. aunt jane looked up at herman medfield, half apologizing for the commotion they made. "it helps them get well," she said. he nodded. "i know all about that." they went slowly down the ward to the big chair by the table. she stopped by it. "you can sit down here and rest if you want to-- you've done first-rate. you'll be well enough to go, friday, i guess." she arranged the chair for him and he sat down. "i'm pretty well tired out!" he remarked. "that's natural enough-- you see how nice jimmie gets around on your leg? come here, jimmie, and make your manners to mr. herman." jimmie came up proudly, hardly limping at all as he approached the man sitting in the big chair. he stood very straight on his frame leg, his hands in his pockets, and looked him in the eye. "i thank you for my leg!" he said. "it's fine!" "you are welcome." medfield was smiling. "show him how it walks, jimmie." jimmie strutted off, swinging it proudly. "you see--it hardly shows at all!" she said, as they watched him cross the room. "and the older he gets, the better he'll manage. you've made a man of him!" she beamed approval on medfield and on jimmie and the frame leg and on the whole ward. medfield, leaning back in his chair, smiled at her whimsically. "you spoil everybody!" he said. she ignored it. "you sit there and rest a spell--till i'm ready to go." she moved to a bed near by and leaned over to the child and said something. the girl put up a quick hand and listened and glanced at the man in the big chair and nodded happily. "that's him!" said aunt jane looking back to the child and smiling as she went to the next bed. "we like your flowers, mr. herman." the child was speaking softly to him. medfield started and turned. "we like them very much!" said the child, regarding him gravely. "yes, we do like them!" came from the next bed. "we like them!" "we do like them!" the call was from farther off. "they're fine, you know!" it came from all sides now! medfield glanced from one to the other, a little bewildered and touched. "we like mr. herman's flowers!" they called out. "i told you they liked 'em," said aunt jane. she had come back and was standing smiling at the children. "i thought you'd just like to see how it was yourself!" "you have them well trained!" replied medfield, "--all but the name," he added. "the name doesn't matter--i thought you'd like it better?" "i do!" he got up, half embarrassed. "i'd better hide somewhere! i never had such an ovation--for a few flowers!" he turned toward the balcony that opened from the side of the room--with its flower-boxes, and the striped awning covering it from the sun. he stepped out into the balcony. below him were the roofs of houses; and the city stretched away in the distance to a sunny haze. xxxix medfield looked back into the ward. the children had returned to their picture-books and toys. they were not thinking of mr. herman any more. the quiet look had returned to the room. "that was very pretty," he said. "thank you!" his eyes were gentle, and a little moist, as they met hers for a moment. "don't thank me!" said aunt jane hastily. "i didn't do anything!" "didn't you tell them to do it?" "i didn't tell them anything, except that you were mr. herman. they did the rest themselves.... children generally do things--nice things, if you let 'em alone--and don't meddle too much." "you better go out and preach that doctrine to the world," said medfield laughing. he was looking out over the city. "i haven't time to preach," said aunt jane.... "sometimes i wish i had--i've got a good many things i'd like to say!" her eyes twinkled swiftly. he nodded. "i've heard them--some of them--when i was cantankerous." "you're doing pretty well, now," responded aunt jane. "fair." his tone was cautious. he was not to be inveigled into acknowledging complete recovery--yet. his glance travelled out over the roofs--and he started and leaned forward. "i believe that is my place--over there!" he was pointing off into the haze where a greenhouse caught the sun on its glass and flashed back from the distance. she nodded toward it. "that's your place, yes. i was noticing it the other day--when julian and mary canfield went out there. i happened to be up here--and looked off and saw it." she regarded the flashing glass in the haze. "it's quite a ways off," she said. "not very far--with a machine." his tone was aggressive and a little masterful. it seemed to pick her up and whirl her away through distance. aunt jane's face was meek. "i'm glad you've got along so fast," she replied. he regarded her suspiciously. "and having your own car so--you won't mind the trip----" "i'm not going!" said medfield. he was chuckling a little. she turned a distressed face to him. "i don't see how we're going to manage--if you don't!" "i am not in anybody's way," said medfield.... "i'll be good!" he was watching her expressive face. "yes, you're good! you are always good!" aunt jane's diplomacy was at its best. he laughed out. "you see--we need your room--your suite." "what for?-- i pay as much as anybody, don't i?" he turned on her quickly. "you pay more.... don't you remember i told you about that?" "yes." he recalled the facts. "i'm to pay for a mrs. pelton, too." "that's it. i let you pay for her----" "thank you"--a little ironical and smiling. "_she_ wants to thank _you_," said aunt jane quietly. "i told her you'd let her." "keep her away!" he put out his hand to ward it off. "i've made out a check for her--you remind me to give it to you." "a check?" "you said she could use a hundred dollars," he replied. "now, wasn't that good in you!" she beamed on him and on his goodness. he received it complacently. "i only wish there were something more i could do--for you." he said it carefully. he did not look at her now. he wanted to be sure she took it in--and he did not want to flustrate the meek quiet of her face. a little light crept into the face--half guilty. "i've been planning to ask you for something," she said, "kind of screwing up my courage." "ask away--what is it?" he looked at her as ahasuerus may have looked on esther. "you sit down, mr. medfield," said aunt jane. "is it as bad as that?" he laughed and sat down, regarding her quizzically. "go ahead!" "it's a new wing--" said aunt jane. "one of yours worn out?" pretended astonishment and happiness was in the tone and she smiled at him tolerantly. "it's for contagion-- it will cost fifty thousand dollars-- i thought maybe you'd like to give it." she flung the words at him. she had been meaning to do it all day--"screwing up her courage" to it.... she fired her bomb and she watched, waiting for it to go off. she sat alert and anxious. he chuckled. "i'm glad i have enough!" she wheeled quickly-- "you're going to do it?" "i'm going to think about it--look into it," said the man of business. a little keen look had come into his face, breaking its lazy quiet. aunt jane regarded it without fear. she was her tranquil self again. "if you look into it, you'll find we need it pretty bad," she said. he had taken out his pencil and was making a note. "all right. i may give you _two_ wings ... if you really _need_ them!" the tone was teasing again. "i don't need two," said aunt jane composedly. "of course, we may need another--some time," she added thoughtfully. his laugh was happy. "you'll let me stay now, won't you?" he put back his pencil and settled reposefully in his chair and watched her. she turned on him. "now you are being selfish!--and spoiling everything!" it was full of reproach, but tinged with the happiness of the new wing.... "you see it's a child!" said aunt jane. "a child?" he sat up. "put her in there!" he motioned to the ward. she shook her head. "she can't be put there at first--not right off. her mother's coming with her-- your suite is the only place we've got." she gazed out over the balcony-rail--not to disturb his feelings--but he stirred uncomfortably. "of course the mother'll go home in a day or two," went on aunt jane. "they generally do go home.... they come here thinking nobody can do for their children but themselves--and then, somehow--in a day or two, they go home." she sat looking at him and beaming, and medfield laughed. "and you're proud of it!" he said. "i'm not proud--exactly," said aunt jane. "but i do take comfort, doing for them--and knowing they're all happy--as happy as they can be, with their sufferings.... they are coming friday afternoon, along about four. so if you could be ready to go at three----" "i'm not going!" she regarded him mildly. "you can have your old suite for them--" he was like a boy, laughing at her. "but i won't go home!" "there isn't any other place for you," said aunt jane calmly. "i told you about it--we haven't any other room." he looked about him. "i'll sleep anywhere--! i'll sleep in the children's ward!" he waved a hand. aunt jane's face was vexed. of course, he was going to give the wing--and it softened her austerity a little. but he was a grown man. he ought to behave better. she got up quickly. "i can't have you upsetting everything!" she said. she went into the ward, leaving him in solitary state. he watched the plump figure moving among the beds, and the faces turned to it; and he smiled whimsically.... "i mean to upset things a good deal more for you--before i'm done, aunt jane!" he said softly. he sat looking out over the city and dreaming contentedly. when aunt jane appeared again in the door, he turned to her. "i've decided," he said. she came out. "i'll go," he said, looking up at her. "i'll go--if you will go with me." up above them they could hear the awning flapping a little in the wind, and the children's voices from the ward. aunt jane's gaze travelled out over the roofs, to the greenhouse and its glass flashing back the sunlight. she sighed. "well--i'll go. i'm too busy, and i ought not to take time.... i don't see how i can spare time to go. but you're so obstinate--" she looked at him appealingly. he shook his head. "well--i'll go with you--" said aunt jane. "it won't take long--going in a car." and herman medfield smiled, looking out across the roofs to his home. xl at last herman medfield was ready to leave the berkeley house of mercy. he stood on the top step, looking contentedly down at the car that waited for him. the chauffeur glanced up and caught sight of him and sprang up the steps. "can i help you, sir?" he offered a helpful arm. but medfield motioned it aside. "i'm all right, buckman.... i'm quite myself, thank you. i am waiting for some one----" he glanced toward the door. "some one is coming--with me." the chauffeur returned to his car, standing immovable, and the master of the car waited on the steps.... there had been a dozen things to do. aunt jane had insisted on his seeing mrs. pelton, and there had been delays. and at the last minute, aunt jane had disappeared in her office for something. he turned toward the door. she was coming. the door opened and aunt jane stood in it, smiling and competent--in her cap. he flashed a look at it. "you're not coming?" it was disappointed and vexed. "yes, i'm coming." her face was pleased. "you've forgotten your bonnet," he laughed. "oh--i don't need a bonnet." she went slowly down the steps. "i never wear a bonnet when i go with a patient." she looked back to him. "you want me to help you?" he came quickly down with a laugh and placed her in the car. "i don't want anything--except to get home!" he said exultantly. the chauffeur slammed the door. aunt jane beamed on her patient. "i thought you'd be ready to go--when the time came," she said philosophically. "i'm happy. i don't want anything but what i've got--right here!" he was looking at the face in its cap. aunt jane transferred her gaze to the window, watching the houses slide by, and the long, smooth roll of streets. "i do like a car!" she declared with a sigh. "i always feel as if i owned the whole earth when i go in a car--kind of on top, you know!" and the car bore her onward without a jolt or jar, as she sat competently erect; and herman medfield, leaning back against the cushions, relaxed to the motion, and watched her pleasure, happily.... there were many things he could give her. he was glad he was a rich man. the car flashed them through the maze of streets and in through the great gate that formed the entrance to the medfield estate; and aunt jane looked out, with pleased eyes, on trees and shrubs and on a wide soft greenness of turf, and little open vistas shining out as they passed them. "i always heard it was a nice place!" she said contentedly. "i knew you would like it!" replied medfield. aunt jane turned her glance on him. "anybody would be pretty hard to please that didn't like this," she said simply and returned to her window. he smiled a contented, thoughtful smile. "here we are! home at last--!" he held up a hand to her as she stepped out. "it has been a long time!" he was looking toward the entrance. "yes-- you've been away a good while." she moved tranquilly beside him, up the low steps into the hall. "now, i'll make you comfortable." she was looking about her. "and then i must go back. we'd better tell the man to wait--" she turned toward the door. "we'll call him up," said medfield quickly. "he's gone-- and i want to give you tea and show you my rose-garden--we'll have tea out there----" "if it isn't too damp," said aunt jane. "what do i care!" he was impatient. "dr. carmon said you'd have to be careful." she spoke the name with authority and a look of vexation crossed medfield's face. "bother! well--i shall be careful! you won't let me do anything rash!" "no, i'll try not to--you don't think you'd better go to bed, do you?" "i do not!" and he took the situation into his own hands and showed aunt jane through the house; and she admired it all, and liked the flowers growing in little pots in the drawing-room windows. "this would be a good place to have your tea," she remarked. "we are going outdoors," he said obstinately--and there was a long, low rumble somewhere-- "what's that?" he had started. "sounds like thunder," said aunt jane. she moved over to the window. "yes--looks as if we were going to have a shower--a hard one. i thought i felt like it." she sat down placidly. lightning played through the room, with fantastic touches on the chairs and tables and on the little growing plants in the windows. "i guess we'll have tea indoors." she beamed on him. he laughed out with vexation and rang the bell and ordered tea and had a fire made on the great open hearth. he drew up a chair before it for aunt jane and made her comfortable. there was nothing of the invalid in the slim, quick-moving, aristocratic figure. he was playing the host with happy face. "i declare--you look real well!" said aunt jane, watching him. "oh, i'm well--i'm happy!" he replied. something in the voice arrested her, and she turned away. "i wouldn't be too happy--not the first day or so," she said softly. "do you mean to spoil it?" he came and stood by the fire and looked down at her sternly. "no--i shan't spoil anything--" a crash of thunder filled the air, and the room grew dark. little sulphurous lights played in it--and withdrew, dancing across the potted plants. "here's your tea!" said aunt jane out of the subsiding din. "put it here, henry." medfield rolled a little table in front of aunt jane and watched the man as he set it down. he ran an eye over the tray---- "that's all right. i'll set it out. you draw the curtains and light the candles." he motioned the man aside and arranged the dishes himself, setting the toast in front of the fire and placing the cups and plates with swift touch. "there you are!" he had taken the chair opposite her and he looked across with happy eyes. "this is all right!" he said. the man had left the room; the crashing thunder was shut behind the heavy curtains, the candles shone down on them, and the firelight played across the table. it shone on aunt jane's face. "you have a nice home," she said safely. she lifted a napkin from her plate. "mercy--what's this!" she peered at the thin blue strip of paper that fluttered from under the napkin. she took it up and read it--and laid it down hastily. "it's for the wing!" she said. he nodded quietly, watching her. "you guessed right--the first time!" her face looking down at the check was thoughtful and sweet. "are you going to pour my tea?" said medfield. xli "ah!--this is comfortable!" he had taken his tea from her and was sipping it slowly. he looked about the great room, lighted with high candles in the massive silver sticks, and at the soft folds of curtains that shut out the storm. "you don't know what a lonely place it is!-- with no one here!" he shivered, and then looked contentedly at aunt jane drinking her tea. "places generally _are_ lonely," she responded. "it takes folks--not to be lonely.... most of us _need_ folks, i guess." "_i_ need them!" said medfield emphatically. "and i didn't know it--how lonely i was.... i knew i was beastly unhappy!" he leaned forward and seemed to be looking at his unhappiness in the fire that glowed on the hearth and danced in the flames and flew away up the chimney. "that's over!" he said. he leaned back happily in his chair, watching the flames. "yes. you're going to have a family now----" he turned on her with a little amused stare. she nodded. "you'll have julian here, and mary canfield----" "oh--romeo and juliet!" the tone dismissed the youthful lovers, and laughed at her. aunt jane received it. "they're only two--i know--and two isn't a family--exactly--but there'll be little ones--you see! they'll be all over the place, i expect." her eyes seemed to be watching the children playing in the great room. "they'll look nice, won't they!" he shook his head. "i wasn't thinking of julian and mary--nor of children-- never mind!" he put it aside. "i'll tell you sometime." aunt jane had taken up the check from beside her plate, and was folding it in slow fingers. "you don't know what that is going to do," she said slowly. "but i can see it--plain as if i was right there now--the folks that will get well with this, and be like folks again!... it's hard to be poor!" she opened the bag that hung at her side, and put in the check, and closed it softly. he sat up and leaned an elbow on the table, resting his head on it and looking across to her under the shading hand. "there's one thing i wanted to ask you." "yes?" aunt jane's response was veiled. but the good-will in her face shone through. "i'll tell you anything i can. there's a good many things i don't know." her cap was whimsical. "you know this!" he laughed. "it's about your old hospital!" he motioned toward the little bag with its check. "oh--i know the hospital-- it's 'most all i do know!" "you feel as if you owned it, don't you!" his tone teased her gently. then he left it--and leaned forward---- "what i was thinking was this: isn't there something that you would like for the hospital--not just contagion--not a whole wingful!" he twinkled at it. "but something you have seen that is needed. isn't there something?" he folded his arms on the table, and looked across the teacups at the thoughtful little lines that came and went in her face. "is there?" he said. the lines took it in--and held it wistfully. "you don't mean tea-strainers and such things--you mean something worth while?" he nodded. "something worth while, yes. i mean anything.... think of it--not for yourself, perhaps--" his face grew intent. "think of it as if some other woman were there." aunt jane sat up. "i can't hardly think of any other woman running my hospital!" she said dryly. he waved it off. "but if there were?" she accepted it. "well--if there was--there's one thing she could make a good deal of use of--if she had it. i've thought about it----" "yes-- that's what i want!" "it's expensive," said aunt jane. "we can talk about that later." she sighed. "it seems kind of ridiculous!... i don't suppose you'll understand, maybe?" she looked up at him. "i'll try--i don't think there are many things you could say that i should not understand," he said softly. aunt jane's glance hastily sought the teacups. "it's a kind of little home for me." she looked at him as if begging him not to make fun of her. "you don't mean you want to leave your hospital!" it was half amused and wholly alert, and the question darted at her. she caught it with a quick shake of the muslin cap. "i don't ever want to live anywhere except in the house of mercy," she said. "oh!" the crestfallen word slipped across to her, and aunt jane's face relaxed. "it's kind of a wing i was thinking of----" "but i gave you your wing!" "this is a little one--a kind of place of my own--where i could have them--when they were dismissed, you know--well enough to go home but not quite ready--in their minds, maybe.... i don't know as you ever thought--that it takes courage to start?" she regarded him mildly. "i can imagine it--yes." his tone was dry. she nodded. "i'd like to have a little home--not belonging to the hospital, but just to me, close by--where i could take 'em in, for a visit-like, till their courage had time to grow." "i see--a cucumber frame for courage." she looked up to see if he were making fun. but he was gazing thoughtfully into a teacup. "poor folks have to get their courage somehow--and it's hard work--wastes a good deal," she said practically.... "and then sometimes, there's rich folks that don't want to go--when the time comes--" her eyes twinkled with it. "i'd like to ask them to visit me sometimes." he was silent, looking into his teacup. "have you finished?" he asked. "is that all?" the little irony of the words danced across to her kindly. she sighed, and leaned back in her chair. "you made me tell you! i've never told anybody, before. i know it sounds foolish--having a home of my own!" he got up from his chair, and went toward a big desk. then he paused and came back and stood by her chair, with one hand on it, looking down at her. "i never think anything you do is foolish! you know that!" aunt jane jumped a little. "well--i think i'm foolish--a good many times!" he smiled and went over to the desk and drew out his check-book. "how much will it cost, do you suppose?" he looked over his shoulder to her. "i could get along with a little one," she said meekly. he smiled again, and filled in the check. "make it ten thousand for a start." he blotted it carefully. "if it isn't enough, there's more where it came from." he patted the check-book with just a little happy touch of pride, and came across and laid the blue slip in her lap. "it is for another woman, you know," said medfield. he moved across and stood by the fireplace, looking at her with frankly happy eyes. "what do you mean--by that?" said aunt jane. her fingers seemed a little afraid of the blue slip in her lap. "just that!" his face was quiet with the happiness shining in it--ready to break through at a word. "just that. if some other woman comes to the house of mercy, she is to have it--otherwise i take it back." aunt jane's fingers abandoned the check. it slipped to the floor. he came over and picked it up and placed it on the table beside her, and bent a little to her. "i want to give you a larger home, jane. i want to give you all i have.... won't you come and live with me?" "oh--dear!" said aunt jane. "that's what i meant." he was smiling, but the shadow crossed his face. "i can't!" said aunt jane. she pushed the check from her, and opened the little bag, searching--with half-blinded fingers for the other. "i can't take 'em!" she said.... "and we do need the wing for contagion--" her fingers had found the slip and she took it out longingly, and laid it beside the other on the table and glanced up at him with a little, tremulous shake. "i can't take it--if you were offering it to me just because you thought you were--in love with me!" she looked at it regretfully. "i did hope it wasn't that!" she said softly. "but it is!" the tone was grave, with a little line of hope running through. "take it, jane!" he said gently. "i am not asking anything. it's yours, you know!" she shook her head. "it seems as if it wouldn't be quite--fair-- and we do need the new wing for contagion--the worst way!" he took up the two checks and folded them in his thin, quiet fingers and lifted the little bag. "you will take them," he said. he slipped them into the bag and closed it. "money is only good for what it will buy-- mine does not seem able to buy anything better worth while at present.... besides"--he dropped the little bag and crossed the hearth--"i shall not spoil your life--or mine! you're going to ask me to visit you, you know, in your little home!" he was smiling at her. "you're tired!" she said with quick remorse. but he lifted a hand. "i'm all right. i'm not going to play on your sympathies that way!" he sat down. "i'm all right!" "you're going to bed!" said aunt jane. she got up and rang the bell. then she came and stood by his chair and looked at him and hesitated.... and he smiled at her. "it's all right, jane." "i'm old enough to be your mother," she said ruefully. "nonsense!" "well, i _feel_ old enough! i feel like a mother to everybody, i guess!" she bent to him.... "and i'm sorry!" she said swiftly. she kissed him on the cheek--a full, loving, motherly kiss--and drew back from the detaining hand. "now you are going to bed," she said practically. "here's henry!" she crossed to the man and gave directions for herman medfield's comfort; she looked regretfully at the figure sitting in the big chair before the fire as she gave them. she crossed to it again. "good-by," she said. he took the cool, firm fingers in his, and held them close and lifted them to his lips. "good-by," he said. aunt jane went quietly from the room. henry, with discreet face, was removing the tea-things. he lifted the tray and then set it down and went to the window, pushing back the heavy curtains. "the storm is over, sir," he said. the fresh, full light flooded in. henry put out the candles one by one and took up his tray. "mr. julian sent word as he'll be home to dinner, sir--with a young lady--" he paused. "shall i lay the table for her?" "yes--she will stay to dinner. she will be here often now," said herman medfield. "very good, sir. thank you, sir." henry took up his tray and went out. herman medfield sat alone by his fire, with the memory of a white-capped face across the hearth and a little thought stirring in him of children playing in the great room, among his art treasures--with the light coming in softly, as it was coming now, across the little potted plants in the windows. xlii "where have you been, all the afternoon!" dr. carmon was fuming in the office. he got up as aunt jane came in. "where have you been?" he demanded. "i've needed you! they looked everywhere for you!" she came calmly in. "i went home with mr. medfield." she took up the little tablet slate on her desk and consulted it absently. "he needed me--he thought he needed me." "what for?" the tone was brusque. "he was well enough when _i_ saw him. couldn't he go home without upsetting the whole hospital!" "he didn't like to go without me," said aunt jane. "in fact, he wouldn't go," she added. she put down the little tablet. "i'm sorry you needed me.... i don't very often go out." "well"--his tone was mollified--"we managed to pull through without you. but i like to feel you're around--when i need you." "i generally mean to be," she said placidly. he glanced at her suspiciously. she was unusually meek. "what have you been doing all the afternoon? it didn't take four hours to go out to medfield's place and back!" "we had tea--and we talked some." "umph! well, we've got _him_ off our hands!" "yes--we've got him off our hands," assented aunt jane. "he's a good man," she added. "he's got money," said dr. carmon, without enthusiasm. "i never heard of his doing much good with it." she opened her little bag and took out the two blue slips and looked at them. then she returned one of them to the bag and handed the other to him, without comment. he received it blankly and read it--and readjusted his glasses and read it again. he took off the glasses and held them in the tight clutch of one hand, resting on his knee, and surveyed her keenly. "i suppose you know what it is!" "fifty thousand," she said meekly. "he's given you fifty thousand dollars!" he shook the little blue slip scornfully. "it isn't for me-- it's for us!" "what!" he said sharply. he put on his glasses again. "for the hospital, is it?" he took it up. she nodded. "for the new contagion wing." "we need it badly enough!" he fingered the check absently. "i didn't suppose we should ever have it, though!" "i told him we needed it," she said casually. "you begged it of him, i suppose!" a little trace of annoyance ran in the words. she received it equably. "i didn't do any begging, i guess. i just told him we wanted it." "so he handed it out!" "well--not right then. he said he'd think it over-- he gave it to me this afternoon. put it on my plate--for a kind of surprise." she was looking at something and smiling mistily at it. he watched her uneasily. "he's a nice man!" she said, meeting the glance he bent upon her. "you're tired," he responded abruptly. "i am--a little mite tired." he got up and opened his bag and fussed at bottles and shook something into a bit of folded paper and held it out. "there--take that." "i don't need it!" "you take it!" she accepted it meekly, and he brought a glass of water from behind the screen, and watched her drink it. "everybody seems to think you can chase all over town for them!" he grumbled. "it was quite a nice ride out there," replied aunt jane. she wiped the taste of medicine furtively from her lips and set down the glass. "he's going to give me a little home, too." "what!" he glared at her fiercely. she took hold of her bag--as if to protect something. "i knew you wouldn't like it!" she said. "i hated to tell you! i thought maybe i'd put it off ... not tell you for a good while." "if you will tell me now--and not sit there gibbering and chattering----" she nodded. "yes--i'd better do it to-night--right off--and get it done with!" she opened the bag slowly. "of course, i know you won't want me to have it--" she looked at him doubtfully, holding on to the bit of paper. "let me see it!" he held out an imperious hand, and she gave it up. and he sat, with a check in each hand--one hand on either knee--and looked at her severely. "any more?" he said bitingly. "that's all!" she leaned back with a sigh. the worst was probably over. he read first one check, and then the other, and looked up swiftly--"they're both made out to you!" "yes! i saw he'd done it that way--i'm going to make the contagion one over to you." "they're both contagion, probably!" he smiled grimly. "no--one is for me--and he said i could build it just the way i want, and furnish it--and have my own way about everything!" "you'll feel strange, won't you--having your own way!" he almost growled, and tossed the checks at her: "take 'em!" she went over to her desk and looked for her pen and sat down, dipping it in ink, and sat very still--and presently her head nodded--she caught herself, and sat up. "i declare--i'm sleepy!" she said. she dipped the pen again and her head nodded as she wrote.... "i don't know when i've been so sleepy." she reached for the blotter. he came over and took it from her and blotted the little paper carefully, looking down at her kindly. "it's time you went to sleep," he said. she looked up. "what do you suppose--is the matter--with me?" he only smiled at her quietly. "it's the powder!" she exclaimed. he nodded. "you'll have a good night's rest. you need it!" "such foolishness!" she got up, resting one hand on the lid of the desk, and looked about her. "i have to--put out--my lights----" "i'll put them out," he said impatiently. she waited. "isn't there something else--i ought--to do--something i need to--?" she looked at him appealingly, and he took her hand. "you need some one to take care of you--that's what you need!" he said it almost gently and he led her to the door. "sure you can go by yourself?" he said. it was half mocking and half tender; and he watched until the quiet-moving figure disappeared in the distance of the long corridor. then he put out aunt jane's lights and went home. xliii it was very quiet in the hospital. the lights were turned low in the corridors; only a subdued glow from aunt jane's office shone out into the dimness. dr. carmon, on his round of late visits, glanced at the light as he came and went. he had not seen aunt jane to-day. he had been out of town. it had been a hard day for dr. carmon. when the last visit was over, he hesitated a minute. then he went swiftly down the hall toward the light shining from the door. at the door he paused. aunt jane, over by the shaded lamp, sat in her rocking-chair. she rocked gently; and as she rocked, little thoughts came and went in her face. he stood silently watching the face. it was smiling now. he stepped in quickly. "what are you thinking about?" he asked. she looked up with a start--and brushed a hand across her face. "i--i was thinking about my--my wings, i guess." she was laughing a little. "umph! just about ready to grow 'em, i expect!" he put down his bag and came and sat opposite her and placed a hand on either knee, surveying her shrewdly. "how are you feeling?" "all right." "slept well?" a little smile crossed the words. "i never had such a sleep!... and i feel all right after it," she added thoughtfully. "but i don't believe in taking things!" she was mildly indignant. "can't hurt you," he said absently. "i knew what i was giving." "but--_i_ didn't." "'twasn't necessary," he said briefly. she looked up at him with a little surprised twinkle and rocked gently. he was leaning forward, an arm resting on either knee, his hands hanging relaxed between the knees. he was lost in thought. she stole a glance at the preoccupied face--and opened her lips--and closed them and went on rocking. he had put the tips of his fingers together and was swinging them a little and whistling softly. he looked at her. "jane----" "what!" it was almost a jump. he smiled a little. the whistle had ceased. "do--you--love me, jane?" she looked at him indignantly. "whatever put such an idea into your head!" "it isn't there--i wish it were!" he was looking at her quietly and at something flooding up under her cap. "i wonder--if you do?" he was swinging the finger-tips thoughtfully, as if they balanced it for him, and his eyes did not leave her face. "jane----" she looked at him meekly, a flitting glance--and then away. "don't you love me?" "yes." she drew in the word with a quick breath and got up abruptly. she went straight across the room to her desk--and stopped. he watched her with a slow, questioning look. he got up slowly. "i--i'm too _old_ to love anybody!" the words came softly to him--with a half sob. "i'm just ashamed of it!" she was sitting facing the desk and her shoulders lifted with the little sobbing breaths she tried to control. dr. carmon came over and stood beside her and laid his hand on her shoulder and stood quiet a minute. "i need you, jane!" he said at last. "i can't tell you how i need you!" she turned and looked up at him then, her face quivering in little lights. "well--i guess it's all right--the way i feel! it's the way the lord made me, anyhow! _i_ don't want to be this way!" she brushed her hand across her eyes and smiled at him a little tremulously. he was looking down--his face almost grave in its quiet happiness.... "i don't quite believe it, jane--that you are coming to live with me----" "but i'm not!" she got up quickly. he faced her. "you said--" he gazed at her. "i said i--that--i--loved you!" she threw it at him. "that's bad enough, i hope--without having to leave my hospital!" a fine, clear color had come into her face. he watched it smilingly. "i'll come here to live!" he announced. "i can't have you! you wouldn't like it! it wouldn't be good for you--living with your work!... oh--dear!" she wrestled with it and he watched the disturbed face, with happy, affectionate eyes. "don't bother--jane!" he said softly. "of course i've got my wing--" she paused on it. "you can come and live in my wing.... that's the best i can do for you!" she threw out her hands, half laughing, half crying, and he took them and led her to the rocking-chair and put her in it and stood beside her. "i wonder if you need another powder," he said reflectively. "mercy--no!... sit down!" he sat down and she looked at him--and at his shabby, crumpled clothes--with brimming eyes. "here i am, being happy! and i've been using other folks' happiness so long, i don't hardly know what to do with any of my own--happiness that belongs just to me!" "it doesn't belong just to you!" said dr. carmon sternly. "you are the most self-centred woman i ever knew!" he added. "yes, i suppose i am!" sighed aunt jane. she rocked happily and looked at it. "i'm going to teach you how to be happy!" said frederic carmon. "i can teach you! there are several things i can teach you, i suspect." he said it slowly. his eye dwelt on her.... "for one thing, you are not going to have your own way so much as you have--it's not good for you!" "oh!" said aunt jane. she sat very still looking at it--and the face in its white cap smiled in little, gentle, breaking lines. the lost heir by g. a. henty author of "sturdy and strong," "rujub, the juggler," "by england's aid," etc., etc. the mershon company rahway, n. j. new york contents. i. a brave action ii. in the south seas iii. a deaf girl iv. the gypsy v. a gambling den vi. john simcoe vii. john simcoe's friend viii. general mathieson's seizure ix. a strange illness x. two heavy blows xi. a startling will xii. dr. leeds speaks xiii. netta visits stowmarket xiv. an advertisement xv. very bad news xvi. a fresh clew xvii. netta acts independently xviii. down in the marshes xix. a partial success xx. a dinner party xxi. a box at the opera xxii. nearing the goal xxiii. walter xxiv. a new barge xxv. a crushing exposure xxvi. a letter from abroad [illustration: simcoe ran in with his knife and attacked the tiger. _--page ._] the lost heir. chapter i. a brave action. a number of soldiers were standing in the road near the bungalow of brigadier-general mathieson, the officer in command of the force in the cantonments of benares and the surrounding district. "they are coming now, i think," one sergeant said to another. "it is a bad business. they say the general is terribly hurt, and it was thought better to bring him and the other fellow who was mixed up in it down in doolies. i heard captain harvey say in the orderly-room that they have arranged relays of bearers every five miles all the way down. he is a good fellow is the general, and we should all miss him. he is not one of the sort who has everything comfortable himself and don't care a rap how the soldiers get on: he sees to the comfort of everyone and spends his money freely, too. he don't seem to care what he lays out in making the quarters of the married men comfortable, and in getting any amount of ice for the hospital, and extra punkawallahs in the barrack rooms during the hot season. he goes out and sees to everything himself. why, on the march i have known him, when all the doolies were full, give up his own horse to a man who had fallen out. he has had bad luck too; lost his wife years ago by cholera, and he has got no one to care for but his girl. she was only a few months old when her mother died. of course she was sent off to england, and has been there ever since. he must be a rich man, besides his pay and allowances; but it aint every rich man who spends his money as he does. there won't be a dry eye in the cantonment if he goes under." "how was it the other man got hurt?" "well, i hear that the tiger sprang on to the general's elephant and seized him by the leg. they both went off together, and the brute shifted its hold to the shoulder, and carried him into the jungle; then the other fellow slipped off his elephant and ran after the tiger. he got badly mauled too; but he killed the brute and saved the general's life." "by jove! that was a plucky thing. who was he?" "why, he was the chap who was walking backwards and forwards with the general when the band was playing yesterday evening. several of the men remarked how like he was to you, sanderson. i noticed it, too. there certainly was a strong likeness." "yes, some of the fellows were saying so," sanderson replied. "he passed close to me, and i saw that he was about my height and build, but of course i did not notice the likeness; a man does not know his own face much. anyhow, he only sees his full face, and doesn't know how he looks sideways. he is a civilian, isn't he?" "yes, i believe so; i know that the general is putting him up at his quarters. he has been here about a week. i think he is some man from england, traveling, i suppose, to see the world. i heard the adjutant speak of him as mr. simcoe when he was talking about the affair." "of course they will take him to the general's bungalow?" "no; he is going to the next. major walker is away on leave, and the doctor says that it is better that they should be in different bungalows, because then if one gets delirious and noisy he won't disturb the other. dr. hunter is going to take up his quarters there to look after him, with his own servants and a couple of hospital orderlies." by this time several officers were gathered at the entrance to the general's bungalow, two mounted troopers having brought in the news a few minutes before that the doolies were within a mile. they came along now, each carried by four men, maintaining a swift but smooth and steady pace, and abstaining from the monotonous chant usually kept up. a doctor was riding by the side of the doolies, and two mounted orderlies with baskets containing ice and surgical dressings rode fifty paces in the rear. the curtains of the doolies had been removed to allow of a free passage of air, and mosquito curtains hung round to prevent insects annoying the sufferers. there was a low murmur of sympathy from the soldiers as the doolies passed them, and many a muttered "god bless you, sir, and bring you through it all right." then, as the injured men were carried into the two bungalows, most of the soldiers strolled off, some, however, remaining near in hopes of getting a favorable report from an orderly or servant. a group of officers remained under the shade of a tree near until the surgeon who had ridden in with the doolies came out. "what is the report, mcmanus?" one of them asked, as he approached. "there is no change since i sent off my report last night," he said. "the general is very badly hurt; i certainly should not like to give an opinion at present whether he will get over it or not. if he does it will be a very narrow shave. he was insensible till we lifted him into the doolie at eight o'clock yesterday evening, when the motion seemed to rouse him a little, and he just opened his eyes; and each time we changed bearers he has had a little ice between his lips, and a drink of lime juice and water with a dash of brandy in it. he has known me each time, and whispered a word or two, asking after the other." "and how is he?" "i have no doubt that he will do; that is, of course, if fever does not set in badly. his wounds are not so severe as the general's, and he is a much younger man, and, as i should say, with a good constitution. if there is no complication he ought to be about again in a month's time. he is perfectly sensible. let him lie quiet for a day or two; after that it would be as well if some of you who have met him at the general's would drop in occasionally for a short chat with him; but of course we must wait to see if there is going to be much fever." "and did it happen as they say, doctor? the dispatch told us very little beyond the fact that the general was thrown from his elephant, just as the tiger sprang, and that it seized him and carried him into the jungle; that simcoe slipped off his pad and ran in and attacked the tiger; that he saved the general's life and killed the animal, but is sadly hurt himself." "that is about it, except that he did not kill the tiger. metcalf, colvin, and smith all ran in, and firing together knocked it over stone dead. it was an extraordinarily plucky action of simcoe, for he had emptied his rifle, and had nothing but it and a knife when he ran in." "you don't say so! by jove! that was an extraordinary act of pluck; one would almost say of madness, if he hadn't succeeded in drawing the brute off mathieson, and so gaining time for the others to come up. it was a miracle that he wasn't killed. well, we shall not have quite so easy a time of it for a bit. of course murdock, as senior officer, will take command of the brigade, but he won't be half as considerate for our comfort as mathieson has been. he is rather a scoffer at what he calls new-fangled ways, and he will be as likely to march the men out in the heat of the day as at five in the morning." the two sergeants who had been talking walked back together to their quarters. both of them were on the brigade staff. sanderson was the paymaster's clerk, nichol worked in the orderly-room. at the sergeants' mess the conversation naturally turned on the tiger hunt and its consequences. "i have been in some tough fights," one of the older men said, "and i don't know that i ever felt badly scared--one hasn't time to think of that when one is at work--but to rush in against a wounded tiger with nothing but an empty gun and a hunting-knife is not the sort of job that i should like to tackle. it makes one's blood run cold to think of it. i consider that everyone in the brigade ought to subscribe a day's pay to get something to give that man, as a token of our admiration for his pluck and of our gratitude for his having saved general mathieson's life." there was a general expression of approval at the idea. then sanderson said: "i think it is a thing that ought to be done, but it is not for us to begin it. if we hear of anything of that sort done by the officers, two or three of us might go up and say that it was the general wish among the non-coms. and men to take a share in it; but it would never do for us to begin." "that is right enough; the officers certainly would not like such a thing to begin from below. we had better wait and see whether there is any movement that way. i dare say that it will depend a great deal on whether the general gets over it or not." the opportunity did not come. at the end of five weeks mr. simcoe was well enough to travel by easy stages down to the coast, acting upon the advice that he should, for the present, give up all idea of making a tour through india, and had better take a sea voyage to australia or the cape, or, better still, take his passage home at once. had the day and hour of his leaving been known, there was not a white soldier in the cantonments who would not have turned out to give him a hearty cheer, but although going on well the doctor said that all excitement should be avoided. it would be quite enough for him to have to say good-by to the friends who had been in the habit of coming in to talk with him daily, but anything like a public greeting by the men would be likely to upset him. it was not, therefore, until simcoe was some way down the river that his departure became known to the troops. six weeks later there was a sensation in the cantonments. general mathieson had so far recovered that he was able to be carried up to the hills, and the camp was still growling at the irritating orders and regulations of his temporary successor in command, when the news spread that staff pay-sergeant sanderson had deserted. he had obtained a fortnight's furlough, saying that he wanted to pay a visit to some old comrades at allahabad; at the end of the fortnight he had not returned, and the staff paymaster had gone strictly into his accounts and found that there was a deficiency of over £ , which he himself would of course be called upon to make good. he had, indeed, helped to bring about the deficiency by placing entire confidence in the sergeant and by neglecting to check his accounts regularly. letters were at once written to the heads of the police at calcutta and bombay, and to all the principal places on the roads to those ports; but it was felt that, with such a start as he had got, the chances were all in his favor. it was soon ascertained at allahabad that he had not been there. inquiries at the various dak-bungalows satisfied the authorities that he had not traveled by land. if he had gone down to calcutta he had gone by boat; but he might have started on the long land journey across to bombay, or have even made for madras. no distinct clew, however, could be obtained. the paymaster obtained leave and went down to calcutta and inspected all the lists of passengers and made inquiries as to them; but there were then but few white men in the country, save those holding civil or military positions and the merchants at the large ports, therefore there was not much difficulty in ascertaining the identity of everyone who had left calcutta during the past month, unless, indeed, he had taken a passage in some native craft to rangoon or possibly singapore. on his arrival at calcutta he heard of an event which caused deep and general regret when known at benares, and for a time threw even the desertion of sergeant sanderson into the shade. the _nepaul_, in which john simcoe had sailed, had been lost in a typhoon in the bay of bengal when but six days out. there was no possible doubt as to his fate, for a vessel half a mile distant had seen her founder, but could render no assistance, being herself dismasted and unmanageable and the sea so tremendous that no boat could have lived in it for a moment. as both ships belonged to the east india company, and were well known to each other, the captain and officials of the _ceylon_ had no doubt whatever as to her identity, and, indeed, the remains of a boat bearing the _nepaul's_ name were picked up a few days later near the spot where she had gone down. "it's hard luck, that is what i call it," sergeant nichol said with great emphasis when the matter was talked over in the sergeants' mess. "here is a man who faces a wounded tiger with nothing but a hunting-knife, and recovers from his wounds; here is the general, whose life he saved, going on first-rate, and yet he loses his life himself, drowned at sea. i call that about as hard luck as anything i have heard of." "hard luck indeed!" another said. "if he had died of his wounds it would have been only what might have been expected; but to get over them and then to get drowned almost as soon as he had started is, as you say, nichol, very hard luck. i am sure the general will be terribly cut up about it. i heard major butler tell captain thompson that he had heard from dr. hunter that when the general began to get round and heard that simcoe had gone, while he was lying there too ill to know anything about it, he regularly broke down and cried like a child; and i am sure the fact that he will never have the chance of thanking him now will hurt him as bad as those tiger's claws." "and so there is no news of sanderson?" "not that i have heard. maybe he has got clean away; but i should say it's more likely that he is lying low in some sailors' haunt until the matter blows over. then, like enough, he will put on sea-togs and ship under another name before the mast in some trader knocking about among the islands, and by the time she comes back he could take a passage home without questions being asked. he is a sharp fellow is sanderson. i never quite liked him myself, but i never thought he was a rogue. it will teach captain smalley to be more careful in future. i heard that he was going home on his long leave in the spring, but i suppose he will not be able to do so now for a year or so; three hundred pounds is a big sum to have to fork out." the news of the loss of the _nepaul_, with all hands, did indeed hit general mathieson very heavily, and for a time seriously delayed the progress that he was making towards recovery. "it's bad enough to think," he said, "that i shall never have an opportunity of thanking that gallant fellow for my life; but it is even worse to know that my rescue has brought about his death, for had it not been for that he would have by this time been up at delhi or in oude instead of lying at the bottom of the sea. i would give half my fortune to grasp his hand again and tell him what i feel." general mathieson's ill luck stuck to him. he gained strength so slowly that he was ordered home, and it was three years before he rejoined. four years later his daughter came out to him, and for a time his home in delhi, where he was now stationed, was a happy one. the girl showed no desire to marry, and refused several very favorable offers; but after she had been out four years she married a rising young civilian who was also stationed at delhi. the union was a happy one, except that the first two children born to them died in infancy. they were girls. the third was a boy, who at the age of eight months was sent home under the charge of an officer's wife returning with her children to england. when they arrived there he was placed in charge of mrs. covington, a niece of the general's. but before he reached the shores of england he was an orphan. an epidemic of cholera broke out at the station at which his father, who was now a deputy collector, was living, and he and his wife were among the first victims of the scourge. general mathieson was now a major-general, and in command of the troops in the calcutta district. this blow decided him to resign his command and return to england. he was now sixty; the climate of india had suited him, and he was still a hale, active man. being generally popular he was soon at home in london, where he took a house in hyde park gardens and became a regular frequenter of the oriental and east indian united service clubs, of which he had been for years a member, went a good deal into society, and when at home took a lively interest in his grandson, often running down to his niece's place, near warwick, to see how he was getting on. the ayah who had come with the child from india had been sent back a few months after they arrived, for his mother had written to mrs. covington requesting that he should have a white nurse. "the native servants," she wrote, "spoil the children dreadfully, and let them have entirely their own way, and the consequence is that they grow up domineering, bad-tempered, and irritable. i have seen so many cases of it here that herbert and i have quite decided that our child shall not be spoilt in this way, but shall be brought up in england as english children are, to obey their nurses and to do as they are ordered." as mrs. covington's was a large country house the child was no trouble; an excellent nurse was obtained, and the boy throve under her care. the general now much regretted having remained so many years in india, and if an old comrade remarked, "i never could make out why you stuck to it so long, mathieson; it was ridiculous for a man with a large private fortune, such as you have," he would reply, "i can only suppose it was because i was an old fool. but, you see, i had no particular reason for coming home. i lost my only sister three years after i went out, and had never seen her only daughter, my niece mary covington. of course i hoped for another bout of active service, and when the chance came at last up in the north, there was i stuck down in calcutta. if it hadn't been for jane i should certainly have given it up in disgust when i found i was practically shelved. but she always used to come down and stay with me for a month or two in the cool season, and as she was the only person in the world i cared for, i held on from year to year, grumbling of course, as pretty well every anglo-indian does, but without having sufficient resolution to throw it up. i ought to have stayed at home for good after that mauling i got from the tiger; but, you see, i was never really myself while i was at home. i did not feel up to going to clubs, and could not enter into london life at all, but spent most of my time at my own place, which was within a drive of mary covington's, who had then just married. "well, you see, i got deucedly tired of life down there. i knew nothing whatever of farming, and though i tried to get up an interest in it i failed altogether. of course there was a certain amount of society of a sort, and everyone called, and one had to go out to dinner-parties. but such dinner-parties! why, a dinner in india was worth a score of them. most of them were very stiff and formal, and after the women had gone upstairs, the men talked of nothing but hunting and shooting and crops and cattle; so at last i could stand it no longer, but threw up six months of my furlough and went out again. yes, of course i had jane, but at that time she was but fourteen, and was a girl at school; and when i talked of bringing her home and having a governess, everyone seemed to think that it would be the worst thing possible for her, and no doubt they were right, for the life would have been as dull for her as it was for me. "of course now it is different. i feel as young and as well as i did twenty years ago, and can thoroughly enjoy my life in london, though i still fight very shy of the country. it is a satisfaction to me to know that things are pretty quiet in india at present, so that i am losing nothing that way, and if i were out there i should be only holding inspections at barrakpoor, dumdum, or on the maidan at calcutta. of course it was pleasant enough in its way, for i never felt the heat; but as a man gets on in life he doesn't have quite so much enjoyment out of it as he used to do. the men around him are a good deal younger than himself. he knows all the old messroom jokes, and one bit of scandal is like scores of others he has heard in his time. "i am heartily glad that i have come home. many of you here are about my own standing, and there is plenty to talk about of old friends and old days. you were a young ensign when i was a captain, but bulstrode and i got our companies within a few days of each other. of course he is only a lieutenant-colonel, while i am a major-general, but that is because he had the good sense to quit the service years ago. there are scores of others in the club just about my own standing, and one gets one's rubber of whist in the afternoon, and we dine together and run down the cooking and wines, although every one of us knows at heart that they are both infinitely better than we got in india, except at the clubs in the presidency towns. "then, of course, we all agree that the service is going to the dogs, that the sepoys are over-indulged and will some day give us a lot of trouble. i keep my liver all right by taking a long ride every morning, and altogether i think i can say that i thoroughly enjoy myself." the general, on his first visit to england, had endeavored, but in vain, to find out the family of john simcoe. he had advertised largely, but without effect. "i want to find them out," he said to his niece; "i owe that man a debt of gratitude i can never repay, but doubtless there are some of his family who may be in circumstances where i could give them a helping hand. there may be young brothers--of course i could get them cadetships in the indian army--maybe portionless sisters." "but if he was traveling in india for pleasure he must have been a well-to-do young fellow. men cannot wander about in the east without having a pretty full purse." "yes, no doubt; but i don't fancy it was so in his case, and he said casually that he had come in for some money, and, as he had always had a great desire to travel, he thought that he could do nothing better than spend a year or two in the east, but that he hoped before it was gone he should fall on his legs and obtain some sort of employment. he did not care much what it was, so that it was not quill-driving. he thought that he could turn his hands to most things. i laughed at the time, for i was by no means sure that he was in earnest, but i have felt since that he must have been. if it had not been so, my advertisements would surely have caught the eye of someone who knew his family. a family wealthy enough for one of the sons to start on two years' travel must be in a fair position, whether in town or country. had it been so i should have heard of it, and therefore i think that what he said must have had some foundation in fact. he was certainly a gentleman in manner, and my idea now is that he belonged to a middle-class family, probably in some provincial town, and that, having come into some money at the death of his father or some other relative, he followed his natural bent and started on a sort of roving expedition, thinking, as many people do think, that india is a land where you have only to stretch out your hands and shake the pagoda tree. "he would have found out his mistake, poor fellow, if he had lived. the days are long past when any dashing young adventurer can obtain a post of honor in the pay of an indian rajah. still, of course, after what he did for me, had he remained in india, and i found that he really wanted a berth, i might have done something for him. i know numbers of these indian princes, some of them intimately, and to some i have been of very considerable service; and i fancy that i might have got him a berth of some kind or other without much difficulty. or had he made up his mind to return to england i would have set him up in any business he had a fancy for. he has gone now, and i wish i could pay someone he cared for a little of the debt of gratitude i owe him. well, i have done my best and have failed, from no fault of my own; but remember that if ever you hear of a family of the name of simcoe, i want you to make inquiries about them, and to give me full particulars concerning them." but no news ever reached the general on this head, and it was a frequent cause of lamentation to him, when he finally settled in town, that although he had again advertised he had heard nothing whatever of the family of which he was in search. chapter ii. in the south seas. an island in the pacific. the sun was shining down from a cloudless sky, the sea was breaking on the white beach, there was just sufficient breeze to move the leaves of the cocoanut trees that formed a dark band behind the sands. a small brig of about a hundred tons' burden lay anchored a short distance from the shore. the paint was off in many places, and everywhere blistered by the sun. her sails hung loosely in the gaskets, and the slackness of her ropes and her general air of untidiness alike showed the absence of any sort of discipline on board. in front of a rough shanty, built just within the line of shade of the cocoanuts, sat three men. two drunken sailors lay asleep some fifty yards away. on the stump of a tree in front of the bench on which the three men were sitting were placed several black bottles and three tin pannikins, while two gourds filled with water and covered with broad banana leaves stood erect in holes dug in the sand. "i tell you what it is, atkins, your men are carrying it on too far. bill here, and i, were good friends with the natives; the chief gave us wives, and we got on well enough with them. what with the cocoanuts, which are free to us all, and the patches of ground to cultivate, we had all we wanted, and with the store of beads and bright cotton we brought here with us we paid the natives to fish for pearls for us, and have collected enough copra to trade for rum and whatever else we want. you have got all our copra on board, and a good stock of native trumperies, and i should recommend you to be off, both for your own sake and ours. your men have been more or less drunk ever since they came here. i don't mind a drinking bout myself now and again, but it does not do to keep it up. however, it would be no odds to us whether your men were drunk all the time or not if they would but get drunk on board, but they will bring the liquor on shore, and then they get quarrelsome, use their fists on the natives, and meddle with the women. now, these fellows are quiet and gentle enough if they are left alone and treated fairly, but i don't blame them for getting riled up when they are ill-treated, and i tell you they are riled up pretty badly now. my woman has spoken to me more than once, and from what she says there is likely to be trouble, not only for you but for us." "well, sim," the man that he was addressing said, "there is reason enough in what you say. i don't care myself a snap for these black fellows; a couple of musket-shots would send them all flying. but, you see, though i am skipper, the men all have shares and do pretty much as they like. at present they like to stay here, and i suppose they will stay here till they are tired of it." "well, atkins, if i were in your place i should very soon make a change, and if you like, bill and i will help you. you have got six men; well, if you shot three of them the other three would think better of it; and if they didn't i would settle them too." "it is all very well talking like that, sim. how could i sail the brig without hands? if i only kept three of them i should be very short-handed, and if i ever did manage to get to port they would lay a complaint against me for shooting the others. it is all very well for you to talk; you have lived here long enough to know that one can only get the very worst class of fellows to sail with one in craft like this and for this sort of trade. it pays well if one gets back safely, but what with the risk of being cast ashore or being killed by the natives, who are savage enough in some of the islands, it stands to reason that a man who can get a berth in any other sort of craft won't sail with us. but it is just the sort of life to suit chaps like these; it means easy work, plenty of loafing about, and if things turn out well a good lump of money at the end of the voyage. however, they ought to have had enough of it this job; the rum is nearly gone, and if you will come off to-morrow i will let you have what remains, though if they are sober i doubt if they will let you take it away." "we will risk that," the third man said. "we are not nice about using our pistols, if you are. i was saying to simcoe here, things are going a lot too far. enough mischief has been done already, and i am by no means sure that when you have gone they won't make it hot for us. we are very comfortable here, and we are not doing badly, and i don't care about being turned out of it." "the pearl fishing is turning out well?" atkins asked quietly. "it might be worse and it might be better. anyhow, we are content to remain here for a bit. "i don't like it, jack," he said, as the skipper, having in vain tried to rouse the two drunken men, rowed himself off to the brig. "my woman told me this morning that there had been a big talk among the natives, and that though they did not tell her anything, she thought that they had made up their minds to wipe the whites out altogether. they said that if we hadn't been here, the brig would not have come; which is like enough, for atkins only put in because he was an old chum of ours, and thought that we should have got copra enough to make it worth his while to come round. well, if the niggers only wiped out the crew, and burned the ship, i should say nothing against it, as long as they let atkins alone. he has stood by me in more than one rough-and-tumble business, and i am bound to stand by him. but there aint no discrimination among the niggers. besides, i am not saying but that he has been pretty rough with them himself. "it makes all the difference whether you settle down and go in for making a pile, or if you only stop to water and take in fruit; we agreed as to that when we landed here. when we stopped here before and found them friendly and pleasant, and we says to each other, 'if we can but get on smooth with them and set them fishing for us we might make a good thing out of it.' you see, we had bought some oysters one of them brought up after a dive, and had found two or three pearls in them. "well, we have been here nine months, and i don't say i am not getting tired of it; but it is worth stopping for. you know we reckoned last week that the pearls we have got ought to be worth two or three thousand pounds, and we agreed that we would stay here till we have two bags the size of the one we have got; but unless atkins gets those fellows off, i doubt if we shan't have to go before that. there is no reasoning with these niggers; if they had any sense they would see that we can't help these things." "perhaps what the women tell us is untrue," the other suggested. "don't you think that," simcoe said; "these black women are always true to their white men when they are decently treated. besides, none of the natives have been near us to-day. that, of course, might be because they are afraid of these chaps; but from this shanty we can see the canoes, and not one has gone out to-day. who is to blame them, when one of their chiefs was shot yesterday without a shadow of excuse? i don't say that i think so much of a nigger's life one way or another; and having been in some stiff fights together, as you know, i have always taken my share. but i am dead against shooting without some reason; it spoils trade, and makes it unsafe even to land for water. i have half a mind, bill, to go on board and ask atkins to take us away with him; we could mighty soon settle matters with the crew, and if there was a fight and we had to shoot them all, we could take the brig into port well enough." "no, no," said bill, "it has not come to that yet. don't let us give up a good thing until we are sure that the game is up." "well, just as you like; i am ready to run the risk if you are. it would be hard, if the worst came to the worst, if we couldn't fight our way down to our canoe, and once on board that we could laugh at them; for as we have proved over and over again, they have not one that can touch her." "well, i will be off to my hut; the sun is just setting and my supper will be ready for me." he strolled off to his shanty, which lay back some distance in the wood. simcoe entered the hut, where a native woman was cooking. "nothing fresh, i suppose?" he asked in her language. she shook her head. "none of our people have been near us to-day." "well, polly,"--for so her white master had christened her, her native appellation being too long for ordinary conversation,--"it is a bad business, and i am sorry for it; but when these fellows have sailed away it will soon come all right again." "polly hopes so," she said. "polly very much afraid." "well, you had better go to-morrow and see them, and tell them, as i have told them already, we are very sorry for the goings on of these people, but it is not our fault. you have no fear that they will hurt you, have you? because if so, don't you go." "they no hurt polly now," she said; "they know that if i do not come back you be on guard." "well, i don't think there is any danger at present, but it is as well to be ready. do you take down to the canoe three or four dozen cocoanuts and four or five big bunches of plantains, and you may as well take three or four gourds of water. if we have to take to the boat, will you go with me or stay here?" "polly will go with her master," the woman said; "if she stay here they will kill her." "i am glad enough for you to go with me, polly," he said. "you have been a good little woman, and i don't know how i should get on without you now; though why they should kill you i don't know, seeing that your head chief gave you to me himself." "kill everything belonging to white man," she said quietly; and the man knew in his heart that it would probably be so. she put his supper on the table and then made several journeys backwards and forwards to the canoe, which lay afloat in a little cove a couple of hundred yards away. when she had done she stood at the table and ate the remains of the supper. an hour later the man was sitting on the bench outside smoking his pipe, when he heard the sound of heavy footsteps among the trees. he knew this was no native tread. "what is it, bill?" he asked, as the man came up. "well, i came to tell you that there is a big row going on among the natives. i can hear their tom-tom things beating furiously, and occasionally they set up a tremendous yell. i tell you i don't like it, simcoe; i don't like it a bit. i sent my woman to see what it was all about, but though she had been away three hours, she hadn't come back when i started out to talk it over with you." "there has been a biggish row going on on board the brig too," the other said. "i have heard atkins storming, and a good deal of shouting among the men. i suppose you have got your pearls all right in your belt? things begin to have an awkward look, and we may have to bolt at short notice." "you trust me for that, simcoe; i have had them on me ever since the brig came in. i had no fear of the natives stealing them out of my hut, but if one of those fellows were to drop in and see them he would think nothing of knifing the woman and carrying them off." "i see you have brought your gun with you." "yes, and my pistols too. i suppose you are loaded, and ready to catch up at a moment's notice?" "yes; my girl has been carrying down cocoanuts and plantains to the canoe, so, if we have to make a bolt, we can hold on comfortably enough until we get to the next island, which is not above three days' sail, and lies dead to leeward, as the wind is at present. still, bill, i hope it is not coming to that. i think it is likely enough they may attack the brig in their canoes, but they have always been so friendly with us that i really don't think they can turn against us now; they must know that we cannot help these people's doings." "that is all very well," the other said, "but you and i know half a dozen cases in which the niggers have attacked a ship, and in every case beachcombers were killed too." simcoe made no answer; he knew that it was so, and could hardly hope that there would be an exception in their case. after thinking for a minute he said, "well, bill, in that case i think the safest plan will be to take to the canoe at once. we can stay away a few weeks and then come back here and see how matters stand." "but how about atkins?" "well, we will shout and get him ashore and tell him what we think of it, and give him the choice of either stopping or going with us. nothing can be fairer than that. if he chooses to stop and harm comes of it we cannot blame ourselves. if we come back in a few weeks of course we should not land until we had overhauled one of their canoes and found out what the feeling of the people was. they will have got over their fit of rage, and like enough they will have said to each other, 'we were better off when the two white men were here. they paid us for our fishing and our copra, and never did us any harm. i wish they were back again.'" "that is reasonable enough," the other agreed. "what about the trade things?" "well, we have only got some beads and small knick-knacks left. polly shall carry them down to the canoe; we shall want them for trading till we come back here again." he said a few words to the woman, who at once began to carry the things down to the canoe. then he went down to the beach and shouted, "atkins!" "hullo!" came back from the brig. "come ashore; we want to talk to you about something particular." they saw the dinghy pulled up to the ship's side, then atkins rowed ashore. "i have been having a row with the crew," he said. "i thought it was coming to fighting. two or three of them took up handspikes, but i drew my pistols and things calmed down. what do you want me for?" "bill here has brought news that there is a row among the natives. they are beating their drums and yelling like fiends, and we expect it means mischief. at any rate it comes to this: we are so convinced that there is going to be trouble that we mean to cut and run at once. we have got enough grub put on board our canoe to take us to the next island, but we did not want to leave you in the lurch, to be speared by the niggers, so we have called you to offer you a seat in the canoe." "that is friendly," atkins said, "but i should lose the ship and cargo; and pretty near all that i have got is in her. why should not you two bring your canoe off alongside and hoist her up? then we could get up anchor and be off. three of the fellows are dead-drunk and the other three half stupid. i would give you each a share in the profits of the voyage." "well, what do you think of that, simcoe?" bill said. "i tell you straight i don't care for it. you and i are both good paddlers, and the canoe sails like a witch in a light wind. once afloat in her and we are safe, but you can't say as much for the brig. i have sailed in her before now, and i know that she is slow, unless it is blowing half a gale. it is like enough that the natives may be watching her now, and if they saw us get under way they would be after her, and would go six feet to her one. as to fighting, what could we three do? the others would be of no use whatever. no, i like our plan best by far." "well, i don't know what to say," atkins said. "it is hard to make a choice. of course if i were sure that the natives really meant mischief i would go with you, but we cannot be sure of that." "i feel pretty sure of it anyhow," bill said. "my girl would be safe to follow me here when she got back and found the hut empty, but i am mightily afraid that some harm has come to her, or she would have been back long before this. it wasn't half a mile to go, and she might have been there and back in half an hour, and she has been gone now over three hours, and i feel nasty about it, i can tell you. i wish your crew were all sober, atkins, and that we had a score of men that i could put my hand on among the islands. i should not be talking about taking to a canoe then, but i would just go in and give it them so hot that they would never try their pranks on again." "have you got all the things in, polly?" simcoe asked the woman, as she crouched down by the door of the hut. "got all in," she said. "why not go? very bad wait here." "well, i think you are about right. at any rate, we will go and get on board and wait a spear's-throw off the shore for an hour or so. if bill's susan comes here and finds we have gone she is pretty safe to guess that we shall be on board the canoe and waiting for her. what do you say to that, bill?" "that suits me; nothing can be fairer. if she comes we can take her on board, if she doesn't i shall know that they have killed her, and i will jot it down against them and come back here some day before long and take it out of them. and you, atkins?" "i will go straight on board. like enough it is all a false alarm, and i aint going to lose the brig and all that she has got on board till i am downright certain that they----" he stopped suddenly, and the others leaped to their feet as a burst of savage yells broke out across the water. "by heavens, they are attacking the ship!" simcoe cried; "they will be here in a moment. come on, polly! come on, atkins! we have no choice now." taking up his arms, he started to run. "quick, quick!" he cried; "i can hear them." they had gone but some thirty yards when a number of natives burst from the wood. had they arrived a minute sooner at the hut none of its occupants would have lived to tell the tale, but the impatience of those in the canoes lying round the brig had caused the alarm to be given before they had placed themselves in readiness for a simultaneous rush on the hut. there was no further occasion for silence; a wild yell burst out as they caught sight of the flying figures, and a dozen spears flew through the air. "don't stop to fire!" simcoe shouted; "we shall have to make a stand at the boat and shall want every barrel." they were three-quarters of the way to the boat and the natives were still some twenty yards behind them. suddenly bill stumbled; then with a savage oath he turned and emptied both barrels of his fowling-piece into the natives, and the two leading men fell forward on their faces, and some shouts and yells told that some of the shots had taken effect on those behind. "are you wounded, bill?" simcoe asked. "yes, i am hit hard. run on, man; i think i am done for." "nonsense!" simcoe exclaimed. "catch hold of my arm; i will help you along." one native was in advance of the rest. he raised his arm to hurl his spear, but the native woman, who had all along been running behind simcoe, threw herself forward, and the spear pierced her through the body. with an exclamation of fury simcoe leveled his musket and shot the native through the head. "throw your arms round my neck, bill; the poor girl is done for, curse them. can you hold on?" "yes, i think so," he replied. simcoe was a very powerful man, and with his comrade on his back he ran on almost as swiftly as before. "now, atkins, give them every barrel that you have got, then lift bill into the boat, and i will keep them back. i am not going until i have paid some of them out for poor polly." atkins fired his pistols, and with so steady an aim that each shot brought down a savage; then he lifted bill from simcoe's shoulders and laid him in the canoe. "get up the sail!" simcoe shouted. "they will riddle us with spears if we paddle." he shot down four of the natives with his double-barreled pistols, and then clubbing his gun threw himself with a hoarse shout upon them. the loss of seven of their leaders had caused their followers to hesitate, and the fury of simcoe's attack and the tremendous blows he dealt completed their discomfiture, and they turned and fled in dismay. "now is your time!" atkins shouted; "i have cut the cord and got the sail up." turning, simcoe was in a moment knee-deep in the water; pushing the boat off, he threw himself into it. "lie down, man, lie down!" he shouted to atkins. but the warning was too late; the moment simcoe turned the natives had turned also, and as they reached the water's edge half a dozen spears were flung. two of them struck atkins full in the body, and with a cry he threw up his arms and fell over the side of the canoe. then came several splashes in the water. simcoe drew the pistols from his companion's belt, and, raising himself high enough to look over the stern, shot two of the savages who were wading out waist deep, and were but a few paces behind. the sail was now doing its work, and the boat was beginning to glide through the water at a rate that even the best swimmers could not hope to emulate. as soon as he was out of reach of the spears simcoe threw the boat up into the wind, reloaded his pistols and those of his comrade, and opened fire upon the group of natives clustered at the water's edge. like most men of his class, he was a first-rate shot. three of the natives fell and the rest fled. then with a stroke of the paddle he put the boat before the wind again, and soon left the island far behind. "this has been a pretty night's work," he muttered. "poor little polly killed! she gave her life to save me, and there is no doubt she did save me too, for that fellow's spear must have gone right through me. i am afraid that they have done for bill too." he stooped over his comrade. the shaft of the spear had broken off, but the jagged piece with the head attached stuck out just over the hip. "i am afraid it is all up with him; however, i must take it out and bandage him as well as i can." a groan burst from the wounded man as simcoe with some effort drew the jagged spear from the wound. then he took off his own shirt and tore some strips off it and tightly bandaged the wound. "i can do nothing else until the morning," he said. "well, polly, i have paid them out for you. i have shot seven or eight and smashed the skulls of as many more. of course they have done for those drunkards on board the brig. i did not hear a single pistol fired, and i expect that they knocked them on the head in their drunken sleep. the brutes! if they had had their senses about them we might have made a fair fight; though i expect that they would have been too many for us." just as daylight was breaking bill opened his eyes. "how do you feel, old man?" "i am going, simcoe. you stood by me like a man; i heard it all till atkins laid me in the boat. where is he?" "he is gone, bill. instead of throwing himself down in the boat, as i shouted to him directly he got up the sail, he stood there watching, i suppose, until i was in. he got two spears in his body and fell overboard dead, i have no doubt." "look here, sim!" the latter had to bend down his ear to listen. the words came faintly and slowly. "if you ever go back home again, you look up my brother. he is no more on the square than i was, but he is a clever fellow. he lives respectable--rose cottage, pentonville hill. don't forget it. he goes by the name of harrison. i wrote to him every two or three years, and got an answer about the same. tell him how his brother bill died, and how you carried him off when the blacks were yelling round. we were fond of each other, tom and i. you keep the pearls, sim; he don't want them. he is a top-sawyer in his way, he is, and has offered again and again that if i would come home he would set me up in any line i liked. i thought perhaps i should go home some day. tom and i were great friends. i remember----" his eyelids drooped, his lips moved, and in another minute no sounds came from them. he gave one deep sigh, and then all was over. "a good partner and a good chum," simcoe muttered as he looked down into the man's face. "well, well, i have lost a good many chums in the last ten years, but not one i missed as i shall miss bill. it is hard, he and polly going at the same time. there are not many fellows that i would have lain down to sleep with, with fifteen hundred pounds' or so worth of pearls in my belt, not out in these islands. but i never had any fear with him. well, well," he went on, as he took the bag of pearls from his comrade's belt and placed it in his own, "there is a consolation everywhere, though we might have doubled and trebled this lot if we had stopped three months longer, which we should have done if atkins had not brought that brig of his in. i can't think why he did it. he might have been sure that with that drunken lot of villains trouble would come of it sooner or later. he wasn't a bad fellow either, but too fond of liquor." chapter iii. a deaf girl. "yes, lady moulton, i will undertake the gypsy tent business at your fête; that is to say, i will see to the getting up of the tent, provide a gypsy for you, and someone to stand at the door and let in one visitor at a time and receive the money. do you mean to make it a fixed charge, or leave it to each to pay the gypsy?" "which do you think will be best, hilda? of course the great thing is to get as much money for the decayed ladies as possible." "i should say that it would be best to let them give what they like to the gypsy, lady moulton." "but she might keep some of it herself." "i think i can guarantee that she won't do that; i will get a dependable gypsy. you see, you could not charge above a shilling entrance, and very likely she would get a good deal more than that given to her." "well, my dear, i leave it all to you. spare no expense about the tent and its fitting up. i have set my heart upon the affair being a success, and i think everything else has been most satisfactorily arranged. it is a very happy thought of yours about the gypsy; i hope that you will find a clever one. but you must mind and impress upon her that we don't want any evil predictions. nothing could be in worse taste. it is all very well when a girl is promised a rich husband and everything to match, but if she were told that she would never get married, or would die young, or something of that sort, it would be a most unpleasant business." "i quite agree with you, and will see that everything shall be 'couleur de rose' as to the future, and that she shall confine herself as much as possible to the past and present." "i leave it in your hands, and i am sure that it will be done nicely." lady moulton was a leading member of society, a charming woman with a rich and indulgent husband. her home was a pleasant one, and her balls were among the most popular of the season. she had, as her friends said, but one failing, namely, her ardor for "the society for affording aid to decayed ladies." it was on behalf of this institution that she was now organizing a fête in the grounds of her residence at richmond. hilda covington was an orphan and an heiress, and was the ward of her uncle, an old indian officer, who had been a great friend of lady moulton's father. she had been ushered into society under her ladyship's auspices. she had, however, rather forfeited that lady's favorable opinion by refusing two or three unexceptionable offers. "my dear," she remonstrated, "no girl can afford to throw away such chances, even if she is, as you are, well endowed, pretty, and clever." the girl laughed. "i am not aware that i am clever at all, lady moulton. i speak german and french perfectly, because i have been four or five years in hanover; but beyond that i am not aware of possessing any special accomplishments." "but you are clever, my dear," the other said decidedly. "the way you seem to understand people's characters astonishes me. sometimes it seems to me that you are almost a witch." "you are arguing against yourself," the girl laughed. "if i am such a good judge of character i am not likely to make a mistake in such an important matter as choosing a husband for myself." lady moulton was silenced, but not convinced; however, she had good sense enough to drop the subject. general mathieson had already told her that although he should not interfere in any way with any choice hilda might make, he should make it an absolute condition that she should not marry until she came of age; and as she was at present but eighteen, many things might occur in the three years' interval. on her return home, after arranging to provide a gypsy for lady moulton's fête, hilda related what had occurred to a girl friend who was staying with her. "of course, netta, i mean to be the gypsy myself; but you must help me. it would never do for me to be suspected of being the sorceress, and so you must be my double, so that i can, from time to time, go out and mix with the crowd. a few minutes at a time will do." the other laughed. "but what should i say to them, hilda?" "oh, it is as easy as a b c. all that you will have to do is to speak ambiguously, hint at coming changes, foresee a few troubles in the way, and prophesy a happy solution of the difficulties. i will take upon myself the business of surprising them, and i fancy that i shall be able to astonish a few of them so much that even if some do get only commonplaces we shall make a general sensation. of course, we must get two disguises. i shall have a small tent behind the other where i can change. it won't take a moment--a skirt, and a shawl to go over my head and partly hide my face, can be slipped on and off in an instant. of course i shall have a black wig and some sort of yellow wash that can be taken off with a damp towel. i shall place the tent so that i can leave from behind without being noticed. as we shall have the tent a good deal darkened there will be no fear of the differences between the two gypsies being discovered, and, indeed, people are not likely to compare notes very closely." "well, i suppose you will have your way as usual, hilda." "i like that!" the other said, with a laugh. "you were my guide and counselor for five years, and now you pretend that i always have my own way. why, i cannot even get my own way in persuading you to come and settle over here. i am quite sure that you would get lots of pupils, when people understand the system and its advantages." "that is all very well, hilda, but, you see, in the first place i have no friends here except yourself, and in the second it requires a good deal of money to get up an establishment and to wait until one gets pupils. my aunt would, i know, put in the money she saved when you were with us if i were to ask her, but i wouldn't do so. to begin with, she regards that as my fortune at her death. she has said over and over again how happy the knowledge makes her that i shall not be left absolutely penniless, except, of course, what i can get for the house and furniture, and i would do anything rather than sell that. she admits that i might keep myself by teaching deaf children, but, as she says, no one can answer for their health. i might have a long illness that would throw me out. i might suddenly lose a situation, say, from the death of a pupil, and might be a long time before i could hear of another. she said to me once, 'i do hope, netta, you will never embark one penny of the little money that will come to you in any sort of enterprise or speculation, however promising it may look.' we had been talking of exactly the plan that you are now speaking of. 'the mere furnishing of a house in england large enough to take a dozen children would swallow up a considerable sum. at first you might have to wait some time till you could obtain more than two or three children, and there would be the rent and expenses going on, and you might find yourself without money and in debt before it began to pay its way; therefore i do hope that you will keep the money untouched except to meet your expenses in times of illness or of necessity of some kind. if you can save up money sufficient to start an establishment, it will, i think, be a good thing, especially if you could secure the promise of four or five pupils to come to you at once. if in a few years you should see your way to insure starting with enough pupils to pay your way, and i am alive at the time, i would draw out enough to furnish the house and will look after it for you.' that was a great concession on her part, but i certainly would not let her do it, for she is so happy in her home now, and i know that she would worry herself to death." "well, netta, you know i am still ready to become the capitalist." both girls laughed merrily. "why not, netta?" the speaker went on. "i know you said that you would not accept money as a loan even from me, which, as i told you, was very stupid and very disagreeable, but there is no reason why we should not do it in a business way. other women go into business, why shouldn't i? as you know, i can't absolutely touch my money until i come of age, and it is nearly three years before that; still, i feel sure that the general would let me have some money, and we could start the institute. it would be great fun. of course, in the first place, you would be principal, or lady superintendent, or whatever you like to call yourself, and you would draw, say, five hundred pounds a year. after that we could divide the profits." again both girls laughed. "and that is what you call a business transaction?" the other said. "i know that your guardian is very kind, and indeed spoils you altogether, but i don't think that you would get him to advance you money for such a scheme." "i am really in earnest, netta." "oh, i don't say that you would not do it, if you could. however, i think, anyhow, we had better wait until you come of age. there is plenty of time. i am only twenty yet, and even in three years' time i doubt whether i should quite look the character of professor or lady superintendent." "well, directly i get of age i shall carry out my part of the plan," hilda said positively, "and if you are disagreeable and won't do as i want you, i shall write to the professor and ask him to recommend a superintendent." the other laughed again. "you would have a difficulty, hilda. you and i are, so far, the only two english girls who have learned the system, and either your superintendent would have to learn english or all her pupils would have to learn german." "we will not discuss it further at present, miss purcell," hilda said with dignity. "oh, dear, those were happy days we had in that dear old house, with its pretty garden, when you were thirteen and i was eleven. i have got a great deal of fun from it since. one gets such curious little scraps of conversation." "then the people do not know what you learned over with us?" "no, indeed; as you know, it was not for a year after i came back that i became altogether the general's ward, and my dear mother said to me just before she died, 'it would be better for you, dear, not to say anything about that curious accomplishment of yours. i know that you would never use it to any harm, but if people knew it they would be rather afraid of you.' uncle said the same thing directly i got here. so of course i have kept it to myself, and indeed if they had not said so i should never have mentioned it, for it gives me a great deal of amusement." when hilda covington was ten years old, she had, after a severe attack of scarlet fever, lost her hearing, and though her parents consulted the best specialists of the time, their remedies proved of no avail, and at last they could only express a hope, rather than an opinion, that in time, with added health and strength, nature might repair the damage. a year after her illness mr. covington heard of an aurist in germany who had a european reputation, and he and mrs. covington took hilda over to him. after examining her he said, "the mischief is serious, but not, i think, irreparable. it is a case requiring great care both as to dieting, exercise, and clothing. if it could be managed i should like to examine her ears once a fortnight, or once a month at the least. i have a house here where my patients live when under treatment, but i should not for a moment advise her being placed there. a child, to keep in good health, requires cheerful companions. if you will call again to-morrow i will think the matter over and let you know what i recommend." mr. and mrs. covington retired much depressed. his opinion was, perhaps, a little more favorable than any that they had received, but the thought that their only child must either make this considerable journey once a month or live there altogether was very painful to them. however, on talking it over, they agreed that it was far better that she should reside in hanover for a time, with the hope of coming back cured, than that she should grow up hopelessly deaf. "it will only be as if she were at school here," mr. covington said. "she will no doubt be taught to talk german and french, and even if she is never able to converse in these languages, it will add to her pleasures if she can read them." the next day when they called upon the doctor he said, "if you can bring yourself to part with the child, i have, i think, found the very thing to suit her. in the first place you must know that there is in the town an establishment, conducted by a professor menzel, for the instruction of deaf mutes. it is quite a new system, and consists in teaching them to read from the lips of persons speaking to them the words that they are saying. the system is by no means difficult for those who have still, like your daughter, the power of speech, and who have lost only their hearing. but even those born deaf and dumb have learned to be able to converse to a certain degree, though their voices are never quite natural, for in nine cases out of ten deaf mutes are mutes only because they have never learned to use their tongue. however, happily that is beside the question in your daughter's case. i hope that she will regain her hearing; but should this unfortunately not be the case, it will at least be a great mitigation to her position to be able to read from the lips of those who address her what is said, and therefore to converse like an ordinary person. i can assure you that many of herr menzel's pupils can converse so easily and rapidly that no one would have the least idea of the misfortune from which they suffer, as in fact they feel no inconvenience beyond the fact that they are not aware of being addressed by anyone standing behind them, or whose face they do not happen to be watching." "that would indeed be a blessing!" mrs. covington exclaimed. "i never heard of such a system." "no, it is quite new, but as to its success there can be no question. i called upon professor menzel last evening. he said that as your daughter did not understand german the difficulties of her tuition would be very great. he has, however, among his pupils a young english girl two years older than your daughter. she lives with a maiden aunt, who has established herself here in order that her niece might have the benefit of learning the new system. here is her name and address. the professor has reason to believe that her income is a small one, and imagines that she would gladly receive your daughter as a boarder. her niece, who is a bright girl, would be a pleasant companion, and, moreover, having in the two years that she has been here made very great progress, she would be able to commence your daughter's education by conversing with her in english, and could act as her teacher in german also; and so soon as the language was fairly mastered your daughter could then become a pupil of the professor himself." "that would be an excellent plan indeed," mrs. covington said, and her husband fully agreed with her. the doctor handed her a slip of paper with the name, "miss purcell, nd etage, koenigstrasse." hilda had already been informed by the finger alphabet, which had been her means of communication since her illness, of the result of the conversation with the doctor on the previous day, and although she had cried at the thought of being separated from her father and mother, she had said that she would willingly bear anything if there was a hope of her regaining her hearing. she had watched earnestly the conversation between the doctor and her parents, and when the former had left and they explained what was proposed, her face brightened up. "that will be very nice," she exclaimed, "and if i could but learn to understand in that way what people say, instead of watching their fingers (and some of them don't know the alphabet, and some who do are so slow that one loses all patience), it would be delightful." before going to see miss purcell, mr. and mrs. covington talked the matter over together, and they agreed that, if miss purcell were the sort of person with whom hilda could be happy, no plan could be better than that proposed. "it certainly would not be nice for her," mrs. covington said, "to be living on a second floor in a street; she has always been accustomed to be so much in the open air, and as the doctors all agree that much depends upon her general health, i am sure it will be quite essential that she should be so now. i think that we should arrange to take some pretty little house with a good garden, just outside the town, and furnish it, and that miss purcell and her niece should move in there. of course we should pay a liberal sum for board, and if she would agree, i should say that it would be best that we should treat the house as ours and should pay the expenses of keeping it up altogether. i don't suppose she keeps a servant at present, and there are many little luxuries that hilda has been accustomed to. then, of course, we would pay so much to the niece for teaching hilda german and beginning to teach her this system. i don't suppose the whole thing would cost more than three hundred pounds a year." "the expense is nothing," mr. covington said. "we could afford it if it were five times the amount. i think your idea is a very good one, and we could arrange for her to have the use of a pony-carriage for two or three hours a day whenever she was disposed. the great thing is for her to be healthy and happy." ten minutes after they started with hilda to see miss purcell, after having explained to her the plan they proposed. at this she was greatly pleased. the thought of a little house all to themselves and a girl friend was a great relief to her, and she looked brighter and happier than she had done since she had lost her hearing. when they knocked at the door of the apartment on the second floor, it was opened by a bright-faced girl of thirteen. "this is miss purcell's, is it not?" mrs. covington asked. "yes, ma'am," the girl replied, with a slight expression of surprise which showed that visitors were very rare. "will you give my card to her and say that we shall be glad if she will allow us a few minutes' conversation with her?" the girl went into the room and returned in a minute or two. "will you come in?" she said. "my aunt will be glad to see you." miss purcell was a woman of some fifty years old, with a pleasant, kindly face. the room was somewhat poorly furnished, but everything was scrupulously neat and tidy, and there was an air of comfort pervading it. "we have called, miss purcell," mrs. covington began, "in consequence of what we have learned from dr. hartwig, whom we have come over to consult, and who has been good enough to see professor menzel. he has learned from him that your niece here is acquiring the system of learning to understand what is said by watching the lips of speakers. the doctor is of opinion that our daughter may in time outgrow the deafness that came on a year ago, after scarlet fever, but he wishes her to remain under his eye, and he suggested that it would be well that she should learn the new system, so that in case she does not recover her hearing she would still be able to mingle with other people. hilda is delicate, and it is necessary that she should have a cheerful home; besides which she could not begin to learn the system until she had become familiar with german. the doctor suggested that if we could persuade you to do us the great kindness of taking her under your charge it would be the best possible arrangement." "i should be glad to do so, madam, but i fear that i could not accommodate her, for it is a mere closet that my niece sleeps in, and the other apartments on this floor are all occupied. were it not for that i should certainly be glad to consider the matter. it would be pleasant to netta to have a companion, for it is but dull work for her alone with me. we have few acquaintances. i do not mind saying frankly that my means are straitened, and that i cannot indulge her with many pleasures. she is a grandniece of mine; her father died some years ago, her mother three years since, and naturally she came to me. shortly after, she lost her hearing through measles. just at that time i happened to hear from a german workman of the institution which had been started in this town, of which he was a native. i had no ties in england, and as i heard that living was cheap there, and that the fees were not large, i decided to come over and have her taught this new system, which would not only add greatly to her own happiness, but would give her the means of earning her livelihood when she grew up; for although i have a small pension, as my father was an excise officer, this, of course, will expire at my death." "happily, miss purcell, we are in a position to say that money is no object to us. hilda is our only child. we have talked it over, of course, and will tell you exactly what we propose, and i hope that you will fall in with the arrangement." she then stated the plan that she and her husband had discussed. "you see," she went on, "you would, in fact, be mistress of the house, and would have the entire management of everything as if it was your own. we are entirely ignorant of the cost of living here, or we might have proposed a fixed monthly payment for the expenses of servants and outgoings, and would still do that if you would prefer it, though we thought that it would be better that you should, at the end of each month, send us a line saying what the disbursements had been. we would wish everything done on a liberal scale. hilda has little appetite, and it will, for a time, want tempting. however, that matter we could leave to you. we propose to pay a hundred a year to you for your personal services as mistress of the house, and fifty pounds to your niece as hilda's companion and instructor in german and in the system, until she understands the language well enough to attend professor menzel's classes. if the house we take has a stable we should keep a pony and a light carriage, and a big lad or young man to look after it and drive, and to keep the garden in order in his spare time. i do hope, miss purcell, that you will oblige us by falling in with our plans. if you like we can give you a day to consider them." "i do not require a minute," she replied; "my only hesitation is because the terms that you offer are altogether too liberal." "that is our affair," mrs. covington said. "we want a comfortable, happy home for our child, and shall always feel under a deep obligation to you if you will consent." "i do consent most willingly and gratefully. the arrangement will be a delightful one for me, and i am sure for netta." netta, who had been standing where she could watch the lips of both speakers, clapped her hands joyously. "oh, auntie, it will be splendid! fancy having a house, and a garden, and a pony-chaise!" "you understand all we have been saying then, netta?" "i understand it all," the girl replied. "i did not catch every word, but quite enough to know all that you were saying." "that certainly is a proof of the goodness of the system," mr. covington said, speaking for the first time. "how long have you been learning?" "eighteen months, sir. we have been here two years, but i was six months learning german before i knew enough to begin, and for the next six months i could not get on very fast, as there were so many words that i did not know, so that really i have only been a year at it. the professor says that in another year i shall be nearly perfect and fit to begin to teach; and he has no doubt that he will be able to find me a situation where i can teach in the daytime and still live with my aunt." in a week the necessary arrangements were all made. a pretty, furnished house, a quarter of a mile out of town, with a large garden and stables, had been taken, and netta and hilda had already become friends, for as the former had learned to talk with her fingers before she came out she was able to keep up her share of the conversation by that means while hilda talked in reply. "the fingers are useful as a help at first," netta said, "but professor menzel will not allow any of his pupils to use their fingers, because they come to rely upon them instead of watching the lips." chapter iv. the gypsy. mr. and mrs. covington remained for a week after hilda was installed with the purcells in their new home. to her the house with its garden and pretty pony-carriage and pony were nothing remarkable, but netta's enjoyment in all these things amused her, and the thought that she, too, would some day be able to talk and enjoy life as her companion did, greatly raised her spirits. her father and mother were delighted at hearing her merry laugh mingled with that of netta as they walked together in the garden, and they went home with lighter hearts and more hopeful spirits than they had felt since the child's illness began. every three or four months--for a journey to hanover was a longer and more serious business in than it is at present--they went over to spend a week there. there could be no doubt from the first that the change was most beneficial to hilda. her cheeks regained their color and her limbs their firmness. she lost the dull look and the apathy to whatever was going on around her that had before distressed them. she progressed very rapidly in her study of german, and at the end of six months her conversations with netta were entirely carried on in that language. she had made some little progress in reading from her companion's lips and had just entered at herr menzel's academy. she could now take long walks with netta, and every afternoon, or, as summer came on, every evening, they drove together in the pony-chaise. with renewed health and strength there had been some slight improvement in her hearing. she could now faintly distinguish any loud sounds, such as those of the band of a regiment marching past her or a sudden peal of bells. "i think that we shall make an eventual cure," dr. hartwig said. "it will be slow, and possibly her hearing may never be absolutely good; but at least we may hope that she may be able to eventually hear as well as nine people out of ten." in another year she could, indeed, though with difficulty, hear voices, and when she had been at hanover three years her cure was almost complete, and she now went every morning to school to learn french and music. she herself was quite content to remain there. she was very happy in her life and surroundings, and could now read with the greatest facility from the lips, and indeed preferred watching a speaker's mouth to listening to the voice. it was a source of endless amusement to her that she could, as she and netta walked through the streets, read scraps of conversation between persons on the other side of the street or passing in carriages. another six months and both the doctor and professor menzel said that they could do nothing more for her. she was still somewhat hard of hearing; but not enough so to be noticeable; while she could with her eyes follow the most rapid speaker, and the professor expressed his regret that so excellent an example of the benefit of his system should not be in circumstances that would compel her to make a living by becoming a teacher in it. netta was now a paid assistant at the institution. the end of what had been a very happy time to hilda came abruptly and sadly, for three weeks before the date when her parents were to come over to take her home, miss purcell, on opening a letter that came just as they had finished breakfast, said, after sitting silent for a few minutes, "you need not put on your things, hilda; you cannot go to school this morning; i have some bad news, dear--very bad news." the tone of voice in which she spoke, even more than the words, sent a chill into the girl's heart. "what is it, aunt?" she said, for she had from the first used the same term as netta in addressing her. "your father has had a serious illness, my dear--a very, very serious and sudden illness, and your mother wishes you to go home at once." hilda looked at her with frightened, questioning eyes, while every vestige of color left her cheeks. "is he--is he----" she asked. "here is an inclosure for you," miss purcell said, as she got up, and taking hilda's hand in one of hers drew her with the other arm close to her; "your mother wrote to me that i might prepare you a little before giving it to you. a terrible misfortune has happened. your dear father is dead. he died suddenly of an affection of the heart." "oh, no, no; it cannot be!" hilda cried. "it is true, my dear. god has taken him. you must be strong and brave, dear, for your mother's sake." "oh, my poor mother, my poor mother!" hilda cried, bursting into a sudden flood of tears, "what will she do!" it was not until some time afterwards that she was sufficiently composed to read her mother's letter, which caused her tears to flow afresh. after giving the details of her father's death, it went on: "i have written to your uncle, general mathieson, who is, i know, appointed one of the trustees, and is joined with me as your guardian. i have asked him to find and send over a courier to fetch you home, and no doubt he will arrive a day or two after you receive this letter. so please get everything ready to start at once, when he comes." two days later general mathieson himself arrived, accompanied by a courier. it was a great comfort to hilda that her uncle had come for her instead of a stranger. "it is very kind of you to come yourself, uncle," she said as she threw herself crying into his arms. "of course i should come, dear," he said. "who should fetch you except your uncle? i had to bring a courier with me, for i don't understand any of their languages, and he will take all trouble off my hands. now let me look at your face." it was a pale, sad little face that was lifted up, but two days of sorrow had not obliterated the signs of health and well-being. "whiter than it ought to be," he said, "but clear and healthy, and very different from what it was when i saw you before you came out. you have grown wonderfully, child. really, i should hardly have known you again." and so he kept on for two or three minutes, to allow her to recover herself. "now, dear, you must take me in and introduce me to your kind friends here." hilda led the way into the sitting room. "i have heard so much of you and your niece, miss purcell," he said as he shook hands with her, "that i do do not feel that you are a stranger. you certainly seem to have worked wonders between you for my niece, and i must own that in the first place i thought it a mistake her being here by herself, for i had no belief that either her hearing would be restored or that she would ever be able to follow what people were saying by only staring at their lips." "yes, indeed, hanover has agreed with her, sir, and it is only a small part of the credit that is due to us." "i must differ from you entirely, madam. if she had not been perfectly happy here with you, she would never have got on as she has done." "have you any luggage, sir? of course you will stay with us to-night." "no, thank you, miss purcell. we have already been to the kaiserhof, and long before this my courier will have taken rooms and made every preparation for me. you see, i am accustomed to smoke at all times, and could not think of scenting a house, solely inhabited by ladies, with tobacco. now, if you will excuse me, i will ask hilda to put on her bonnet and take a stroll with me." "i shall be very glad for her to do so. it is just getting cool and pleasant for walking, and half an hour in the fresh air will do her good." it was an hour before they returned. general mathieson had gently told her all there was to tell of her father's death, and turning from that he spoke of her mother, and how nobly she was bearing her troubles, and erelong her tears, which had burst out anew, flowed more quietly, and she felt comforted. presently she said suddenly: "what is going to be done here, uncle? i have been thinking over that ever since it was settled that i was to come home next month, and i am sure that, although she has said nothing about it, miss purcell has felt the change that is coming. she said the other day, 'i shall not go back to the apartments where you found us, hilda. you see, we are a great deal better off than we were before. in the first place i have had nothing whatever to spend, and during the four years the ridiculously liberal sum paid to netta and myself has been all laid aside and has mounted up to six hundred pounds. my pension of eighty pounds a year has also accumulated, with the exception of a small sum required for our clothes, so that in fact i have nearly a thousand pounds laid by. netta is earning thirty pounds a year at the institute; with that and my pension and the interest on money saved we shall get on very comfortably.' i should not like, uncle, to think of them in a little stuffy place in the town. having a nice garden and everything comfortable has done a great deal for miss purcell. netta told me that she was very delicate before, and that she is quite a different woman since she came out here from the town. you cannot tell how kind she has always been. if i had been her own child, she could not have been more loving. in fact, no one could have told by her manner that she was not my mother and netta my sister." "yes, dear, i ran down to your mother before starting to fetch you to help in the arrangements, and she spoke about miss purcell. under ordinary circumstances, of course, at the end of the four years that you have been here the house would be given up and she would, as you say, go into a much smaller place; but your mother does not consider that these are ordinary circumstances, and thinks that her care and kindness have had quite as much to do with the improvement in your health as has the doctor. of course we had no time to come to any definite plan, but she has settled that things are to go on here exactly as at present, except that your friend netta will not be paid for acting as companion to you. i am to tell miss purcell that with that exception everything is to go on as before, and that your mother will need a change, and will probably come out here in a month or so for some time." "does she really mean that, uncle?" "certainly, and the idea is an excellent one. after such a shock as she has had an entire change of scene will be most valuable; and as she knows miss purcell well, and you like the place very much, i don't think that any better plan could be hit upon. i dare say she will stay here two or three months, and you can continue your studies. at the end of that time i have no doubt some plan that will give satisfaction to all parties will be hit upon." hilda returned to hanover with her mother a month later. at the end of three months mrs. covington bought the house and presented the deeds to miss purcell, who had known nothing whatever of her intentions. "i could not think of accepting it," she exclaimed. "but you cannot help accepting it, dear miss purcell; here are the deeds in your name. the house will be rather large for you at present, but in a few years, indeed in two or three years, netta could begin to take a few pupils. as soon as she is ready to do so i shall, of course, mention it among my friends, and be able to send a few children, whose parents would be ready to pay well to have them taught this wonderful method of brightening their lives, which is at present quite unknown in england." so it was arranged; but a few months after her return to england mrs. covington, who had never altogether recovered from the shock of her husband's death, died after a short illness, and hilda became an inmate of her uncle's house. since that time three years had elapsed, and hilda was now eighteen, and netta was over for a two months' visit. the scene in the grounds of lady moulton's charming villa at richmond, a fortnight after the conversation between that lady and hilda, was a gay one. everyone in society had been invited and there were but few refusals; the weather was lovely, and all agreed that even at ascot the costumes were not brighter or more varied. although the fête was especially on behalf of a charity, no admission fees were charged to guests, but everyone understood that it would be his duty to lay out money at the various picturesque tents scattered about under the trees. in these were all the most popular entertainers of the day. in one pavilion john parry gave a short entertainment every half-hour. in a larger one mario, grisi, jenny lind, and alboni gave short concerts, and high as were the prices of admission, there was never a seat vacant. conjurers had a tent, electro-biologists--then the latest rage from the united states--held their séances, and at some distance from the others richardson's booth was in full swing. the grenadiers' band and a string band played alternately. not the least attraction to many was the gypsy tent erected at the edge of a thick shrubbery, for it soon became rumored that the old gypsy woman there was no ordinary impostor, but really possessed of extraordinary powers of palmistry. everything had been done to add to the air of mystery pervading the place. externally it was but a long, narrow marquee. on entering, the inquirer was shown by an attendant to a seat in an apartment carpeted in red, with black hangings and black cloth lining the roof. from this hung a lamp, all other light being excluded. as each visitor came out from the inner apartment the next in order was shown in, and the heavy curtains shut off all sound of what was passing. here sat an apparently aged gypsy on an old stump of a tree. a fire burned on the ground and a pot was suspended by a tripod over it; a hood above this carried the smoke out of the tent. the curtains here were red; the roof, as in the other compartment, black, but sprinkled with gold and silver stars. a stool was placed for the visitor close enough to the gypsy for the latter to examine her hand by the light of two torches, which were fastened to a rough sapling stuck in the ground. hilda possessed every advantage for making the most of the situation. owing to her intimacy with lady moulton, and her experience for a year in the best london society, she knew all its gossip, while she had gathered much more than others knew from the conversations both of the dancers and the lookers-on. the first to enter was a young man who had been laughingly challenged by the lady he was walking with to go in and have his fortune told. "be seated, my son," the old woman said; "give me your hand and a piece of money." with a smile he handed her half a sovereign. she crossed his palm with it and then proceeded attentively to examine the lines. "a fair beginning," she said, "and then troubles and difficulties. here i see that, some three years back, there is the mark of blood; you won distinction in war. then there is a cross-mark which would show a change. some good fortune befell you. then the lines darken. things go from bad to worse as they proceed. you took to a vice--cards or horse-racing. here are evil associates, but there is a white line that runs through them. there is a girl somewhere, with fair hair and blue eyes, who loves you, and whom you love, and whose happiness is imperiled by this vice and these associates. beyond, there is another cross-line and signs of a conflict. what happens after will depend upon yourself. either the white line and the true love will prove too powerful for the bad influences or these will end in ruin and--ah! sudden and violent death. your future, therefore, depends upon yourself, and it is for you to say which influence must triumph. that is all." without a word he went out. "you look pale, mr. desmond," the lady said when he rejoined her. "what has she told you?" "i would rather not tell you, mrs. markham," he said seriously. "i thought it was going to be a joke, but it is very far from being one. either the woman is a witch or she knew all about me personally, which is barely within the limits of possibility. at any rate she has given me something to think of." "i will try myself," the lady said; "it is very interesting." "i should advise you not to," he said earnestly. "nonsense!" she laughed; "i have no superstitions. i will go in and hear what she has to say." and leaving him, she entered the tent. the gypsy examined her hand in silence. "i would rather not tell you what i see," she said as she dropped the hand. "oh, ridiculous!" the lady exclaimed. "i have crossed your palm with gold, and i expect to get my money's worth," and she held out her hand again. the gypsy again examined it. "you stand at the crossing of the ways. there are two men--one dark, quiet, and earnest, who loves you. you love him, but not as he loves you; but your line of life runs smoothly until the other line, that of a brown man, becomes mixed up in it. he loves you too, with a hot, passionate love that would soon fade. you had a letter from him a day or two back. last night, as he passed you in a dance, he whispered, 'i have not had an answer,' and the next time he passed you, you replied, 'you must give me another day or two.' upon the answer you give the future of your life will depend. here is a broad, fair line, and here is a short, jagged one, telling of terrible troubles and misery. it is for you to decide which course is to be yours." as she released her hold of the hand it dropped nerveless. the gypsy poured out a glass of water from a jug by her side, but her visitor waved it aside, and with a great effort rose to her feet, her face as pale as death. "my god!" she murmured to herself, "this woman is really a witch." "they do not burn witches now," the gypsy said; "i only read what i see on the palm. you cannot deny that what i have said is true. stay a moment and drink a glass of wine; you need it before you go out." she took a bottle of wine from behind her seat, emptied the water on to the earth, half filled a tumbler, and held it out. the frightened woman felt that indeed she needed it before going out into the gay scene, and tossed it off. "thank you!" she said. "whoever you are, i thank you. you have read my fate truly, and have helped me to decide it." desmond was waiting for her when she came out, but she passed him with a gesture. "you are right!" she said. "she is a witch indeed!" few other stories told were as tragic, but in nearly every case the visitors retired puzzled at the knowledge the gypsy possessed of their life and surroundings, and it soon became rumored that the old woman's powers were something extraordinary, and the little ante-room was kept filled with visitors waiting their turn for an audience. no one noticed the long and frequent absences of hilda covington from the grounds. the tent had been placed with its back hiding a small path through the shrubbery. through a peep-hole arranged in the curtain she was able to see who was waiting, and each time before leaving said a few words as to their lives which enabled netta to support the character fairly. when the last guest had departed and she joined lady moulton, she handed over a bag containing nearly a hundred pounds. "i have deducted five pounds for the gypsy," she said, "and eight pounds for the hire of the tent and its fittings." "that is at least five times as much as i expected, hilda. i have heard all sorts of marvelous stories of the power of your old woman. several people told me that she seemed to know all about them, and told them things that they believed were only known to themselves. but how did she get so much money?" hilda laughed. "i hear that they began with half-sovereigns, but as soon as they heard of her real powers, they did not venture to present her with anything less than a sovereign, and in a good many cases they gave more--no doubt to propitiate her into giving them good fortunes. you see, each visitor only had two or three minutes' interview, so that she got through from twenty to thirty an hour; and as it lasted four hours she did exceedingly well." "but who is the gypsy, and where did you find her?" "the gypsy has gone, and is doubtless by this time in some caravan or gypsy tent. i do not think that you will ever find her again." "i should have suspected that you played the gypsy yourself, hilda, were it not that i saw you half a dozen times." "i have no skill in palmistry," the girl laughed, "and certainly have not been in two places at once. i did my duty and heard jenny lind sing and parry play, though i own that i did not patronize richardson's booth." "well, it is extraordinary that this old woman should know the history of such a number of people as went into her tent, few of whom she could ever have heard of even by name, to say nothing of knowing them by sight." several ladies called within the next few days, specially to inquire from lady moulton about the gypsy. "everyone is talking about her," one said. "certainly she told me several things about the past that it was hardly possible that a woman in her position could know. i have often heard that gypsies pick up information from servants, or in the country from village gossip; but at least a hundred people visited this woman's tent, and from what i hear everyone was as astonished as i was myself at her knowledge of their family matters. it is said that in some cases she went farther than this, and told them things about the present known only to themselves and two or three intimate friends. some of them seemed to have been quite seriously affected. i saw mrs. markham just after she had left the tent, and she was as white as a sheet, and i know she drove away a few minutes afterwards." to all inquiries lady moulton simply replied: "i know no more about the gypsy than you do. miss covington took the entire management of the gypsy tent off my hands, saw to the tent being erected, and engaged the gypsy. where she picked her up i have no idea, but i fancy that she must have got her from their encampment on ham common. she turned the matter off when i asked her point-blank, and i imagine that she must have given the old crone a promise not to let it be known who she was. they are curious people, the gypsies, and for aught i know may have an objection to any of the tribe going to a gathering like ours to tell fortunes." some appeals were made to hilda personally; but lady moulton had told her the answer she had given, and taking her cue from it she was able to so shape her replies that her questioners left her convinced that she had really, while carrying out lady moulton's instructions, lighted on a gypsy possessing some of the secrets of the almost forgotten science of palmistry. chapter v. a gambling den. in a corner of one of the winding courts that lie behind fleet street stood a dingy-looking house, the lamp over the door bearing the words, "billiards and pool." during the daytime no one would be seen to enter save between the hours of twelve and two, when perhaps a dozen young fellows, after eating a frugal lunch, would resort there to pass their hour out of office in smoking and a game of billiards. of an evening, however, there were lights in every window, and the click of balls could be heard from the ground floor and that above it. in each of these there were two tables, and the play continued uninterruptedly from seven until eleven or half-past. the lights on the second floor, however, often burned until two or three o'clock in the morning, and it was here that the proprietor reaped by far the larger proportion of his profits. while the billiard-room windows generally stood open, those of the large room on the second floor were never raised, and when the lights below were extinguished, heavy curtains were dropped across the windows to keep both the light and the sounds within from being seen or heard in the court below. here was a large roulette table, while along the sides of the room were smaller tables for those who preferred other games. here almost every evening some thirty or forty men assembled. of these, perhaps a third were clerks or shop assistants, the remainder foreigners of almost every nationality. betting lists were exposed at one end of the room. underneath these a bookmaker had a small table, and carried on his trade. in there were a score of such places in the neighborhood of the strand and fleet street, but few did a larger business than this. it was generally understood that wilkinson, the proprietor, had been a soldier; but the belief originated rather from his upright carriage and a certain soldierly walk than from anything he had himself said, and he was not the sort of man whom even the most regular of the frequenters of his establishment cared to question. he was a tall man, some five-and-forty years of age, taciturn in speech, but firm in manner while business was going on. he kept admirable order in the place. he was generally to be found in the room on the second floor, but when a whistle blew, and one of the markers whispered up a speaking-tube that there was a dispute going on between the players or lookers-on, he was at once upon the spot. "now, gentlemen," he would say, interposing between them, "you know the rules of this establishment; the marker's decision on all points connected with the game is final, and must be accepted by both parties. i will have no quarrels or disputes here, and anyone making a row goes straight out into the street, and never comes in here again." in the vast majority of cases this settled the matter; but when the men were flushed with liquor, and inclined to continue the dispute, they were seized by the collar by wilkinson's strong arm and were summarily ejected from the house. in the inner room he preserved order as strictly, but had much more difficulty in doing so among the foreign element. here quarrels were not uncommon, and knives occasionally drawn; but wilkinson was a powerful man and a good boxer, and a flush hit from the shoulder always settled the business. but though stern in the management of his establishment, wilkinson was popular among its frequenters. he was acquainted with most of their callings and business. indeed, none were admitted to the upper room unless well introduced by _habitués_, or until he had made private inquiries concerning them. thus he knew among the foreigners whom he could trust, and how far, when, after a run of ill luck, they came to him and asked him for a loan, he could venture to go. with the english portion of his customers he was still more liberal. he knew that he should not be a loser from transactions with them; they must repay him, for were it known to their employers that they were in the habit of gambling, it would mean instant dismissal. there were among them several lawyers' clerks, some of whom were, in comparison with their means, deeply in debt to him. one or other of those he would often invite up to his private room on the floor above, where a bottle of good wine would be on the table, a box of excellent cigars beside it, and here they would chat more or less comfortably until the roulette room opened. mr. wilkinson made no pretense that these meetings were simply for the purpose of drinking his wine and smoking his cigars. "i am a straightforward man," he would say, "and business is business. i oblige you, and i expect you to oblige me. i have always had a fancy that there is money to be made in connection with lawyers' businesses. there are missing heirs to be hunted up; there are provisos in deeds, of whose existence some one or other would give a good deal to know. now, i am sure that you are not in a position to pay me the amount i have lent you, and for which i hold your i. o. u.'s. i have no idea of pressing you for the money, and shall be content to let it run on so long as you will let me know what is being done at your office. the arrangement is that you will tell me anything that you think can be used to advantage, and if money is made out of any information you may give me, i will engage to pay you a third of what it brings in. now, i call that a fair bargain. what do you say?" in some cases the offer was closed with at once; in others it was only agreed to after threats that the debt must be at once paid or an application would be made forthwith. so far the gambling-house keeper's expectations had not met with the success he had looked for. he had spent a good deal of time in endeavoring to find the descendants of persons who stood in the direct line of succession to properties, but of whom all clew had been lost. he had indeed obtained an insight into various family differences that had enabled him to successfully extort blackmail, but his gains in this way had not, so far, recouped him for the sums he had, as he considered, invested in the speculation. he was, however, a patient man, and felt, no doubt, that sooner or later he should be able to make a coup that would set him up for life. still he was disappointed; his idea had been the one held by many ignorant persons, that lawyers are as a class ready to resort to tricks of all kinds, in the interests of their clients or themselves. he had found that he had been altogether wrong, and that although there were a few firms which, working in connection with money-lenders, financial agents, and the lowest class of bill discounters, were mixed up in transactions of a more or less shady character, these were the black sheep of the profession, and that in the vast majority of cases the business transacted was purely technical and connected with the property of their clients. nevertheless, he took copious notes of all he learned, contending that there was no saying what might come in useful some day. "well, dawkins," he said one day to a dark-haired young fellow with a handsome face that already showed traces of the effect of late hours and dissipation, "i suppose it is the usual thing; the lawsuit as to the right of way at brownsgrove is still going on, the settlements in mr. cochrane's marriage to lady gertrude ivory are being drawn up, and other business of the same sort. you never give me a scrap of information that is of the slightest use. i am afraid that your firm is altogether too eminently respectable to have anything to do with doubtful transactions." "i told you so from the first, wilkinson; that whatever your game might be, there would be nothing in our office that could be of the least use to you, even if you had copies of every deed drawn up in it. ours is what you might call a family business. our clients have for the most part dealt with the firm for the last hundred years; that is to say, their families have. we have drawn their wills, their marriage settlements, their leases, and done everything relating to their property for years and years. my own work for the last two or three days has been drafting and engrossing the will of a general mathieson, whose father and grandfather were our clients before him." "mathieson--he is an old indian officer, isn't he, if it is the man i mean? he was in command at benares twenty years ago. he was a handsome man, then, about my height and build." "yes, i have no doubt that is the man--john le marchand mathieson." "that is him. he was very popular with the troops. he used to spend a good deal of money in improving their rations and making them comfortable. had a first-rate stable, and they used to say he was a rich man. anyhow, he spent a good deal more than his pay." "yes, he was a second son, but his elder brother died, and he came into the property; but instead of coming home to enjoy it he stopped out in india for years after he came into it." "he had a daughter, quite a little girl, in those days; her mother died out there. i suppose she inherits his property?" "well, no; she married some time back; she and her husband are both dead, and their son, a boy, six or seven years old, lives with the old man." "how much does he leave?" "something over a hundred thousand pounds. at least i know that that is about the value of the estates, for we have always acted as his agents, collected the rents, and so on." "i should like to see a copy of his will," wilkinson said, after sitting for some time silent. "i don't want all the legal jargon, but just the list of the legacies." "i can easily jot those down for you. the property goes to the grandson, and if he dies before coming of age, to a niece, hilda covington, who is his ward and lives with him. he leaves her beside only five hundred pounds, because she is herself an heiress. there are a score of small legacies, to old servants, soldiers, widows, and people of that sort." "well, you may as well give me the list entire." dawkins shrugged his shoulders. "just as you like," he said; "the will was signed yesterday, but i have the note of instructions still by me, and will bring round the list to-morrow evening; though, upon my word, i don't see what interest it can possibly have for you." "i don't know myself," the other said shortly, "but there is never any saying." after talking for a few minutes on other subjects he said, "the room is open downstairs now, dawkins, and as we have finished the bottle i will not keep you any longer. in fact, the name of that old general has called up some queer memories of old times, and i should like to think them over." when the clerk had left, wilkinson sat for a long time in thought. "it is a great idea," he murmured to himself at last; "it will want a tremendous lot of planning to arrange it all, and of course it is tremendously risky. still, it can be done, and the stake is worth trying for, even if it would be seven years' transportation if anything went wrong. in the first place i have to get some proofs of my identity. i own that i have neglected my family scandalously," and his face, which had been stern and hard, softened into a smile. "then, of course, i must establish myself in chambers in the west end, and as i have three or four thousand pounds in hand i can carry on for two or three years, if necessary. at the worst the general is likely to add me to his list of legatees, but of course that would scarcely be worth playing for alone. the will is the thing. i don't see my way to that, but it is hard if it can't be managed somehow. the child is, of course, an obstacle, but that can certainly be got over, and as i don't suppose the old man is going to die at present i have time to make my plans. when i see how matters go i can put my hand on a man who could be relied on to help me carry out anything i might put in his way. well, i always thought that i should hit on something good through these young scamps who come here, but this is a bigger thing than i ever dreamed of. it will certainly be a difficult game to play, but, knocking about all over the world as i have been for fifteen years before i came back and set up this show, i think that i have learned enough to pass muster anywhere." somewhat to the surprise of the _habitués_ of the room below it was nearly eleven o'clock before the proprietor made his appearance there, and even when he did so he took little interest in what was going on, but moved restlessly from one room to another, smoking cigar after cigar without intermission, and acknowledging but briefly the greetings of those who were the most regular frequenters of his establishment. two days later the following advertisement appeared, not only in the london papers, but in a large number of country journals: "john simcoe: any relatives of john simcoe, who left england about the year or , and is supposed to have been lost at sea in the bay of bengal, in the ship _nepaul_, in december, , are requested to communicate with j. w. thompson & co., newspaper agents, fleet street, when they will hear of something to their advantage." only one reply was received. it was dated "myrtle cottage, stowmarket," and was as follows: "sir: a friend has shown me the advertisement in the ipswich paper, which must, i think, refer to my nephew, who left here twenty years ago. i received a letter from him dated december , , from calcutta, saying that he was about to sail for china in the _nepaul_. i never heard from him again, but the rector here kindly made some inquiries for me some months afterwards, and learned that the vessel had never been heard of after sailing, but was believed to have foundered with all hands in a great gale that took place a few days after she sailed. so far as i know i am his only relative. awaiting a further communication from you, "i remain, "your obedient servant, "martha simcoe." great was the excitement caused by the advertisement at myrtle cottage. miss simcoe, who with a tiny servant was the sole inmate of the cottage, had called together all her female acquaintances, and consulted them as to what the advertisement could mean, and as to the way in which she should answer it. "do you think it would be safe to reply at all?" she inquired anxiously. "you see, my nephew john was a very wild young fellow. i do not mean as to his conduct here; no one could say anything against that. he was a clerk in the bank, you know, and, i believe, was very well thought of; but when his father died, and he came into two thousand pounds, it seemed to turn his head. i know that he never liked the bank; he had always wanted to be either a soldier or a sailor, and directly he got the money he gave up his situation at the bank, and nothing would do but that he must travel. everyone told him that it was madness; his aunt maria--poor soul, you all knew her--and i cried over it, but nothing would move him. a fine-looking fellow he was, as some of you will remember, standing six feet high, and, as everyone said, looking more like a soldier officer than a clerk at a bank. "we asked him what he would do when his money was gone, but he laughed it off, and said that there were plenty of things for a man to do with a pair of strong arms. he said that he might enter the service of some indian prince, or marry the daughter of a black king, or discover a diamond mine, and all sorts of nonsense of that sort. he bought such an outfit as you never did see--guns and pistols and all sorts of things; and as for clothes, why, a prince could not have wanted more. shirts by the dozen, my dear; and i should say eight or ten suits of white clothes, which i told him would make him look like a cricketer or a baker. why, it took three big trunks to hold all his things. but i will say for him that he wrote regular, either to me or to my sister maria. last time he wrote he said that he had been attacked by a tiger, but had got well again and was going to china, though what he wanted to go there for i am sure i don't know. he could not want to buy teacups and saucers; they would only get broken sending home. well, his death was a great blow to us." "i don't know whether i should answer the advertisement, miss simcoe," one of her friends said. "there is no saying what it might mean. perhaps he got into debt in india, and the people think that they might get paid if they can find out his relations here." the idea came like a douche of cold water upon the little gathering. "but the advertisement says, 'will hear of something to their advantage,' mrs. maberley," miss simcoe urged timidly. "oh, that is nothing, my dear. that may be only a lawyer's trick; they are capable of anything, i have heard." "but they could not make miss simcoe pay," another urged; "it seems to me much more likely that her nephew may have left some of his money in the hands of a banker at calcutta, and now that it has been so many years unclaimed they are making inquiries to see who is his heir. that seems much more likely." a murmur of assent ran round the circle, and after much discussion the answer was drafted, and miss simcoe, in a fever of anxiety, awaited the reply. two days later a tall, well-dressed man knocked at the door of myrtle cottage. it was a loud, authoritative knock, such as none of miss simcoe's usual visitors gave. "it must be about the advertisement," she exclaimed. the little servant had been enjoined to wear her sunday clothes in case a visitor should come, and after a hasty glance to see if she was tidy, miss simcoe sat down in her little parlor, and tried to assume an appearance of calmness. the front door opened, and a man's voice inquired, "is miss simcoe in?" then the parlor door opened and the visitor entered, pushing past the girl, who had been instructed how to announce him in proper form, and exclaiming, "my dear aunt martha," fairly lifted the astonished old lady from her seat and kissed her. "dear me! dear me!" she gasped, as he put her on her feet again, "can it be that you are my nephew john?" "why, don't you know me, aunt? twenty years of knocking about have changed me sadly, i am afraid, but surely you must remember me." "ye--es," she said doubtfully, "yes, i think that i remember you. but, you see, we all thought that you were dead; and i have only got that likeness of you that was cut out in black paper by a man who came round when you were only eighteen, and somehow i have always thought of you as like that." "yes, i remember," he laughed. "well, aunt, i have changed since then, there is no doubt. so you see i was not drowned, after all. i was picked up by a passing ship, clinging to a spar, but i lost all my money in the wreck of the _nepaul_. i shipped before the mast. we traded among the islands for some months, then i had a row with the captain and ran away, and threw in my lot with the natives, and i have been knocking about in the east ever since, and have come back with enough to live on comfortably, and to help you, if you need it." "poor maria died four years ago," she said tearfully. "it would have been a happiness to her indeed, poor creature, if you had come back before." "i am sorry indeed to hear that," he replied. "then you are living here all alone, aunt?" "yes, except for my little maid. you see, john, maria and i laid out the money our father left us in life annuities, and as long as we lived together we did very comfortably. since then, of course, i have had to draw in a little, but i manage very nicely." "well, well, aunt, there will be no occasion for you to stint yourself any more. as i said, i have come home with my purse warmly lined, and i shall make you an allowance of fifty pounds a year. you were always very kind to me as a boy, and i can very well afford it, and i dare say it will make all the difference to you." "my dear john, i could not think of taking such a sum from you." "pooh, pooh, aunt! what is the use of money if one cannot use it to make one's friends comfortable? so that is settled, and i won't have anything more said about it." the old lady wiped her eyes. "it is good of you, john, and it will indeed make all the difference to me. it will almost double my income, and i shan't have to look at every halfpenny before i spend it." "that is all right, aunt; now let us sit down comfortably to chat about old times. you don't mind my smoking, i hope?" miss simcoe, for almost the first time in her life, told a lie. "not at all, john; not at all. now, how was it that you did not come down yourself instead of putting in an advertisement, which i should never have seen if my friend mrs. maberley had not happened to notice it in the paper which she takes in regularly, and brought it in to show me?" "well, i could not bring myself to come down, aunt. twenty years make great changes, and it would have been horrible to have come down here and found that you had all gone, and that i was friendless in the place where i had been brought up as a boy. i thought that, by my putting it into a local paper, someone who had known me would be sure to see it. now let me hear about all the people that i knew." john simcoe stayed for three days quietly at the cottage. the news of his return spread rapidly, and soon many of the friends that had known him came to welcome him. his aunt had told her own circle of her nephew's wealth and liberality, and through them the news that john simcoe had returned home a wealthy man was imparted to all their acquaintances. some of his old friends declared that they should have known him anywhere; others said frankly that now they knew who he was they saw the likeness, but that if they had met him anywhere else they did not think they should have recognized him. john simcoe's memory had been greatly refreshed by his aunt's incessant talk about his early days and doings, and as his visitors were more anxious to hear of his adventures abroad than to talk of the days long past, he had no difficulty whatever in satisfying all as to his identity, even had not the question been settled by his liberality to his aunt, from whom no return whatever could possibly be expected. when he left he handed her fifty pounds in gold. "i may as well give you a year's money at once," he said; "i am a careless man, and might forget to send it quarterly." "where can i write to you, john?" she asked. "i cannot give you an address at present," he said; "i have only been stopping at a hotel until i could find chambers to suit me. directly i do so i will drop you a line. i shall always be glad to hear of you, and will run down occasionally to see you and have a chat again with some of my old friends." the return of john simcoe served stowmarket as a subject for conversation for some time. he had spent his money generously while there, and had given a dinner at the principal hotel to a score of those with whom he had been most intimate when a boy. champagne had flowed in unstinted abundance, and it was generally voted that he was a capital fellow, and well deserved the good fortune that had attended him. in the quiet suffolk town the tales of the adventures that he had gone through created quite a sensation, and when repeated by their fathers set half the boys of the place wild with a desire to imitate his example, and to embark in a life which was at once delightful, and ended in acquiring untold wealth. on leaving he pressed several of them, especially one who had been a fellow-clerk with him at the bank, and was now its manager, to pay him a visit whenever they came to town. "i expect to be in diggings of my own in a week or two," he said, "and shall make a point of having a spare bed, to put up a friend at any time." [illustration: "you don't remember me, general?"--_page ._] chapter vi. john simcoe. general mathieson was on the point of going out for a drive with his niece, who was buttoning her glove, when a servant entered the drawing room and said that a gentleman wished to speak to him. "who is he? did he give you his name or say what was his business?" "no, sir. i have not seen him before. he merely asked me to give you his message." "i suppose i had better see him, hilda." "well, uncle, i will get out of the way and go downstairs when he has come in. don't let him keep you, for you know that when i have put you down at your club i have an engagement to take lina crossley to do some shopping first, and then for a drive in the park." "i don't suppose that he will be five minutes, whoever he is." hilda slipped away just in time to avoid the visitor. as the manservant opened the door the general looked with some interest at the stranger, for such it seemed to him his visitor was. he was a tall man, well dressed, and yet without the precision that would mark him as being a member of a good club or an _habitué_ of the row. "you don't remember me, general?" he said, with a slight smile. "i cannot say that i do," the general replied. "your face does not seem unfamiliar to me, though i cannot at the present moment place it." "it is rather an uncommon name," the visitor said; "but i am not surprised that you do not remember it or me, for it is some twenty years since we met. my name is simcoe." "twenty years!" the general repeated. "then it must have been in india, for twenty years ago i was in command of the benares district. simcoe!" he broke off excitedly. "of course i knew a gentleman of that name who did me an inestimable service; in fact, he saved my life." "i don't know that it was as much as that, but at least i saved you from being mauled by a tiger." "bless me!" the general exclaimed, taking a step forward, "and you are the man. i recognize you now, and had i not believed that you had been lost at sea within a month after you had saved my life i should have known you at once, though, of course, twenty years have changed you a good deal. my dear sir, i am happy indeed to know that the report was a false one, and to meet you again." and he shook hands with his visitor with the greatest warmth. "i am not surprised that you did not recognize me," the latter said; "i was but twenty-five then, and have been knocking about the world ever since, and have gone through some very rough times and done some very hard work. of course you saw my name among the list of the passengers on board the _nepaul_, which went down with, as was supposed, all hands in that tremendous storm in the bay of bengal. happily, i escaped. i was washed overboard just as the wreck of the mainmast had been cut away. a wave carried me close to it; i climbed upon it and lashed myself to leeward of the top, which sheltered me a good deal. five days later i was picked up insensible and was carried to singapore. i was in hospital there for some weeks. when i quite recovered, being penniless, without references or friends, i shipped on board a vessel that was going on a trading voyage among the islands. i had come out to see the world, and thought that i might as well see it that way as another. it would take a long time to relate my after-adventures; suffice it that at last, after numerous wanderings, i became chief adviser of a powerful chief in burmah, and finally have returned home, not exactly a rich man, but with enough to live upon in more than comfort for the rest of my life." "how long have you been in london?" "i have been here but a fortnight; i ran down home to see if i had relatives living, but found that an old lady was the sole survivor of my family. i need scarcely say that my first business on reaching london was to rig myself out in a presentable sort of way, and i may say that at present i feel very uncomfortable in these garments after being twenty years without putting on a black coat. i happened the other day to see your name among those who attended the _levée_, and i said to myself at once, 'i will call upon the general and see if he has any remembrances of me.'" at this moment a servant entered the room with a little note. "my dear uncle: it is very naughty of you to be so long. i am taking the carriage, and have told them to put the other horse into the brougham and bring it round for you at once." for more than an hour the two men sat talking together, and simcoe, on leaving, accepted a cordial invitation from the general to dinner on the following day. * * * * * "well, uncle, who was it?" hilda asked, when they met in the drawing room a few minutes before the dinner hour. "you said you would not be five minutes, and i waited for a quarter of an hour and then lost patience. i asked when i came in how long he had stayed, and heard that he did not leave until five o'clock." "he was a man who had saved my life in india, child." "dear me! and have you never heard of him since, uncle?" "no, dear. i did my best to find out his family, but had no idea of ever seeing the man himself, for the simple reason that i believed that he died twenty years ago. he had sailed in a vessel that was reported as lost with all hands, so you may well imagine my surprise when he told me who he was." "did you recognize him at once, uncle?" "not at first. twenty years is a long time; and he was only about five-and-twenty when i knew him, and of course he has changed greatly. however, even before he told me who he was i was able to recall his face. he was a tall, active young fellow then, and i could certainly trace the likeness." "i suppose he was in the army, uncle?" "no; he was a young englishman who was making a tour through india. i was in command at benares at the time, and he brought me letters of introduction from a man who had come out in the same ship with him, and also from a friend of mine in calcutta. a few days after he arrived i was on the point of going up with a party to do some tiger-shooting in the terai, and i invited him to come with us. he was a pleasant fellow and soon made himself popular. he never said much about himself, but as far as i understood him he was not a rich man, but he was spending his money in seeing the world, with a sort of happy confidence that something would turn up when his money was gone. "we were out a week and had fair sport. as you have often heard me say, i was passionately fond of big-game shooting, and i had had many narrow escapes in the course of my life, but i never had so narrow a one as happened to me on that occasion. we had wounded a tiger and had lost him. we had spent a couple of hours in beating the jungle, but without success, and had agreed that the brute could not have been hit as hard as we had believed, but must have made off altogether. we were within fifty yards of the edge of the jungle, when there was a sudden roar, and before i could use my rifle the tiger sprang. i was not in a howdah, but on a pad; and the tiger struck one of its forepaws on my knee. with the other he clung for a moment to the pad, and then we went down together. the brute seized me by the shoulder and sprang into the jungle again, carried me a dozen yards or so, and then lay down, still holding me by the shoulder. "i was perfectly sensible, but felt somewhat dazed and stupid; i found myself vaguely thinking that he must, after all, have been very badly hit, and, instead of making off, had hid up within a short distance of the spot where we saw him. i was unable to move hand or foot, for he was lying on me, and his weight was pressing the life out of me. i know that i vaguely hoped i should die before he took a bite at my shoulder. i suppose that the whole thing did not last a minute, though to me it seemed an interminable time. suddenly there was a rustling in the bush. with a deep growl the tiger loosed his hold of my shoulder, and, rising to his feet, faced half round. what happened after that i only know from hearsay. "simcoe, it seems, was riding in the howdah on an elephant behind mine. as the tiger sprang at my elephant he fired and hit the beast on the shoulder. it was that, no doubt, that caused its hold to relax, and brought us to the ground together. as the tiger sprang with me into the jungle simcoe leaped down from the howdah and followed. he had only his empty rifle and a large hunting-knife. it was no easy work pushing his way through the jungle, but in a minute he came upon us. clubbing his gun, he brought it down on the left side of the tiger's head before the brute, who was hampered by his broken shoulder, and weak from his previous wound, could spring. had it not been that it was the right shoulder that was broken, the blow, heavy as it was, would have had little effect upon the brute; as it was, having no support on that side, it reeled half over and then, with a snarling growl, sprang upon its assailant. simcoe partly leaped aside, and striking again with the barrel of his gun,--the butt had splintered with the first blow,--so far turned it aside that instead of receiving the blow direct, which would certainly have broken in his skull, it fell in a slanting direction on his left shoulder. "the force was sufficient to knock him down, but, as he fell, he drew his knife. the tiger had leaped partly beyond him, so that he lay under its stomach, and it could not for the moment use either its teeth or claws. the pressure was terrible, but with his last remaining strength he drove the knife to the full length of its blade twice into the tiger's body. the animal rolled over for a moment, but there was still life in it, and it again sprang to its feet, when a couple of balls struck it in the head, and it fell dead. three officers had slipped down from their howdahs when they saw simcoe rushing into the jungle, and coming up just in time, they fired, and so finished the conflict. "there was not much to choose between simcoe and myself, though i had certainly got the worst of it. the flesh of his arm had been pretty well stripped off from the shoulder to the elbow; my shoulder had been broken, and the flesh torn by the brute's teeth, but as it had not shifted its hold from the time it first grasped me till it let go to face simcoe, it was not so bad as it might have been. but the wound on the leg was more serious; its claws had struck just above the knee-cap and had completely torn it off. we were both insensible when we were lifted up and carried down to the camp. in a fortnight simcoe was about; but it was some months before i could walk again, and, as you know, my right leg is still stiff. i had a very narrow escape of my life; fever set in, and when simcoe went down country, a month after the affair, i was still lying between life and death, and never had an opportunity of thanking him for the manner in which, practically unarmed, he went in to face a wounded tiger in order to save my life. you may imagine, then, my regret when a month later we got the news that the _nepaul_, in which he had sailed, had been lost with all hands." "it was a gallant action indeed, uncle. you told me something about it soon after i came here, when i happened to ask you how it was that you walked so stiffly, but you did not tell it so fully. and what is he going to do now?" "he is going to settle in london. he has been, as he says, knocking about in the east ever since, being engaged in all sorts of adventures; he has been for some time in the service of a native chief some way up near the borders of burmah, siam, and china, and somehow got possession of a large number of rubies and other precious stones, which he has turned into money, and now intends to take chambers and settle down to a quiet life, join a club, and so on. of course i promised to do all in my power to further his object, and to introduce him into as much society as he cared for." "what is he like, uncle?" "he is about my height, and i suppose about five-and-forty--though he looks rather older. no wonder, after such a life as he has led. he carries himself well, and he is altogether much more presentable than you would expect under the circumstances. indeed, had i not known that he had never served, i should unhesitatingly have put him down as having been in the army. there is something about the way he carries his shoulders that you seldom see except among men who have been drilled. he is coming here to dine to-morrow, so you will see him." "that relieves me of anxiety, uncle; for you know you had a letter this morning from colonel fitzhugh, saying that he had been unexpectedly called out of town, and you said that you would ask somebody at the club to fill his place, but you know you very often forget things that you ought to remember." "i certainly had forgotten that when i asked him to come, and as i came home i blamed myself for not having asked someone else, so as to make up an even number." a month later mr. simcoe had become an intimate of general mathieson's house. it had always been a matter of deep regret to the general that he had been unable to thank the man who at terrible risk to his life had saved him from death, and that feeling was heightened when the news came that his preserver had been drowned, and that the opportunity of doing so was forever lost. he now spared no pains to further his wishes. he constantly invited him to lunch or dinner at his club, introduced him to all his friends in terms of the highest eulogium, and repeated over and over again the story of his heroic action. as his own club was a military one he could not propose him there, but he had no difficulty in getting friends to propose and support him for two other clubs of good standing. several of the officers to whom he introduced simcoe had been at benares at the time he was hurt. these he recognized at once, and was able to chat with them of their mutual acquaintances, and indeed surprised them by his knowledge of matters at the station that they would hardly have thought would be known to one who had made but a short stay there. one of them said as much, but simcoe said, laughing, "you forget that i was laid up for a month. everyone was very good to me, and i had generally one or two men sitting with me, and the amount of gossip i picked up about the station was wonderful. of course there was nothing else to talk about; and as i have a good memory, i think i could tell you something about the private affairs of pretty nearly every civilian and military man on the station." everyone agreed that simcoe was a very pleasant and amusing companion. he was full of anecdotes of the wild people that he had lived among and of the adventures and escapes he had gone through. although none of the benares friends of the general recognized simcoe when they first met him, they speedily recalled his features. his instant recognition of them, his acquaintance with persons and scenes at and around benares was such that they never for a moment doubted his identity, and as their remembrance of the general's visitor returned they even wondered that their recognition of him had not been as instant as his of them. as to his means, not even to the general had simcoe explained his exact position. he had taken good apartments in jermyn street, gave excellent little dinners there, kept undeniably good wine and equally excellent cigars, dressed well, and was regarded as being a thoroughly good fellow. the general was not a close observer. had he been so, he would speedily have noticed that his niece, although always polite and courteous to mr. simcoe, did not receive him with the warmth and pleasure with which she greeted those who were her favorites. on his part the visitor spared no pains to make himself agreeable to her; he would at once volunteer to execute any commission for her if she happened to mention in his presence anything that she wanted. one evening when she was going to a ball he sent her an expensive bouquet of flowers. the next day when she saw him she said: "i am very much obliged to you for those lovely flowers, and i carried the bouquet last night, but please do not send any more. i don't think that it is quite nice to accept presents from anyone except very near relations. it was very kind of you to think of it, but i would really rather that you did not do it again. uncle gives me carte blanche in the way of flowers, but i do not avail myself of it very largely, for the scent is apt to make me feel faint, and beyond the smallest spray i seldom carry any. i made an exception last night, for those you sent me were most lovely. you don't mind my saying that, do you?" "not at all, miss covington; and i quite understand what you mean. it seemed natural to me to send you some flowers. out in the pacific islands, especially at samoa and tahiti, and, indeed, more or less everywhere, women wear a profusion of flowers in their hair, and no present is so acceptable to them." "i fancy flowers do not cost so much there as they do here, mr. simcoe?" "no," the latter laughed; "for half a dollar one can get enough to render a girl the envy of all others." * * * * * "i think you were right to ask mr. simcoe not to repeat his present, hilda," the general said. "i particularly noticed the bouquet that you carried last night." "yes, uncle, there was nothing equal to it in the room; it must have cost three or four guineas." "i don't think that you quite like him; do you, hilda?" "i like him, uncle, because he saved your life; but in other respects i do not know that i do like him particularly. he is very pleasant and very amusing, but i don't feel that i quite understand him." "how do you mean that you don't understand him?" "i cannot quite explain, uncle. to begin with, i don't seem to get any nearer to him--i mean to what he really is. i know more of his adventures and his life than i did, but i know no more of him himself than i did three months ago when i first met him at dinner." "at any rate you know that he is brave," the general said, somewhat gravely. "yes, i know that, of course; but a man can be brave, exceptionally brave, and yet not possess all other good qualities. he did behave like a hero in your case, and i need not say that i feel deeply grateful to him for the service that he rendered you; still, that is the only side of his nature that i feel certain about." "pooh! pooh! hilda," the general said, with some irritation. "what do you know about nine-tenths of the men you meet? you cannot even tell that they are brave." "no, uncle; i know only the side they choose to present to me, which is a pleasant side, and i do not care to know more. but it is different in this case. mr. simcoe is here nearly every day; he has become one of our inner circle; you are naturally deeply interested in him, and i am, therefore, interested in him also, and want to know more of him than i have got to know. he is brave and pleasant; is he also honest and honorable? is he a man of thoroughly good principles? we know what he tells us of his life and his adventures, but he only tells us what he chooses." the general shrugged his shoulders. "my dear child, you may say the same thing of pretty nearly every unmarried man you meet. when a man marries and sets up a household one does get to know something about him. there are his wife's relations, who, as a rule, speak with much frankness concerning a man who has married their daughter, sister, or cousin. but as to bachelors, as a rule one has to take them at their own valuation. of course, i know no more than you do as to whether simcoe is in all respects an honorable gentleman. it is quite sufficient that he saved my life, almost at the sacrifice of his own, and whatever the life he may have led since is no business of mine. he is distinctly popular among those i have introduced him to, and is not likely in any way to discredit that introduction." that hilda was not entirely satisfied was evident by the letter she wrote when her uncle had, as usual, gone up one afternoon to his club. "my dear netta: i have told you several times about the mr. simcoe who saved uncle's life out in india, and who is so intimate at the house. i can't say that either my acquaintance with or my liking for him increases. he does not stand the test of the system, and the more i watch his lips the less i understand him. he talks fluently and quickly, and yet somehow i feel that there is a hesitation in his speech, and that his lips are repeating what they have learned, and not speaking spontaneously. you know that we have noticed the same thing among those who have learned to speak by the system but are not yet perfect in it, so i need not explain further what i mean, as you will understand it. for example, i can always tell at a public meeting, or when listening to a preacher, whether he is speaking absolutely extemporarily or whether he has learned his speech by heart beforehand. "i really strongly misdoubt the man. of course i know that he saved my uncle's life; beyond that i know nothing of him, and it is this very feeling that i do know nothing that disquiets me. i can no more see into him than i can into a stone wall. i can quite understand that it is of very great importance to him to stand well with the general. he came here a stranger with a queer history. he knew no one; he had money and wanted to get into society. through my uncle he has done so; he has been elected to two clubs, has made a great number of acquaintances, goes to the row, the royal academy, the theaters, and so on, and is, at any rate, on nodding terms with a very large number of people. all this he owes to my uncle, and i fail to see what else he can wish for. it would be natural with so many other engagements that he should not come to us so often as he used to do, but there is no falling off in that respect. he is the tame cat of the establishment. i dare say you think me silly to worry over such a thing, but i can't help worrying. i hate things i don't understand, and i don't understand this man. "another thing is, walter does not like him. he constantly brings the child toys, but walter does not take to him, refuses absolutely to sit upon his knee, or to be petted by him in any way. i always think that it is a bad sign when a child won't take to a man. however, i will not bother you more about it now; i will keep him out of my letters as much as i can. i wish i could keep him out of my mind also. as i tell myself over and over again, he is nothing to me, and whether he possesses all the virtues or none of them is, or at any rate should be, a matter of indifference to me. i can't help wishing that you had come over here two months later, then i should have had the benefit of your advice and opinion, for you know, netta, how accustomed i was for years to consider you almost, if not quite, infallible." chapter vii. john simcoe's friend. there was a great sensation among the frequenters of the house in elephant court when they were told that wilkinson had sold the business, and the new proprietor would come in at once. the feeling among those who were in his debt was one of absolute dismay, for it seemed to them certain the amounts would be at once called in. to their surprise and relief wilkinson went round among the foreigners, whose debts in no case exceeded five pounds, and handed to them their notes of hand. "i am going out of the business," he said, "and shall be leaving for abroad in a day or so. i might, of course, have arranged with the new man for him to take over these papers, but he might not be as easy as i have been, and i should not like any of you to get into trouble. i have never pressed anyone since i have been here, still less taken anyone into court, and i should like to leave on friendly terms with all. so here are your papers; tear them up, and don't be fools enough to borrow again." towards his english clients, whose debts were generally from ten to twenty pounds, he took the same course, adding a little good advice as to dropping billiards and play altogether and making a fresh start. "you have had a sharp lesson," he said, "and i know that you have been on thorns for the last year. i wanted to show you what folly it was to place yourself in the power of anyone to ruin you, and i fancy i have succeeded very well. there is no harm in a game of billiards now and then, but if you cannot play without betting you had better cut it altogether. as for the tables, it is simply madness. you must lose in the long run, and i am quite sure that i have got out of you several times the amount of the i. o. u.'s that i hold." never were men more surprised and more relieved. they could hardly believe that they were once more free men, and until a fresh set of players had succeeded them the billiard rooms were frequently almost deserted. to dawkins wilkinson was somewhat more explicit. "you know," he said, "the interest i took in that will of general mathieson. it was not the will so much as the man that i was so interested in. it showed me that he was most liberally disposed to those who had done him a service. now, it happens that years ago, when he was at benares, i saved his life from a tiger, and got mauled myself in doing so. i had not thought of the matter for many years, but your mention of his name recalled it to me. i had another name in those days--men often change their names when they knock about in queer places, as i have done. however, i called upon him, and he expressed himself most grateful. i need not say that i did not mention the billiard room to him. he naturally supposed that i had just arrived from abroad, and he has offered to introduce me to many of his friends; and i think that i have a good chance of being put down in his will for a decent sum. i brought money home with me from abroad and have made a goodish sum here, so i shall resume my proper name and go west, and drop this affair altogether. i am not likely to come against any of the crew here, and, as you see," and he removed a false beard and whiskers from his face, "i have shaved, though i got this hair to wear until i had finally cut the court. so you see you have unintentionally done me a considerable service, and in return i shall say nothing about that fifty pounds you owe me. now, lad, try and keep yourself straight in future. you may not get out of another scrape as you have out of this. all i ask is that you will not mention what i have told you to anyone else. there is no fear of my being recognized, with a clean-shaven face and different toggery altogether, but at any rate it is as well that everyone but yourself should believe that, as i have given out, i have gone abroad again. i shall keep your i. o. u.'s, but i promise you that you shall hear no more of them as long as you hold your tongue as to what i have just told you. possibly i may some day need your assistance, and in that case shall know where to write to you." it was not until after a great deal of thought that john simcoe had determined thus far to take dawkins into his confidence, but he concluded at last that it was the safest thing to do. he was, as he knew, often sent by the firm with any communications that they might have to make to their clients, and should he meet him at the general's he might recognize him and give him some trouble. he had made no secret that he had turned his hand to many callings, and that his doings in the southern seas would not always bear close investigation, and the fact that he had once kept a billiard room could do him no special harm. as to the will, dawkins certainly would not venture to own that he had repeated outside what had been done in the office. the man might be useful to him in the future. it was more than probable he would again involve himself in debt, and was just the weak and empty-headed young fellow who might be made a convenient tool should he require one. so elephant court knew mr. wilkinson no more, and certainly none of the _habitués_ could have recognized him in the smooth-shaven and faultlessly dressed man whom they might meet coming out of a west end club. dawkins often turned the matter over in his mind, after his first relief had passed at finding the debt that had weighed so heavily upon him perfectly wiped out. "there ought to be money in it," he said to himself, "but i don't see where it comes in. in the first place i could not say he had kept a gambling place without acknowledging that i had often been there, and i could not say that it was a conversation of mine about the general's will that put it into his head to call upon him, and lastly, he has me on the hip with those i. o. u.'s. possibly if the general does leave him money, i may manage to get some out of him, though i am by no means sure of that. he is not a safe man to meddle with, and he might certainly do me more harm than i could do him." * * * * * the matter had dropped somewhat from his mind when, three months later, general mathieson came into the office to have an interview with his principals. after he had left the managing clerk was called in. on returning, he handed dawkins a sheet of paper. "you will prepare a fresh will for general mathieson; it is to run exactly as at present, but this legacy is to be inserted after that to miss covington. it might just as well have been put in a codicil, but the general preferred to have it in the body of the will." dawkins looked at the instruction. it contained the words: "to john simcoe, at present residing at jermyn street, i bequeath the sum of ten thousand pounds, as a token of my gratitude for his heroic conduct in saving my life at the cost of great personal injury to himself from the grip of a tiger, in the year ." "by jove, he has done well for himself!" dawkins muttered, as he sat down to his desk after the managing clerk had handed him the general's will from the iron box containing papers and documents relating to his affairs. "ten thousand pounds! i wish i could light upon a general in a fix of some sort, though i don't know that i should care about a tiger. it is wonderful what luck some men have. i ought to get something out of this, if i could but see my way to it. fancy the keeper of a billiard room and gaming house coming in for such a haul as this! it is disgusting!" he set about preparing a draft of the will, but he found it difficult to keep his attention fixed upon his work, and when the chief clerk ran his eye over it he looked up in indignant surprise. "what on earth is the matter with you, mr. dawkins? the thing is full of the most disgraceful blunders. in several cases it is not even sense. during all the time that i have been in this office i have never had such a disgraceful piece of work come into my hands before. why, if the office boy had been told to make a copy of the will, he would have done it vastly better. what does it mean?" "i am very sorry, sir," dawkins said, "but i don't feel very well to-day, and i have got such a headache that i can scarcely see what i am writing." "well, well," his superior said, somewhat mollified, "that will account for it. i thought at first that you must have been drinking. you had better take your hat and be off. go to the nearest chemist and take a dose, and then go home and lie down. you are worse than of no use in the state that you are. i hope that you will be all right in the morning, for we are, as you know, very busy at present, and cannot spare a hand. tear up that draft and hand the will and instructions to mr. macleod. the general will be down here at ten o'clock to-morrow to see it; he is like most military men, sharp and prompt, and when he wants a thing done he expects to have it done at once." * * * * * "you are feeling better, i hope, this morning?" he said, when dawkins came into the office at the usual hour next day, "though i must say that you look far from well. do you think that you are capable of work?" "i think so, sir; at any rate my head is better." it was true that the clerk did not look well, for he had had no sleep all night, but had tossed restlessly in bed, endeavoring, but in vain, to hit on some manner of extracting a portion of the legacy from the ex-proprietor of the gambling house. the more he thought, the more hopeless seemed the prospect. john simcoe was eminently a man whom it would be unsafe to anger. the promptness and decision of his methods had gained him at least the respect of all the frequenters of his establishment, and just as he had sternly kept order there, so he would deal with any individual who crossed his path. he held the best cards, too; and while a disclosure of the past could hardly injure him seriously, he had the means of causing the ruin and disgrace of dawkins himself, if he ventured to attack him. the clerk was himself shrewd in his own way, but he had the sense to feel that he was no match for john simcoe, and the conclusion that he finally came to was that he must wait and watch events, and that, so far as he could see, his only chance of obtaining a penny of the legacy was to follow implicitly the instructions simcoe had given him, in which case possibly he might receive a present when the money was paid. * * * * * about a fortnight after he knew the will had been signed by general mathieson, simcoe went down to a small house on pentonville hill, where one of the ablest criminals in london resided, passing unsuspected under the eyes of the police in the character of a man engaged in business in the city. a peculiar knock brought him to the door. "ah, is it you, simcoe?" he said; "why, i have not seen you for months. i did not know you for the moment, for you have taken all the hair off your face." "i have made a change, harrison. i have given up the billiard rooms, and am now a swell with lodgings in jermyn street." "that is a change! i thought you said the billiards and cards paid well; but i suppose you have got something better in view?" "they did pay well, but i have a very big thing in hand." "that is the right line to take up," the other said. "you were sure to get into trouble with the police about the card-playing before long, and then the place would have been shut up, and you might have got three months; and when you got out the peelers would have kept their eyes upon you, and your chances would have been at an end. no, i have never had anything to do with small affairs; i go in, as you know, for big things. they take time to work out, it is true; and after all one's trouble, something may go wrong at the last moment, and the thing has to be given up. some girl who has been got at makes a fool of herself, and gets discharged a week before it comes off; or a lady takes it into her head to send her jewels to a banker's, and go on to the continent a week earlier than she intended to do. then there is a great loss in getting rid of the stuff. those sharps at amsterdam don't give more than a fifth of the value for diamonds. it is a heart-rending game, on the whole; but there is such excitement about the life that when one has once taken it up it is seldom indeed that one changes it, though one knows that, sooner or later, one is sure to make a slip and get caught. now, what will you take? champagne or brandy?" "i know that your brandy is first-rate, harrison, and i will sample it again." "i have often thought," went on the other, after the glasses had been filled and cigars lighted, "what a rum thing it was that you should come across my brother bill out among the islands. he had not written to me for a long time, and i had never expected to hear of him again. i thought that he had gone down somehow, and had either been eaten by sharks or killed by the natives, or shot in some row with his mates. he was two years older than i was, and, as i have told you, we were sons of a well-to-do auctioneer in the country; but he was a hard man, and we could not stand it after a time, so we made a bolt for it. we were decently dressed when we got to london. as we had been at a good school at home, and were both pretty sharp, we thought that we should have no difficulty in getting work of some sort. "we had a hard time of it. no one would take us without a character, so we got lower and lower, till we got to know some boys who took us to what was called a thieves' kitchen--a place where boys were trained as pick-pockets. the old fellow who kept it saw that we were fit for higher game than was usual, and instead of being sent out to pick up what we could get in the streets we were dressed as we had been before, and sent to picture-galleries and museums and cricket matches, and we soon became first-rate hands, and did well. in a short time we didn't see why we should work for another man, and we left him without saying good-by. "it was not long before he paid us out. he knew that we should go on at the same work, and dressed up two or three of his boys and sent them to these places, and one day when bill was just pocketing a watch at lord's one of these boys shouted out, 'thief! thief! that boy has stolen your watch, sir,' and bill got three months, though the boy could not appear against him, for i followed him after they had nabbed bill, and pretty nearly killed him. "then i went on my travels, and was away two or three years from london. bill had been out and in again twice; he was too rash altogether. i took him away with me, but i soon found that it would not do, and that it would soon end in our both being shut up. so i put it fairly to him. "'we are good friends, you know, bill,' i said, 'but it is plain to me that we can't work together with advantage. you are twenty and i am eighteen, but, as you have often said yourself, i have got the best head of the two. i am tired of this sort of work. when we get a gold ticker, worth perhaps twenty pounds, we can't get above two for it, and it is the same with everything else. it is not good enough. we have been away from london so long that old isaacs must have forgotten all about us. i have not been copped yet, and as i have got about twenty pounds in my pocket i can take lodgings as a young chap who has come up to walk the hospitals, or something of that sort. if you like to live with me, quiet, we will work together; if not, it is best that we should each go our own way--always being friends, you know.' "bill said that was fair enough, but that he liked a little life and to spend his money freely when he got it. so we separated. bill got two more convictions, and the last time it was a case of transportation. we had agreed between ourselves that if either of us got into trouble the other should call once a month at the house of a woman we knew to ask for letters, and i did that regularly after he was sent out. i got a few letters from him. the first was written after he had made his escape. he told me that he intended to stay out there--it was a jolly life, and a free one, i expect. pens and paper were not common where he was; anyhow he only wrote once a year or so, and it was two years since i had heard from him when you wrote and said you had brought me a message from bill. "ever since we parted i have gone on the same line, only i have worked carefully. i was not a bad-looking chap, and hadn't much difficulty in getting over servant girls and finding out where things were to be had, so i gradually got on. for years now i have only carried on big affairs, working the thing up and always employing other hands to carry the job out. none of them know me here. i meet them at quiet pubs and arrange things there, and i need hardly say that i am so disguised that none of the fellows who follow my orders would know me again if they met me in the street. i could retire if i liked, and live in a villa and keep my carriage. why, i made five thousand pounds as my share of that bullion robbery between london and brussels. but i know that i should be miserable without anything to do; as it is, i unite amusement with business. i sometimes take a stall at the opera, and occasionally i find a diamond necklace in my pocket when i get home. i know well enough that it is foolish, but when i see a thing that i need only put out my hand to have, my old habit is too strong for me. then i often walk into swell entertainments. you have only to be well got up, and to go rather late, so that the hostess has given up expecting arrivals and is occupied with her guests, and the flunky takes your hat without question, and you go upstairs and mix with the people. in that way you get to know as to the women who have the finest jewels, and have no difficulty in finding out their names. i have got hold of some very good things that way, but though there would have been no difficulty in taking some of them at the time, i never yielded to that temptation. in a crowded room one never can say whose eyes may happen to be looking in your direction. "i wonder that you never turned your thoughts that way. from what you have told me of your doings abroad, i know that you are not squeamish in your ideas, and with your appearance you ought to be able to go anywhere without suspicion." "i am certainly not squeamish," simcoe said, "but i have not had the training. one wants a little practice and to begin young, as you did, to try that game on. however, just at present i have a matter in hand that will set me up for life if it turns out well, but i shall want a little assistance. in the first place i want to get hold of a man who could make one up well, and who, if i gave him a portrait, could turn me out so like the original that anyone who had only seen him casually would take me for him." "there is a man down in whitechapel who is the best hand in london at that sort of thing. he is a downright artist. several times when i have had particular jobs in hand, inquiries i could not trust anyone else to make, i have been to him, and when he has done with me and i have looked in the glass there was not the slightest resemblance to my own face in it. i suppose the man you want to represent is somewhere about your own height?" "yes, i should say that he is as nearly as may be the same. he is an older man than i am." "oh, that is nothing! he could make you look eighty if you wanted it. here is the man's address; his usual fee is a guinea, but, as you want to be got up to resemble someone else, he might charge you double." "the fee is nothing," simcoe said. "then again, i may want to get hold of a man who is a good hand at imitating handwriting." "that is easy enough. here is the address of a man who does little jobs for me sometimes, and is, i think, the best hand at it in england. you see, sometimes there is in a house where you intend to operate some confoundedly active and officious fellow--a butler or a footman--who might interrupt proceedings. his master is in london, and he receives a note from him ordering him to come up to town with a dressing case, portmanteau, guns, or something of that kind, as may be suitable to the case. i got a countess out of the way once by a messenger arriving on horseback with a line from her husband, saying that he had met with an accident in the hunting-field, and begging her to come to him. of course i have always previously managed to get specimens of handwriting, and my man imitates them so well that they have never once failed in their action. i will give you a line to him, saying that you are a friend of mine. he knows me under the name of sinclair. as a stranger you would hardly get him to act." "of course, he is thoroughly trustworthy?" simcoe asked. "i should not employ him if he were not," the other said. "he was a writing-master at one time, but took to drink, and went altogether to the bad. he is always more or less drunk now, and you had better go to him before ten o'clock in the morning. i don't say that he will be quite sober, but he will be less drunk than he will be later. as soon as he begins to write he pulls himself together. he puts a watchmaker's glass in his eye and closely examines the writing that he has to imitate, writes a few lines to accustom himself to it, and then writes what he is told to do as quickly and as easily as if it were his own handwriting. he hands it over, takes his fee, which is two guineas, and then goes out to a public-house, and i don't believe that the next day he has the slightest remembrance of what he has written." "thank you very much, harrison; i think that, with the assistance of these two men, i shall be able to work the matter i have in hand without fear of a hitch." "anything else i can do for you? you know that you can rely upon me, simcoe. you were with poor bill for six years, and you stood by him to the last, when the natives rose and massacred the whites, and you got bill off, and if he did die afterwards of his wounds, anyhow you did your best to save him. so if i can help you i will do it, whatever it is, short of murder, and there is my hand on it. you know in any case i could not round on you." "i will tell you the whole business, harrison. i have thought the matter pretty well out, but i shall be very glad to have your opinion on it, and with your head you are like to see the thing in a clearer light than i can, and may suggest a way out of some difficulties." he then unfolded the details of his scheme. "very good!" the other said admiringly, when he had finished. "it does credit to you, simcoe. you risked your life, and, as you say, very nearly lost it to save the general's, and have some sort of a right to have his money when he has done with it. your plan of impersonating the general and getting another lawyer to draw out a fresh will is a capital one; and as you have a list of the bequests he made in his old one, you will not only be able to strengthen the last will, but will disarm the opposition of those who would have benefited by the first, as no one will suffer by the change. but how about the boy?" "the boy must be got out of the way somehow." "not by foul play, i hope, simcoe. i could not go with you there." "certainly not. that idea never entered my mind; but surely there can be no difficulty in carrying off a child of that age. it only wants two to do that: one to engage the nurse in talk, the other to entice the child away, pop him into a cab waiting hard by, and drive off with him." "i doubt whether the courts would hand over the property unless they had some absolute proof that the child was dead." "they would not do so for some time, no doubt, but evidence might be manufactured. at any rate i could wait. they would probably carry out all the other provisions of the will, and with the ten thousand pounds and the three or four thousand i have saved i could hold on for a good many years." "how about the signature to the will?" "i can manage that much," simcoe said. "i had some work in that way years ago, and i have been for the last three months practicing the general's, and i think now that i can defy any expert to detect the difference. of course, it is a very different thing learning to imitate a signature and writing a long letter." the other agreed, and added, "i should be careful to employ a firm of lawyers of long standing. if you were to go to shady people it would in itself cause suspicion." "yes, i quite feel that, and i want, if possible, to get hold of people who just know the general by sight, so as to have a fairly good idea of his face without knowing him too well. i think i know of one. at the club the other day colonel bulstrode, a friend of the general's, said to him, 'i wish you would drive round with me to my lawyers'; their place is in the temple. i want someone to sign as a witness to a deed, and as it is rather important, i would rather have it witnessed by a friend than by one of the clerks. it won't take you a minute.'" "i should think that would do very well; they would not be likely to notice him very particularly, and probably the general would not have spoken at all. he would just have seen his friend sign the deed, and then have affixed his own signature as a witness. well, everything seems in your favor, and should you need any help you can rely upon me." chapter viii. general mathieson's seizure. three months later john simcoe called for a letter directed to "mr. jackson, care of william scriven, tobacconist, fetter lane." the address was in his own handwriting. he carried it home before opening it. the writing was rough and the spelling villainous. "samoa. "my dear jack: i was mitely glad when the old brig came in and captain jephson handed me a letter from you, and as you may guess still more pleased to find with it an order for fifty pounds. it was good and harty of you, but you allus was the right sort. i have dun as you asked me; i went to the wich man and for twelve bottles of rum he gave me the packet inclosed of the stuff he uses. there aint much of it, but it is mitely strong. about as much as will lie on the end of a knife will make a man foam at the mouth and fall into convulsions, three times as much as that will kill him outrite. he says there aint no taste in it. i hope this will suit your purpus. you will be sorry to hear that long peter has been wiped out; he was spered by a native, who thort pete wanted to run away with his wife, wich i don't believe he did for she wernt no way a beuty. vigors is in a bad way; he has had the shakes bad twice and i don't think that he can last much longer. trade is bad here, but now i have got the rino i shall buy another cocoanut plantation and two or three more wives to work it, and shall be comfortible. i am a pore hand with the pen, so no more from your friend, "ben stokes." a week later hilda wrote to her friend: "my dear netta: i am writing in great distress. three days ago uncle had a terrible fit. he was seized with it at the club, and i hear that his struggles were dreadful. it was a sort of convulsion. he was sensible when he was brought home, but very weak; he does not remember anything about it. fortunately, dr. pearson, who always attends us, was one of the party, and he sent off cabs for two others. dr. pearson came home with him. of course i asked him what it was, and he said that it was a very unusual case, and that he and the other doctors had not yet come to any decision upon it, as none of them had ever seen one precisely like it. he said that some of the symptoms were those of an epileptic fit, but the convulsions were so violent that they rather resembled tetanus than an ordinary fit. altogether he seemed greatly puzzled, and he would give no opinion as to whether it was likely to recur. uncle is better to-day; he told me that he, mr. simcoe, and four others had been dining together. he had just drunk his coffee when the room seemed to swim round, and he remembered nothing more until he found himself in bed at home. mr. simcoe came home with him, and the doctor said, i must acknowledge, that no one could have been kinder than he was. he looked quite ill from the shock that he had had. but still i don't like him, netta; in fact, i think i dislike him more and more every day. i often tell myself that i have not a shadow of reason for doing so, but i can't help it. you may call it prejudice: i call it instinct. "you can well imagine how all this has shocked me. uncle seemed so strong and well that i have always thought he would live to a great age. he is sixty-eight, but i am sure he looks ten years younger--at least he did so; at present he might be ninety. but i can only hope that the change is temporary, and that he will soon be his dear self again. the three doctors are going to have a meeting here to-morrow. i shall be anxious, indeed, to hear the result. i hope that they will order him a change, and that we can go down together, either to his place or mine; then i can always be with him, whereas here he goes his way and i go mine, and except at meal-times we scarcely meet. if he does go i shall try and persuade him to engage a medical man to go with us. of course, i do not know whether a doctor could be of any actual use in case of another attack, but it would be a great comfort to have one always at hand." the letter stopped here, and was continued on the following evening. "the consultation is over; dr. pearson had a long talk with me afterwards. he said that it was without doubt an epileptic fit, but that it differed in many respects from the general type of that malady, and that all of them were to some extent puzzled. they had brought with them a fourth doctor, sir henry havercourt, who is the greatest authority on such maladies. he had seen uncle, and asked him a few questions, and had a talk with dr. pearson, and had from him a minute account of the seizure. he pronounced it a most interesting and, as far as he knew, a unique case, and expressed a wish to come as a friend to see how the general was getting on. of course he inquired about his habits, asked what he had had for dinner, and so on. "'the great point, dr. pearson,' i said, after the consultation was over, 'is, of course, whether there is likely to be any recurrence of the attack.' 'that is more than i can say,' he answered gravely; 'at present he can hardly be said to have recovered altogether from the effects of this one, which is in itself an unusual feature in the case. as a rule, when a person recovers from an epileptic fit he recovers altogether--that is to say, he is able to walk and talk as before, and his face shows little or no sign of the struggle that he has undergone. in this case the recovery is not altogether complete. you may have noticed that his voice is not only weak, but there is a certain hesitation in it. his face has not altogether recovered its natural expression, and is slightly, very slightly, drawn on one side, which would seem to point to paralysis; while in other respects the attack was as unlike a paralytic stroke as it could well have been. thus, you see, it is difficult in the extreme for us to give any positive opinion concerning a case which is so entirely an exceptional one. we can only hope for the best, and trust to the strength of his constitution. at any rate, we all agree that he needs absolute quiet and very simple and plain diet. you see, he has been a great diner-out; and though an abstemious man in the way of drinking, he thoroughly appreciates a good dinner. all this must be given up, at any rate for a time. i should say that as soon as he is a little stronger, you had better take him down into the country. let him see as few visitors as possible, and only very intimate friends. i do not mean that he should be lonely or left to himself; on the contrary, quiet companionship and talk are desirable.' "i said that though the country might be best for him, there was no medical man within three miles of his place, and it would be terrible were we to have an attack, and not know what to do for it. he said that he doubted if anything could be done when he was in such a state as he was the other night, beyond sprinkling his face with water, and that he himself felt powerless in the case of an attack that was altogether beyond his experience. of course he said it was out of the question that i should be down there alone with him, but that i must take down an experienced nurse. he strongly recommended that she should not wear hospital uniform, as this would be a constant reminder of his illness. "i said that i should very much like to have a medical man in the house. money was no object, and it seemed to me from what he said that it would also be desirable that, besides being a skillful doctor, he should be also a pleasant and agreeable man, who would be a cheerful companion to him as well as a medical attendant. "he agreed that this would certainly be very desirable, and that he and the others were all anxious that the case should be watched very carefully. he said that he would think the matter over, and that if he could not find just the man that would suit, he would ask sir henry havercourt to recommend us one. "he said there were many clever young men to whom such an engagement for a few months would be a godsend. he intended to run down himself once a fortnight, from saturday until monday, which he could do, as his practice was to a large extent a consulting one. i could see plainly enough that though he evidently put as good a face upon it as he could, he and the other doctors took by no means a hopeful view of the case. "it is all most dreadful, netta, and i can hardly realize that only three days ago everything was bright and happy, while now it seems that everything is uncertain and dark. there was one thing the doctor said that pleased me, and that was, 'don't let any of his town friends in to see him; and i think that it would be as well that none of them should go down to visit him in the country. let him be kept altogether free from anything that would in the smallest degree excite him or set his brain working.' i told him that no one had seen him yet, and that i would take good care that no one should see him; and i need hardly tell you that mr. simcoe will be the first person to be informed of the doctor's orders." a week later general mathieson came downstairs for the first time. the change in him was even greater than it had seemed to be when he was lying on the sofa in his room; and tom roberts, who had been the general's soldier-servant years before, and had been in his service since he left the army, had difficulty in restraining his tears as he entered, with his master leaning heavily on his arm. "i am shaky, my dear hilda, very shaky," the general said. "i feel just as i did when i was laid up with a bad attack of jungle fever in india. however, no doubt i shall pick up soon, just i did then. pearson tells me that he and the others agree that i must go down into the country, and i suppose i must obey orders. where is it we are to go?" "to your own place, uncle." "my own place?" he repeated doubtfully, and then after a pause, "oh, yes, of course! oh, yes!" there was a troubled look in his face, as if he was trying to recall memories that had somehow escaped him, and hilda, resolutely repressing the impulse to burst into a flood of tears, said cheerfully: "yes, i shall be very glad to be back at holmwood. we won't go down by train, uncle. dr. pearson does not think that you are strong enough for that yet. he is going to arrange for a comfortable carriage in which you can lie down and rest. we shall make an early start. he will arrange for horses to be sent down so that we can change every ten or twelve miles, and arrive there early in the afternoon. it is only seventy miles, you know." "yes, i have driven up from there by the coach many a time when i was a boy, and sometimes since; have i not, tom?" "yes, general. the railway was not made till six or seven years ago." "no, the railway wasn't made, hilda; at least, not all the way." hilda made signs to tom not to leave the room, and he stood by his master's shoulder, prompting him occasionally when his memory failed him. "you must get strong very fast, uncle, for dr. pearson said that you cannot go until you are more fit to bear the fatigue." "i shall soon get strong, my dear. what is to-day?" "to-day is friday, uncle." "somehow i have lost count of days," he said. "well, i should think that i shall be fit to go early next week; it is not as if we were going to ride down. i was always fond of riding, and i hope i shall soon be after the hounds again. let me see, what month is this?" "it is early in june, uncle; and the country will be looking its best." "yes, yes; i shall have plenty of time to get strong before cub-hunting begins." so the conversation dragged on for another half hour, the general's words coming slower and slower, and at the end of that time he dropped asleep. hilda made a sign to roberts to stay with him, and then ran up to her own room, closed the door behind her, and burst into a passion of tears. presently there was a tap at the door, and her maid came in. "tom has just slipped out from the dining room, miss, and told me to tell you that the general was sleeping as peacefully as a child, and he thought it was like enough that he would not wake for hours. he said that when he woke he and william would get him up to his own room." "thank you, lucy." the door closed again. hilda got up from the bed on which she had lain down, and buried herself in the depths of a large cushioned chair. there she sat thinking. for the first time she realized how immense was the change in her uncle. she had seen him several times each day, but he had spoken but a few words, and it only seemed to her that he was drowsy and disinclined to talk. now she saw how great was the mental as well as the physical weakness. "it is terrible!" she repeated over and over again to herself. "what a wreck--oh, what a dreadful wreck! will he ever get over it?" she seemed absolutely unable to think. sometimes she burst into sobs, sometimes she sat with her eyes fixed before her, but seeing nothing, and her fingers twining restlessly round each other. presently the door opened very gently, and a voice said, "may i come in?" she sprang to her feet as if electrified, while a glad cry of "netta!" broke from her lips. a moment later the two girls were clasped in a close embrace. "oh, netta, how good of you!" hilda said, after she had sobbed for some time on her friend's shoulder. "oh, what a relief it is to me!" "of course i have come, you foolish girl. you did not suppose i was going to remain away after your letter? aunt is with me; she is downstairs, tidying herself up. we shut up the house and left the gardener in charge, and here we are, as long as you want us." "but your pupils, netta?" "i handed them all over to another of the professor's assistants, so we need not bother about them. i told aunt that i should not be down for an hour. mrs. brown is looking after her, and getting her a cup of tea, and i asked her to bring two cups up here. i thought that you would prefer for us to have a chat by ourselves. now tell me all about it, dear; that is, if there is anything fresh since you wrote." hilda told her the doctor's opinion and the plans that had been formed. "dr. pearson brought a dr. leeds here with him this morning. he says he is very clever. his term as house surgeon at guy's or st. bartholomew's, i forget which, has just expired, and as he had not made any definite plans he was glad to accept the doctor's offer to take charge of my uncle. he seemed, from what little i saw of him, a pleasant man, and spoke in a cheerful voice, which will be a great thing for uncle. i should think that he is six or seven and twenty. dr. pearson said he was likely to become a very distinguished man in his profession some day. he is going to begin at once. he will not sleep here, but will spend most of his time here, partly because he wants to study the case, and partly because he wants uncle to get accustomed to him. he will travel down with us, which will be a great comfort to me, for there is no saying how uncle may stand the journey. i suggested that we should have another carriage, as the invalid carriage has room for only one inside besides the patient, but he laughed, and said that he would ride on the box with tom roberts; there will be room for two there, as we are going to post down. of course, you and your aunt will go down by train, and be there to meet us; it will make it so much brighter and more cheerful having you to receive us than if we had to arrive all alone, with no one to say welcome." "and is your uncle so very weak?" "terribly weak--weak both mentally and physically," and she gave an account of the interview that afternoon. "that is bad indeed, hilda; worse than i had expected. but with country air, and you and me to amuse him, to say nothing of the doctor, we may hope that he will soon be a very different man." "well, i will not stay talking here any longer, netta; we have left your aunt half an hour alone, and if she were not the kindest soul in the world, she would feel hurt at being so neglected, after coming all this way for my sake. you don't know what good your coming has effected. before you opened the door i was in the depth of despair; everything seemed shaken, everything looked hopeless. there seemed to have been a sort of moral earthquake that had turned everything in my life topsy-turvy, but now i feel hopeful again. with you by my side i think that i can bear even the worst." they went down to the drawing room, where they found mrs. brown, the housekeeper, having a long gossip over what had taken place with miss purcell, whom, although a stranger, she was unaffectedly glad to see, as it seemed to take some of her responsibilities off her shoulders, and she knew that netta's society would be invaluable to hilda. it was not until a week later that, after another consultation, the doctors agreed that it was as well that the general should be moved down to his country place. dr. pearson was opinion that there was some improvement, but that it was very slight; the others could see no change since they had seen him ten days before. however, they agreed with their colleague that although there might be a certain amount of danger in moving him to the country, it was best to risk that, as the change might possibly benefit him materially. "have you formed any opinion of the case, dr. leeds?" sir henry asked. "i can scarcely be said to have any distinct opinion, sir henry. the symptoms do not tally with those one would expect to find after any ordinary sort of seizure, although certainly they would point to paralysis rather than epilepsy. i should, had the case come before me in the ordinary way in the ward of a hospital, have come to the conclusion that the seizure itself and the after-effects pointed rather to the administration of some drug than to any other cause. i admit that i am not acquainted with any drug whose administration would lead to any such results; but then i know of no other manner in which they could be brought about save by some lesion of a blood vessel in the brain of so unusual a character that no such case has hitherto been reported in any work with which i am acquainted. this, i say, would be my first theory in the case of a patient of whose previous history i was entirely unaware, and who came under my charge in a hospital ward; but i admit that in the present case it cannot be entertained for a moment, and i must, during my attendance upon general mathieson, watch closely for symptoms that would aid me in localizing brain lesion or other cause." he spoke modestly and quietly in the presence, as he was, of some of the leading men of his profession. the theory he had enunciated had not occurred to any of them, but, as he spoke, they all recognized that the symptoms might under other circumstances have led them to a similar conclusion. they were silent for a minute when he ceased speaking, then sir henry said gravely: "i admit, dr. leeds, that some of the symptoms, indeed the fit itself, might in the case of a patient of whose history we were ignorant seem to point to some obscure form of poisoning, since they do not accord with what one would expect in ordinary forms of brain seizures of this kind. however, there is no doubt that we are all somewhat prone, when we meet with a case possessing unusual or altogether exceptional features, to fall back upon the theory of poisoning. in this case, fortunately, the circumstances are such as to preclude the possibility of entertaining the idea for a moment; and, as you say, you must endeavor to find, watching him as you will do, some other cause of what i admit is a mysterious and obscure case; and knowing you as i do, i am sure that you will mention this theory, even as a theory, to no one. "we are all aware that there are many cases which come before us where we may entertain suspicions, and strong suspicions, that the patient has been poisoned, and yet we dare not take any steps because, in the first place, we have no clew as to how or by whom he or she has been poisoned, and because, if after death an autopsy should prove that we were mistaken, it would be nothing short of professional ruin. here, as you said, the theory is happily irreconcilable with the circumstances of the case, and no drug known to european science would produce so strange a seizure or the after-effects. of course, as we all know, on the west coast of africa, and it is believed in india, the natives are acquainted with poisons which are wholly unknown, and will probably remain unknown, since medical men who have endeavored to investigate the matter have almost always fallen victims themselves to poisons administered by the people whose secrets they were endeavoring to discover. "however, we can happily put that altogether aside. dr. pearson tells us that he intends to go down once a fortnight, and has promised to furnish us with the results of his own observations, and his own reports of this very interesting case. if general mathieson had, in the course of his military career, ever been struck in the head by a bullet, i should say unhesitatingly that some splinter, possibly very minute, had obtruded into the brain matter; but this has, i learn, not been the case. the only serious injury that he has ever received was when he was terribly torn and nearly killed by a tiger some twenty years ago in india. it may be useful to you, dr. leeds, to keep this in your mind. there can be no doubt that scratches and bites, even of the domestic cat, occasionally give rise to violent inflammations, and probably, indeed i believe it to be the case, those of the great cats of india are still more poisonous. as is the case with the bite of a mad dog, the poison may in some cases remain latent for a considerable time, until some circumstance may arouse it into activity. i would suggest that should any scars caused at that time remain, you should examine them carefully, and ascertain whether there is any sign of inflammatory action there. i grant the improbability of any consequences arising so many years after the event, but at the same time in a case of this kind, where we are perfectly at a loss to explain what we see, it is as well to look for the cause in every direction, however improbable it may appear." "thank you, sir henry; i will certainly do so. i was not aware before of the general having suffered such an injury, and i will go this afternoon and spend a few hours in looking through the medical works at the library of the india office to see if there are any records of serious disturbance caused in the system by wounds inflicted by tigers a considerable time after they have apparently healed." the meeting then broke up, and two days later general mathieson was taken down to his seat in warwickshire. post horses were in readiness all along the road, and the journey was accomplished quickly and without fatigue to the patient, who slept the greater part of the distance. at each change dr. leeds got down and had two or three minutes' talk with hilda, and when the general was awake gave him a spoonful of restorative medicine. his presence close at hand was a great comfort to hilda, upon whom the strain of watching her uncle was very great, and she was thankful indeed when they arrived at the end of the journey, and found netta and her aunt, who had gone down by that morning's train together with the housekeeper and her own maid, waiting on the steps to receive them. chapter ix. a strange illness. for three months general mathieson remained in the country. his improvement was very gradual--so gradual, indeed, that from week to week it was scarce noticeable, and it was only by looking back that it was perceptible. at the end of that time he could walk unaided, there was less hesitation in his speech, and his memory was distinctly clearer. he passed much of his time on a sofa placed in the shade in the garden, with hilda and netta sitting by him, working and talking. netta had always been a favorite of his from the time that he first met her in hanover; and he had, when she was staying with his niece the year before, offered her a very handsome salary if she would remain with her as her companion. the girl, however, was reluctant to give up her occupation, of which she was very fond, still less would she leave her aunt; and although the general would willingly have engaged the latter also as an inmate of the house, to act as a sort of chaperon to hilda when she drove out alone shopping, netta refused in both their names. "you would not have left the army, general, whatever temptations might have been held out to you. i am happy in thinking that i am doing good and useful work, and i don't think that any offer, even one so kind and liberal as yours, would induce me to relinquish it." her presence now was not only an inestimable comfort to hilda, but of great advantage to the general himself. alone hilda would have found it next to impossible to keep the invalid interested and amused. he liked to talk and be talked to, but it was like the work of entertaining a child. netta, however, had an inexhaustible fund of good spirits. after her long intercourse with children who needed entertainment with instruction, and whose attention it was absolutely necessary to keep fixed, she had no difficulty in keeping the conversation going, and her anecdotes, connected with her life in germany and the children she had taught, were just suited to the general's mental condition. little walter was of great assistance to her. he had come down with his nurse as soon as they were fairly settled at holmwood, and his prattle and play were a great amusement to his grandfather. whenever the conversation flagged netta offered to tell him a story, which not only kept him quiet, but was listened to with as much interest by the general as by the child. dr. leeds was often a member of the party, and his cheery talk always had its effect in soothing the general when, as was sometimes the case, he was inclined to be petulant and irritable. they had been a fortnight at holmwood before the doctor discovered netta's infirmity. she happened to be standing at a window with her back to him when he asked her a question. receiving no reply, he repeated it in a louder tone, but he was still unanswered. somewhat surprised, he went up to her and touched her; she faced round immediately. "were you speaking to me, dr. leeds?" "yes, i spoke to you twice, miss purcell, but you did not hear me." "i have been perfectly deaf from childhood," she said; "i cannot hear any sound whatever. i never talk about it; people ask questions and wonder, and then, forgetting that i do not hear, they persist in addressing me in loud tones." "is it possible that you are deaf?" "it is a melancholy fact," she said with a smile, and then added more seriously, "it came on after measles. when i was eight years old my good aunt, who had taken me to some of the best aurists in london, happened to hear that a professor menzel had opened an establishment in hanover for teaching deaf mutes to speak by a new system of watching people's lips. she took me over there, and, as you see, the result was an undoubted success, and i now earn my living by acting as one of the professor's assistants, and by teaching two or three little girls who board at my aunt's." "the system must be an admirable one indeed," the doctor said. "i have, of course, heard of it, but could not have believed that the results were so excellent. it never entered my mind for a moment that you were in any way deficient in hearing, still less that you were perfectly deaf. i have noticed that, more than is common, you always kept your eyes fixed on my face when i was speaking to you." "you would have noticed it earlier had we been often alone together," she said, "for unless i had kept my eyes always upon you i should not have known when you were speaking; but when, as here, there are always several of us together, my eyes are at once directed to your face when you speak, by seeing the others look at you." "is it necessary to be quite close to you when one speaks?" "oh, not at all! of course i must be near enough to be able to see distinctly the motion of the lips, say at twenty yards. it is a great amusement to me as i walk about, for i can see what is being said by people on the other side of the road, or passing by in a vehicle. of course one only gets scraps of conversations, but sometimes they are very funny." "you must be quite a dangerous person, miss purcell." "i am," she laughed; "and you must be careful not to say things that you don't want to be overheard when you are within reach of my eyes. yesterday, for instance, you said to hilda that my aunt seemed a wonderfully kind and intelligent old lady; and you were good enough to add some complimentary remarks about myself." dr. leeds flushed. "well, i should not have said them in your hearing, miss purcell; but, as they were complimentary, no harm was done. i think i said that you were invaluable here, which is certainly the case, for i really do not know how we should be able to amuse our patient if it were not for your assistance." "hilda and i had a laugh about it," netta said; "and she said, too, that it was not fair your being kept in the dark as to our accomplishment." "'our accomplishment!'" he repeated in surprise. "do you mean to say that miss covington is deaf also? but no, that is impossible; for i called to her yesterday, when her back was turned, and the general wanted her, and she answered immediately." "my tongue has run too fast," the girl said, "but i don't suppose she would mind your knowing what she never speaks of herself. she was, as you know, living with us in hanover for more than four years. she temporarily lost her hearing after an attack of scarlet fever, and the doctors who were consulted here feared that it might be permanent. her father and mother, hearing of dr. hartwig as having the reputation of being the first aurist in europe, took her out to him. he held out hopes that she could be cured, and recommended that she should be placed in professor menzel's institution as soon as she could understand german, so that, in case a cure was not effected, she might be able to hear with her eyes. by great good fortune he recommended that she should live with my aunt, partly because she spoke english, and partly because, as i was already able to talk, i could act as her companion and instructor both in the system and in german. "in three years she could get on as well as i could, but the need for it happily passed away, as her hearing was gradually restored. still, she continued to live with us while her education went on at the best school in the town, but of course she always talked with me as i talked with her, and so she kept up the accomplishment and has done so ever since. but her mother advised her very strongly to keep the knowledge of her ability to read people's words from their lips a profound secret, as it might tend to her disadvantage; for people might be afraid of a girl possessed of the faculty of overhearing their conversation at a distance." "that explains what rather puzzled me the other day," the doctor said. "when i came out into the garden you were sitting together and were laughing and talking. you did not notice me, and it struck me as strange that, while i heard the laughing, i did not hear the sound of your voices until i was within a few paces of you. when miss covington noticed me i at once heard your voices." "yes, you gave us both quite a start, and hilda said we must either give up talking silently or let you into our secret; so i don't think that she will be vexed when i tell her that i have let it out." "i am glad to have the matter explained," he said, "for really i asked myself whether i must not have been temporarily deaf, and should have thought it was so had i not heard the laughing as distinctly as usual. i came to the conclusion that you must, for some reason or other, have dropped your voices to a whisper, and that one or the other was telling some important secret that you did not wish even the winds to hear." "i think that this is the only secret that we have," netta laughed. "seriously, this is most interesting to me as a doctor, and it is a thousand pities that a system that acts so admirably should not be introduced into this country. you should set up a similar institution here, miss purcell." "i have been thinking of doing so some day. hilda is always urging me to it, but i feel that i am too young yet to take the head of an establishment, but in another four or five years' time i shall think seriously about it." "i can introduce you to all the aurists in london, miss purcell, and i am sure that you will soon get as many inmates as you may choose to take. in cases where their own skill fails altogether, they would be delighted to comfort parents by telling them how their children may learn to dispense altogether with the sense of hearing." "not quite altogether," she said. "it has happened very often, as it did just now, that i have been addressed by someone at whom i did not happen to be looking, and then i have to explain my apparent rudeness by owning myself to be entirely deaf. unfortunately, i have not always been able to make people believe it, and i have several times been soundly rated by strangers for endeavoring to excuse my rudeness by a palpable falsehood." "really, i am hardly surprised," dr. leeds said, "for i should myself have found it difficult to believe that one altogether deaf could have been taught to join in conversation as you do. well, i must be very careful what i say in future while in the society of two young ladies possessed of such dangerous and exceptional powers." "you need not be afraid, doctor; i feel sure that there is no one here to whom you would venture to give us a bad character." "i think," he went on more seriously, "that miss covington's mother was very wise in warning her against her letting anyone know that she could read conversations at a distance. people would certainly be afraid of her, for gossipmongers would be convinced that she was overhearing, if i may use the word, what was said, if she happened to look at them only casually." * * * * * at the end of three months the general became restless, and was constantly expressing a wish to be brought back to london. "what do you think yourself, dr. leeds?" dr. pearson said, when he paid one of his usual visits. "he is, of course, a great deal better than he was when he first came down," the former replied, "but there is still that curious hesitation in his speech, as if he was suffering from partial paralysis. i am not surprised at his wanting to get up to town again. as he improves in health he naturally feels more and more the loss of his usual course of life. i should certainly have advised his remaining here until he had made a good deal further advancement, but as he has set his mind upon it, i believe that more harm would be done by refusing than by his going. in fact, i think that he has, if anything, gone back in the last fortnight, and above all things it is necessary to avoid any course that might cause irritation, and so set up fresh brain disturbances." "i am quite of your opinion, leeds. i have noticed myself that he hesitates more than he did a short time since, and sometimes, instead of joining in the conversation, he sits moody and silent; and he is beginning to resent being looked after and checked." "yes; he said to me the other day quite angrily, 'i don't want to be treated as a child or a helpless invalid, doctor. i took a mile walk yesterday. i am beginning to feel quite myself again; it will do me a world of good to be back in london, and to drive down to the club and to have a chat with my old friends again.'" "well, i think it best that he should not be thwarted. you have looked at the scars from time to time, i suppose?" "yes; there has been no change in them, they are very red, but he tells me--and what is more to the point, his man tells me--that they have always been so." "what do you think, leeds? will he ever be himself again? watching the case from day to day as you have done, your opinion is worth a good deal more than mine." "i have not the slightest hope of it," the young doctor replied quietly. "i have seen as complete wrecks as he is gradually pull themselves round again, but they have been cases where they have been the victims of drink or of some malady from which they had been restored by a successful operation. in his case we have failed altogether to determine the cause of his attack, or the nature of it. we have been feeling in the dark, and hitherto have failed to discover a clew that we could follow up. so far there has been no recurrence of his first seizure, but, with returning strength and returning brain work, it is in my opinion more than likely that we shall have another recurrence of it. the shock has been a tremendous one to the system. were he a younger man he might have rallied from it, but i doubt whether at his age he will ever get over it. actually he is, i believe, under seventy; physically and mentally, he is ninety." "that is so, and between ourselves i cannot but think that a long continuance of his life is not to be desired. i believe with you that he will be a confirmed invalid, requiring nursing and humoring like a child, and for the sake of miss covington and all around him one cannot wish that his life should be prolonged." "i trust that, when the end comes, dr. pearson, it will be gradual and painless, and that there will be no recurrence of that dreadful seizure." "i hope so indeed. i have seen many men in bad fits, but i never saw anything to equal that. i can assure you that several of the men who were present--men who had gone through a dozen battles--were completely prostrated by it. at least half a dozen of them, men whom i had never attended before, knowing that i had been present, called upon me within the next two or three days for advice, and were so evidently completely unstrung that i ordered them an entire change of scene at once, and recommended them to go to homburg, take the waters, and play at the tables; to do anything, in fact, that would distract their minds from dwelling upon the painful scene that they had witnessed. had it not been for that, one would have had no hesitation in assigning his illness to some obscure form of paralysis; as it is, it is unaccountable. except," he added, with a smile, "by your theory of poison." the younger doctor did not smile in return. "it is the only cause that i can assign for it," he said gravely. "the more i study the case, the more i investigate the writings of medical men in india and on the east and west coast of africa, the more it seems to me that the attack was the work of a drug altogether unknown to european science, but known to obi women, fetich men, and others of that class in africa. in some of the accounts of people accused of crime by fetich men, and given liquor to drink, which they are told will not affect them if innocent, but will kill them if guilty, i find reports of their being seized with instant and violent convulsions similar to those that you witnessed. these convulsions often end in death; sometimes, where, i suppose, the dose was larger than usual, the man drops dead in his tracks while drinking it. sometimes he dies in convulsions; at other times he recovers partially and lingers on, a mere wreck, for some months. in other cases, where, i suppose, the dose was a light one, and the man's relatives were ready to pay the fetich man handsomely, the recovery was speedy and complete; that is to say, if, as is usually the case, the man was not put to death at once upon the supposed proof of his guilt. by what possible means such poison could have found its way to england, for there is no instance of its nature being divulged to europeans, i know not, nor how it could have been administered; but i own that it is still the only theory by which i can account for the general's state. i need not say that i should never think of giving the slightest hint to anyone but yourself as to my opinion in the matter, and trust most sincerely that i am mistaken; but although i have tried my utmost i cannot overcome the conviction that the theory is a correct one, and i think, dr. pearson, that if you were to look into the accounts of the various ways in which the poisons are sold by old negro women to those anxious to get rid of enemies or persons whose existence is inconvenient to them, and by the fetich men in these ordeals, you will admit at least that had you been practicing on the west coast, and any white man there had such an attack as that through which the general has passed, you would without hesitation have put it down to poison by some negro who had a grudge against him." "no doubt, no doubt," the other doctor admitted; "but, you see, we are not on the west coast. these poisons are, as you admit, absolutely unobtainable by white men from the men and women who prepare them. if obtainable, when would they have been brought here, and by whom? and lastly, by whom administered, and from what motive? i admit all that you say about the african poisons. i lately had a long talk about them with a medical man who had been on the coast for four or five years, but until these other questions can be answered i must refuse to believe that this similarity is more than accidental, and in any possible way due to the same cause." "that is what i have told myself scores of times, and it would be a relief to me indeed could i find some other explanation of the matter. then, you think that he had better come up to london?" "i leave the matter in your hands, dr. leeds. i would give him a few days longer and try the effect of a slight sedative; possibly his desire to get up to town may die out. if so, he is without doubt better here. if, however, you see that his irritation increases, and he becomes more and more set upon it, by all means take him up. how would you do so? by rail or road?" "certainly by rail. i have been trying to make him feel that he is a free agent, and encouraged him in the belief that he is stronger and better. if then i say to him, 'my dear general, you are, of course, free to do as you like, and it may be that the change will be beneficial to you; if the ladies can be ready to-morrow, let us start without further delay,' i consider it quite possible that this ready and cheerful acquiescence may result in his no longer desiring it. one knows that in this respect sick people are very like fractious children. they set their minds on some special article of food, as a child does on a toy, and when it comes they will refuse to touch it, as the child will throw the coveted toy down." it turned out so in this case. the moment the general found that the doctor was willing that he should go up to town, and the ladies quite ready to accompany him at once, he himself began to raise objections. "perhaps it would be as well that we should wait another month," he replied. a little pretended opposition strengthened this view, and the return was postponed. at the end of the month he had made so much progress that, when the longing for london was again expressed, dr. leeds offered no opposition, and two days later the whole party went up. chapter x. two heavy blows. during the four months that general mathieson had remained at holmwood no one had been more constant in his inquiries as to his health than mr. simcoe. he had seen hilda before she started, and had begged her to let him have a line once a week, saying how her uncle was going on. "i will get dr. leeds to write," she said. "my own opinion will be worth nothing, but his will be valuable. i am afraid that he will find time hang heavily on his hands, and he will not mind writing. i do not like writing letters at the best of times, but in the trouble we are in now i am sure that i shall not be equal to it." dr. leeds willingly undertook the duty of sending a short weekly bulletin, not only to mr. simcoe, but to a dozen other intimate friends. "it is not half an hour's work," he said, when netta offered to relieve him by addressing the envelopes or copying out his report; "very few words will be sufficient. 'the general has made some slight progress this week,' or 'the general remains in very much the same state,' or 'i am glad to be able to record some slight improvement.' that, with my signature, will be quite sufficient, and when i said that half an hour would be enough i exaggerated: i fancy that it will be all done in five minutes." mr. simcoe occasionally wrote a few lines of thanks, but scarcely a day passed that he did not send some little present for the invalid--a bunch of the finest grapes, a few choice peaches, and other fruit from abroad. of flowers they had plenty in their own conservatories at holmwood, while game was abundant, for both from neighbors and from club friends they received so large a quantity that a considerable proportion was sent back in hampers to the london hospitals. some of mr. simcoe's presents were of a different description. among them was a machine that would hold a book at any angle desired, while at the same time there was a shelf upon which a cup or tumbler, a spare book or newspaper, could be placed. "at any rate, hilda, this mr. simcoe of yours is very thoughtful and kind towards your uncle," netta said. "yes," hilda admitted reluctantly, "he certainly is very thoughtful, but i would much rather he did not send things. we can get anything we want from warwick or leamington, or indeed from london, merely by sending a line or a telegram. one hates being under obligations to a man one does not like." "it seems to me at present that you are unjust, hilda; and i certainly look forward to seeing him in london and drawing my own conclusions." "yes, no doubt you will see him, and often enough too," hilda said pettishly. "of course, if uncle means to go to his club, it will be impossible to say that he is unfit to see his friends at home." netta, however, did not see mr. simcoe on their return, for dr. leeds, on the suggestion of hilda, stated in his last report that the general would be going up to town in a day or two, but that he strongly deprecated any visits until he could see how the invalid stood the journey. there was no doubt that he stood it badly. just at first the excitement seemed to inspire him with strength, but this soon died away, and he had to be helped from the railway carriage to the brougham, and lifted out when he arrived at home. dr. leeds saw to his being carried upstairs, undressed, and put to bed. "he is weaker than i thought," he said in reply to hilda's anxious look when he joined the party downstairs. "i cannot say that it is want of physical strength, for he has walked over a mile several times without apparent fatigue. it seems to me that it is rather failure of will power, or brain power, if you like. i noticed that he very frequently sat looking out of the window, and it is possible that the succession of objects passing rapidly before the eye has had the same effect of inducing giddiness that waltzing has to one unaccustomed to it. i trust that to-morrow the effect will have passed off. i had, as you know, intended to sleep at a friend's chambers to-night; but i should not think of doing so now, but will sit up with him. i will get roberts to take watch and watch with me. i can lie down on the sofa, and he can wake me should there be any change. i sent him off in a cab, as soon as we got your uncle into bed, to fetch dr. pearson; if he is at home, he will be here in a few minutes." it was, however, half an hour before dr. pearson came, as he was out when the cab arrived. he had on the way learned from tom roberts the state in which the general had arrived, and he hurried upstairs at once to his room. "so he has broken down badly, leeds?" "very badly." "i did not expect it. when i saw him last sunday he seemed to have made so much progress that i thought there could be no harm in his being brought up to london, though, as i said to you, i thought it would be better to dissuade him from going to his club. he might see a few of his friends and have a quiet chat with them here. his pulse is still much fuller than i should have expected from the account his man gave of him. there is a good deal of irregularity, but that has been the case ever since the attack." "i think that it is mental rather than bodily collapse," the younger man said. "a sudden failure of brain power. he was absolutely unable to make any effort to walk, or indeed to move his limbs at all. it was a sort of mental paralysis." "and to some slight extent bodily also," dr. pearson said, leaning over the bed and examining the patient closely. "do you see there is a slight, but distinct, contortion of the face, just as there was after that fit?" "i see there is. he has not spoken since we lifted him from the railway carriage, and i am afraid that to-morrow we shall find that he has lost, partially or entirely, the power of speech. i fear that this is the beginning of the end." dr. pearson nodded. "there can be little doubt of it, nor could we wish it to be otherwise. still, he may linger for weeks or even months." hilda read the doctor's opinion in his face when he went downstairs. "oh, doctor, don't say he is going to die!" she cried. "i do not say that he is going to die at once, my dear. he may live for some time yet, but it is of no use concealing from you that neither dr. leeds nor myself have the slightest hope of his ultimate recovery. there can be no doubt that paralysis is creeping over him, and that it is most unlikely that he will ever leave his bed again. "yes, i know it is hard, dear," he said soothingly, as she burst into tears, "but much as you will regret his loss you cannot but feel that it is best so. he could never have been himself again, never have enjoyed his life. there would have been an ever-present anxiety and a dread of a recurrence of that fit. you will see in time that it is better for him and for you that it should be as it is, although, of course, you can hardly see that just at present. and now i must leave you to your kind friends here." miss purcell knew well enough that just at present words of consolation would be thrown away, and that it was a time only for silent sympathy, and her gentle words and the warm pressure of netta's hand did more to restore hilda's composure than any repetition of the doctor's well-meant assurance that all was for the best could do. "would you like me to write a line in your name to colonel bulstrode?" she asked. "no, no!" hilda cried; "it would look as if we had made up your minds that uncle was going to die. if he were conscious it would be different; for i know that colonel bulstrode is his greatest friend and is named one of his trustees, and uncle might want to talk to him. oh, how one wishes at a time like this that one had a brother, or that he had a son alive, or that there was someone who would naturally step in and take everything into his hands!" "there are his lawyers," miss purcell suggested. "yes, i did not think of them. mr. pettigrew is the other trustee, and is, i know, joint guardian with me of walter. i am sorry now that we did not leave the dear little fellow down at holmwood, it will be so sad and dull for him here, and he would have been very happy in the country. but perhaps it is best as it is; if my uncle recovers consciousness he is sure to ask for him. he had come to be very fond of him, and walter has been so much with him lately." "yes, his eyes always used to follow the child about in his play," miss purcell said. "i think it is best that he should be here, and as the nursery is at the top of the house he will not be in anyone's way." there was but little change in general mathieson's condition next morning, although a slight movement, when hilda spoke to him, showed that he was dimly conscious of her presence, and when she brought the child down and he laid his hand on that of the general, and said "good-morning, grandfather," according to his custom, he opened his eyes for a moment, and there was a slight movement of the lips, as if he were trying to speak. "thank you, miss covington," dr. leeds said; "the experiment was worth making, and it proves that his state of unconsciousness is not complete." walter always took his dinner with the others when they lunched. "where is the child?" hilda asked the footman; "have you sent him up to tell nurse that lunch is ready?" "i have not sent up, miss, because nurse has not come back with him from his walk." "no doubt she will be back in a few minutes," hilda said. "she is very punctual; i never knew her late before." [illustration: the nurse was sitting on a chair, sobbing bitterly. _--page ._] lunch was half over when tom roberts came in with a scared expression on his usually somewhat stolid face. "if you please, miss, nurse wishes to speak to you." "what is the matter, roberts?" hilda exclaimed, starting up. "has walter met with an accident?" "well, no, miss, not as i know of, but nurse has come home, and she is just like a wild thing; somehow or other master walter has got lost." hilda, followed by netta and miss purcell, ran out into the hall. the nurse, a woman of two or three and thirty, the daughter of one of the general's tenants, and who had been in charge of the child since he arrived a baby from india, was sitting on a chair, sobbing bitterly. her bonnet hung down at the back of her head, her hair was unloosed, and she had evidently been running wildly to and fro. her appearance at once disarmed hilda, who said soothingly: "how has it happened, nurse? stop crying and tell us. i am sure that it could not have been your fault, for you are always so careful with him. there is no occasion to be so terribly upset. of course he will soon be found. the first policeman who sees him will be sure to take him to the station. now how did it happen?" "i was walking along queen's road, miss," the woman said between her sobs, "and master walter was close beside me. i know that special, because we had just passed a crossing, and i took hold of his hand as we went over--when a man--he looked like a respectable working-man--came up to me and said, 'i see you are a mother, ma'am.' 'not at all,' said i; 'how dare you say such a thing? i am a nurse; i am in charge of this young gentleman.' 'well,' said he, 'i can see that you have a kind heart, anyhow; that is what made me speak to you. i am a carpenter, i am, and i have been out of work for months, and i have a child at home just about this one's age. he is starving, and i haven't a bit to put in his mouth. the parish buried my wife three weeks ago, and i am well-nigh mad. would you give me the money to buy him a loaf of bread?' the man was in such distress, miss, that i took out my purse and gave him a shilling, and thankful he was; he was all but crying, and could not say enough to thank me. then i turned to take hold of walter's hand, and found that the child had gone. i could not have been more than two or three minutes talking; though it always does take me a long time to take my purse out of my pocket, still i know that it could not have been three minutes altogether. "first of all, i went back to the crossing, and looked up and down the street, but he wasn't there; then i thought that perhaps he had walked on, and was hiding for fun in a shop doorway. when i could not see him up or down i got regular frighted, and ran up and down like a mad thing. once i came back as far as the house, but there were no signs of him, and i knew that he could not have got as far as this, even if he had run all the way. then i thought of the mews, and i ran back there. master walter was very fond of horses, and he generally stopped when we got to the entrance of the mews, and stood looking for a minute or two at the grooms cleaning the horses, and i thought that he might have gone in there. there were two or three men about, but none had seen the child. still i ran on, and looked into several stables, a-calling for him all the time. when he wasn't there, i went well-nigh stark mad, and i ran up and down the streets asking everyone i met had they seen a child. then i came back here to tell you." "we shall soon hear of him, nurse. roberts, do you and william start out at once. go first to the police station and give notice that the child is missing--he cannot have wandered far--and then do you and james go all round the neighborhood and tell every policeman that you meet what has happened. you can ask in all the shops in queen's road and the streets near; he may have wandered into one of them, and as he was alone, they may have kept him until someone came to inquire after him. now, netta, will you put on your bonnet and come out with me?" "shall i come with you too, hilda?" "no, thank you, miss purcell. in the first place we shall walk too fast for you, and in the second it would be as well for you to be here to comfort him if he is brought back while we are out. we will come every half-hour to hear if there is news of him. you had better go upstairs and make yourself tidy, nurse, and then you can come out and join in the hunt. but you look so utterly worn out and exhausted that i think perhaps you had better sit quiet for a time; you may be sure that it will not be long before some of us bring him back. "i could not sit still, miss covington," the woman said. "i will just run upstairs and put myself straight, and then go out again." "try and calm yourself, nurse, or you will be taken for a madwoman; you certainly looked like one when you came in." two minutes later hilda and her friend started. "let us go first into kensington gardens, netta; he often went there to play, and if he came down into the main road, he would very likely wander in. it is probable that nurse may have been longer speaking to that man than she thinks, and that he had time to get a good way before she missed him." the gardens were thoroughly searched, and the park-keepers questioned, but there were no signs of walter. then they called at the house to see whether there was any news of him. finding that there was not, they again went out. they had no real hopes of finding him now, for hilda was convinced that he was not in any of the streets near. had he been, either the nurse or the men would have found him. "he has, no doubt, been either taken by some kind-hearted person who has found him lost," she said, "and who has either given notice to the police, or he has been taken by them to the police station. still, it relieves one to walk about; it would be impossible to sit quiet, doing nothing. the others will have searched all the streets near, and we had better go up the edgware road, search in that direction, and give notice to any policemen we find." but the afternoon went on and no news was received of the missing child. it was a relief to them when dr. leeds, who had gone off watch for a few hours at twelve o'clock, returned. he looked grave for a moment when he heard the news, but said cheerfully, "it is very annoying, miss covington, but you need not alarm yourself; walter is bound to turn up." "but he ought to have been sent to the police station long before this," hilda said tearfully. "of course he ought, if all people possessed common-sense; unfortunately, they don't. i expect that at the present moment he is eating bread and jam, or something of that sort in the house of some kind-hearted old lady who has taken him in, and the idea of informing the police has never occurred to her for a moment, and, unfortunately, may not occur for some little time. however, if you will give me the details of his dress, i will go at once with it to the printer's and get two or three hundred notices struck off and sent round, to be placed in tradesmen's windows and stuck up on walls, saying that whoever will bring the child here will be handsomely rewarded. this is sure to fetch him before long." there was but little sleep that night at general mathieson's. the master of the house still lay unconscious, and from time to time dr. leeds came down to say a few cheering words to the anxious girls. tom roberts walked the streets all night with the faint idea of finding the child asleep on a doorstep, and went three times to the police station to ask if there was any news. the first thing in the morning hilda went with dr. leeds to scotland yard, and the description of the child was at once sent to every station in london; then she drove by herself to the office of messrs. farmer & pettigrew, and waited there until the latter gentleman arrived. mr. pettigrew, who was a very old friend of the family, looked very grave over the news. "i will not conceal from you, miss covington," he said, when she had finished her story, "that the affair looks to me somewhat serious; and i am afraid that you will have to make up your mind that you may not see the little fellow as soon as you expect. had he been merely lost, you should certainly have heard of him in a few hours after the various and, i may say, judicious steps that you have taken. a child who loses himself in the streets of london is morally certain to come into the hands of the police in a very few hours." "then what can have become of him, mr. pettigrew?" "it may be that, as not unfrequently happens, the child has been stolen for the sake of his clothes. in that case he will probably be heard of before very long. or it may be a case of blackmail. someone, possibly an acquaintance of one of the servants, may have known that the child, as the grandson and heir of general mathieson, would be a valuable prize, and that, if he could be carried off, his friends might finally be forced to pay a considerable sum to recover him. i must say that it looks to me like a planned thing. one of the confederates engages the silly woman, his nurse, in a long rambling talk; the other picks the child quietly up or entices him away to the next corner, where he has a cab in waiting, and drives off with him at once. however, in neither case need you fear that the child will come to serious harm. if he has been stolen for the sake of his clothes the woman will very speedily turn him adrift, and he will be brought home to you by the police in rags. if, on the other hand, he has been taken for the purpose of blackmail, you may be sure that he will be well cared for, for he will, in the eyes of those who have taken him, be a most valuable possession. in that case you may not hear from the abductors for some little time. they will know that, as the search continues and no news is obtained, his friends will grow more and more anxious, and more ready to pay handsomely for his return. of course it is a most annoying and unfortunate business, but i really do not think that you have any occasion to feel anxious about his safety, and it is morally certain that in time you will have him back, safe and sound. now how is your uncle? i hope that he shows signs of rallying?" "i am sorry to say there was no sign whatever of his doing so up to eight o'clock this morning, and, indeed, dr. pearson told me that he has but little hope of his doing so. he thinks that there has been a slight shock of paralysis. dr. leeds speaks a little more hopefully than dr. pearson, but that is his way, and i think that he too considers that the end is not far off." "your friends, miss purcell and her niece, are still with you, i hope?" "yes; they will not leave me as long as i am in trouble. i don't know what i should do without them, especially now this new blow has fallen upon me." "well, my dear, if you receive any communication respecting this boy send it straight to me. i do not know whether you are aware that you and i have been appointed his guardians?" "yes; uncle told me so months ago. but i never thought then that he would not live till walter came of age, and i thought that it was a mere form." "doubtless it seemed so at the time," mr. pettigrew agreed; "your uncle's was apparently an excellent life, and he was as likely as anyone i know to have attained a great age." "there is nothing you can advise me to do at present?" "nothing whatever, besides what you have done. the police all over london will be on the lookout for a lost child; they will probably assume at once that he has been stolen for his clothes, and will expect to see the child they are in search of in rags. they will know, too, the quarter in which he is most likely to be found. if it is for this purpose that he has been stolen you can confidently expect to have him back by to-morrow at latest; the woman would be anxious to get rid of him without loss of time. if the other hypothesis is correct you may not hear for a fortnight or three weeks; the fellows in that case will be content to bide their time." hilda drove back with a heavy heart. netta herself opened the door, and her swollen eyes at once told the truth. "uncle is dead?" hilda exclaimed. "yes, dear; he passed away half an hour ago, a few minutes after dr. leeds returned. the doctor ran down himself for a moment, almost directly he had gone up, and said that the general was sinking fast, and that the end might come at any moment. ten minutes later he came down and told us that all was over." chapter xi. a startling will. mr. pettigrew at once took the management of affairs at the house in hyde park gardens into his hands, as one of the trustees, as joint guardian of the heir, and as family solicitor. hilda was completely prostrated by the two blows that had so suddenly fallen, and was glad indeed that all necessity for attending to business was taken off her hands. "we need not talk about the future at present," mr. pettigrew said to her; "that is a matter that can be considered afterwards. you are most fortunate in having the lady with whom you so long lived here with you, and i trust that some permanent arrangement may be made. in any case you could not, of course, well remain here alone." "i have not thought anything about it yet," she said wearily. "oh, i wish i were a man, mr. pettigrew; then i could do something myself towards searching for walter, instead of being obliged to sit here uselessly." "if you were a man, miss covington, you could do nothing more at present than is being done. the police are keeping up a most vigilant search. i have offered a reward of five hundred pounds for any news that may lead to the child's discovery, and notices have even been sent to the constabularies of all the home counties, requesting them to make inquiries if any tramp or tramps, accompanied by a child of about the age of our young ward, have been seen passing along the roads. but, as i told you when you called upon me, i have little doubt but that it is a case of blackmail, and that it will not be long before we hear of him. it is probable that the general's death has somewhat disconcerted them, and it is likely that they may wait to see how matters go and who is the person with whom they had best open negotiations. i have no doubt that they are in some way or other keeping themselves well informed of what is taking place here." * * * * * the funeral was over, the general being followed to the grave by a number of his military friends and comrades, and the blinds at the house in hyde park gardens were drawn up again. on the following morning mr. pettigrew came to the house early. he was a man who was methodical in all his doings, and very rarely ruffled. as soon as he entered, however, hilda saw that something unusual had happened. "have you heard of walter?" she exclaimed. "no, my dear, but i have some strange and unpleasant news to give you. yesterday afternoon i received an intimation from messrs. halstead & james, saying that they had in their possession the will of the late general mathieson bearing date the th of may of the present year. i need not say that i was almost stupefied at the news. the firm is one of high standing, and it is impossible to suppose that any mistake has arisen; at the same time it seemed incredible that the general should thus have gone behind our backs, especially as it was only three months before that we had at his request drawn out a fresh will for him. still, i am bound to say that such cases are by no means rare. a man wants to make a fresh disposition of his property, in a direction of which he feels that his own solicitors, especially when they are old family solicitors, will not approve, and, therefore, he gets it done by some other firm, with the result that, at his death, it comes like a bombshell to all concerned. i can hardly doubt that it is so in this case, although what dispositions the general may have made of his property, other than those contained in the last will we drew up, i am unable to say. at any rate one of the firm will come round to our office at twelve o'clock with this precious document, and i think that it is right that you should be present when it is opened. you will be punctual, will you not?" "you can rely upon my being there a few minutes before twelve, mr. pettigrew. it all seems very strange. i knew what was the general purport of my uncle's last will, for he spoke of it to me. it was, he said, the same as the one before it, with the exception that he had left a handsome legacy to the man who had saved his life from a tiger. i was not surprised at this at all. he had taken a very great fancy to this mr. simcoe, who was constantly here, and it seemed to me only natural that he should leave some of his money to a man who had done him so great a service, and who, as he told me, had nearly lost his own life in doing it." "quite so," the lawyer agreed; "it seemed natural to us all. his property was large enough to permit of his doing so without making any material difference to his grandchild, who will come into a fine estate with large accumulations during his long minority. now i must be off." there was a little council held after the lawyer had left. "they say troubles never comes singly," hilda remarked, "and certainly the adage is verified in my case." "but we must hope that this will not be so, my dear," miss purcell said. "it cannot be any personal trouble, aunt," for hilda had fallen back into her old habit of so addressing her, "because uncle told me that, as i was so well off, he had only put me down for a small sum in his will, just to show that he had not forgotten me. i feel sure that he will have made no change in that respect, and that whatever alteration he may have made cannot affect me in the least; except, of course, he may have come to the conclusion that it would be better to appoint two men as guardians to walter, but i hardly think that he would have done that. however, there must be something strange about it, or he would not have gone to another firm of solicitors. no, i feel convinced that there is some fresh trouble at hand." the carriage drew up at the office in lincoln's inn at five minutes to twelve. mr. pettigrew had not included miss purcell and netta in the invitation, but hilda insisted upon their coming with her. they were shown at once into his private room, where some extra chairs had been placed. colonel bulstrode was already there, and mr. farmer joined his partner as soon as they were seated. "this is a most singular affair, miss covington," he said, "and i need hardly say that it is a matter of great annoyance as well as surprise to pettigrew and myself. of course general mathieson was perfectly free to go to any other firm of solicitors, but as we have made the wills for his family and yours for the last hundred years, as well as conducted all their legal business, it is an unpleasant shock to find that he has gone elsewhere, and i must say that i am awaiting the reading of this will with great curiosity, as its contents will doubtless furnish us with the reason why he had it thus prepared." just at the stroke of twelve mr. halstead and mr. james were announced. "we thought it as well," the former said, "for us both to come, mr. farmer, for we can understand your surprise at finding that a later will than that which is doubtless in your possession is in existence, and we are ready to explain the whole circumstances under which it was drawn out by us. general mathieson came one day to our office. he brought with him the card of colonel bulstrode; but this was unnecessary, for some months ago the general was at our office with the colonel. he was only there for the purpose of fixing his name as a witness to the colonel's signature, as our client, like many others, preferred having a personal friend to witness his signature instead of this being done by one of our clerks." "that was so," the colonel interjected. "general mathieson," mr. halstead went on, "was only in our office a minute or two on that occasion, but of course that was sufficient for us to recognize him when he called again. he told us that he desired us to draw out a will, and that as he had determined to appoint mr. pettigrew one of his trustees and guardian to his heir, he thought it as well to employ another firm to draw up the will. "we pointed out that such a precaution was altogether needless when dealing with a firm like yours, and he then said, 'i have another reason. i am making a change in one of the provisions of the will, and i fancy that farmer & pettigrew might raise an argument upon it. here are the instructions,' i said, 'you will permit me to read them through, general, before giving you a decided answer.' had the will contained any provision that we considered unjust we should have declined to have had anything to do with the matter; but as it in no way diverted the property from the natural heir, and was, as far as we could see, a just and reasonable one, we saw no cause for refusing to carry out his instructions; for we have known, as doubtless you have known, many similar instances, in which men, for some reason or other, have chosen to go outside their family solicitors in matters which they desired should remain entirely a secret until after their death. had general mathieson come to us as an altogether unknown person we should have point-blank refused to have had anything to do with the business; but as an intimate friend of our client colonel bulstrode, and as being known to us to some extent personally, we decided to follow the instructions given us in writing. i will now, with your permission, read the will." "first let me introduce miss covington to you," mr. farmer said. "she is the general's nearest relative, with the exception of his grandson. these ladies are here with her as her friends." mr. halstead bowed, then broke the seals on a large envelope, drew out a parchment, and proceeded to read it. messrs. farmer & pettigrew listened with increasing surprise as he went on. the legacies were absolutely identical with those in the will that they had last prepared. the same trustees and guardians for the child were appointed, and they were unable to understand what had induced general mathieson to have what was almost a duplicate of his previous will prepared so secretly. the last paragraph, however, enlightened them. instead of hilda covington, john simcoe was named as heir to the bulk of the property in the event of the decease of walter rivington, his grandson, before coming of age. hilda gave an involuntary start as the change was announced, and the two lawyers looked at each other in dismay. mr. halstead, to whom the general had explained his reasons for gratitude to john simcoe, saw nothing unusual in the provision, which indeed was heralded with the words, "as my only near relative, hilda covington, is well endowed, i hereby appoint my dear friend, john simcoe, my sole heir in the event of the decease of my grandson, walter rivington, before coming of age, in token of my appreciation of his heroic rescue of myself from the jaws of a tiger, in the course of which rescue he was most seriously wounded." when he had finished he laid down the will and looked round. "i hope," he said, "that this will be satisfactory to all parties." "by gad, sir," colonel bulstrode said hotly, "i should call this last part as unsatisfactory as possible." "the will is identical," mr. farmer said, without heeding the colonel's interjection, "with the one that general mathieson last executed. the persons benefited and the amounts left to them are in every case the same, but you will understand the dismay with which we have heard the concluding paragraph when i tell you that general mathieson's heir, walter rivington, now a child of six or seven years old, disappeared--i think i may say was kidnaped--on the day preceding general mathieson's death, and that all efforts to discover his whereabouts have so far been unsuccessful." mr. halstead and his partner looked at each other with dismay, even greater than that exhibited by the other lawyers. "god bless me!" mr. halstead exclaimed. "this is a bad business indeed--and a very strange one. do you think that this mr. simcoe can have been aware of this provision in his favor?" "it is likely enough that he was aware of it," mr. pettigrew said; "he was constantly in the company of general mathieson, and the latter, who was one of the frankest of men, may very well have informed him; but whether he actually did do so or not of course i cannot say. would you have any objection to my looking at the written instructions?" "certainly not. i brought them with me in order that they may be referred to as to any question that might arise." "it is certainly in the general's own handwriting," mr. pettigrew said, after looking at the paper. "but, indeed, the identity of the legacies given to some twenty or thirty persons, and of all the other provisions of the will, including the appointment of trustees and guardians, with those of the will in our possession, would seem in itself to set the matter at rest. were you present yourself when the general signed it?" "certainly. both mr. james and myself were present. i can now only express my deep regret that we acceded to the general's request to draw up the will." "it is unfortunate, certainly," mr. farmer said. "i do not see that under the circumstances of his introduction by an old client, and the fact that you had seen him before, anyone could blame you for undertaking the matter. such cases are, as you said, by no means unusual, and i am quite sure that you would not have undertaken it, had you considered for a moment that any injustice was being done by its provisions." "may i ask to whom the property was to go to by the first will?" "it was to go to miss covington. i am sure that i can say, in her name, that under other circumstances she would not feel in any way aggrieved at the loss of a property she can well dispense with, especially as the chances of that provision coming into effect were but small, as the child was a healthy little fellow, and in all respects likely to live to come of age." "i do not care in the least for myself," hilda said impetuously. "on the contrary, i would much rather that it had gone to someone else. i should not have at all liked the thought that i might benefit by walter's death, but i would rather that it had been left to anyone but this man, whom i have always disliked, and whom walter also disliked. i cannot give any reason why. i suppose it was an instinct, and now the instinct is justified, for i feel sure that he is at the bottom of walter's disappearance." "hush! hush! my dear young lady," mr. farmer said, holding up his hand in dismay, "you must not say such things; they are libelous in the extreme. whatever suspicions you may have--and i own that at present things look awkward--you must not mention those suspicions until you obtain some evidence in their support. the disappearance of the child at this moment may be a mere coincidence--a singular one, if you like--and we shall, of course, examine the matter to the utmost and sift it to the bottom, but nothing must be said until we have something to go on." hilda sat silent, with her lips pressed tightly together and an expression of determination upon her face. the other solicitors speedily left, after more expressions of regret. "what are we going to do next, mr. pettigrew?" hilda asked abruptly, as the door closed behind them. "that is too difficult a matter to decide off-hand, but after going into the whole matter with my co-trustee, colonel bulstrode, with the assistance of my partner, we shall come to some agreement as to the best course to take. of course we could oppose the probate of this new will, but it does not seem to me that we have a leg to stand upon in that respect. i have no doubt that halstead & james will retire altogether from the matter, and refuse to act further. in that case it will be my duty, of course, to acquaint simcoe with the provisions of the will, and to inform him that we, as trustees, shall not proceed to take any further steps in the matter until the fate of walter rivington is ascertained, but shall until then administer the estate in his behalf. it will then be for him to take the next step, and he certainly will not move for some months. after a time he will, of course, apply to the court to have it declared that walter rivington, having disappeared for a long time, there is reasonable presumption of his death. i shall then, in your name and mine, as the child's guardians, be heard in opposition, and i feel sure that the court will refuse to grant the petition, especially under the serious and most suspicious circumstances of the case. in time simcoe will repeat the application, and we shall of course oppose it. in fact, i think it likely that it will be a good many years before the court will take the step asked, and all that time we shall be quietly making inquiries about this man and his antecedents, and we shall, of course, keep up a search for the child. it may be that his disappearance is only a coincidence, and that he has, as we at first supposed, been stolen for the purpose of making a heavy claim for his return." "you may be sure that i shall not rest until i find him, mr. pettigrew," hilda said. "i shall devote my life to it. i love the child dearly; but even were he a perfect stranger to me i would do everything in my power, if only to prevent this man from obtaining the proceeds of his villainy." mr. farmer again interposed. "my dear miss covington," he said, "you really must not speak like this. of course, with us it is perfectly safe. i admit that you have good reason for your indignation, but you must really moderate your expressions, which might cause infinite mischief were you to use them before other people. in the eye of the law a man is innocent until he is proved guilty, and we have not a shadow of proof that this man has anything to do with the child's abduction. moreover, it might do harm in other ways. to begin with, it might render the discovery of the child more difficult; for if his abductors were aware or even suspected that you were searching in all directions for him, they would take all the greater pains to conceal his hiding-place." "i will be careful, mr. farmer, but i shall proceed to have a search made at every workhouse and night refuge and place of that sort in london, and within twenty miles round, and issue more placards of your offer of a reward of five hundred pounds for information. there is no harm in that." "certainly not. those are the measures that one would naturally take in any case. indeed, i should already have pushed my inquiries in that direction, but i have hitherto felt sure that had he been merely taken for his clothes, the police would have traced him before now; but as they have not been able to do so, that it was a case of blackmail, and that we should hear very shortly from the people that had stolen him. i sincerely trust that this may the case, and that it will turn out that this man simcoe has nothing whatever to do with it. i will come down and let you know what steps we are taking from time to time, and learn the directions in which you are pushing your inquiries." neither miss purcell nor netta had spoken from the time they had entered the room, but as soon as they took their places in the carriage waiting for them, they burst out. "what an extraordinary thing, hilda! and yet," miss purcell added, "the search for walter may do good in one way; it will prevent you from turning your thoughts constantly to the past and to the loss that you have suffered." "if it had not been for walter being missing, aunt, i should have thought nothing of uncle's appointing mr. simcoe as heir to his property if anything should happen to him. this man had obtained an extraordinary influence over him, and there can be no doubt from uncle's statement to me that he owed his life solely to him, and that simcoe indeed was seriously injured in saving him. he knew that i had no occasion for the money, and have already more than is good for a girl to have at her absolute disposal; therefore i am in no way surprised that he should have left him his estate in the event of walter's death. all that is quite right, and i have nothing to say against it, except that i have always disliked the man. it is only the extraordinary disappearance of walter, just at this moment, that seems to me to render it certain that simcoe is at the bottom of it. no one else could have had any motive for stealing walter, more than any other rich man's child. his interest in his disappearance is immense. i have no doubt uncle had told him what he had done, and the man must have seen that his chance of getting the estate was very small unless the child could be put out of the way." "you don't think," netta began, "that any harm can have happened to him?" "no, i don't think that. whether this man would have shrunk from it if there were no other way, i need not ask myself; but there could have been no occasion for it. walter is so young that he will very soon forget the past; he might be handed over to a gypsy and grow up a little vagrant, and as there is no mark on him by which he might be identified, he would be lost to us forever. you see the man can afford to wait. he has doubtless means of his own--how large i do not know, but i have heard my uncle say that he had handsome chambers, and certainly he lived in good style. now he will have this legacy of ten thousand pounds, and if the court keeps him waiting ten or fifteen years before pronouncing walter dead, he can afford to wait. anyhow, i shall have plenty of time in which to act, and it will require a lot of thinking over before i decide what i had best do." she lost no time, however, in beginning to work. posters offering the reward of five hundred pounds for information of the missing boy were at once issued, and stuck up not only in london, but in every town and village within thirty miles. then she obtained from mr. pettigrew the name of a firm of trustworthy private detectives and set them to make inquiries, in the first place at all the institutions where a lost child would be likely to be taken if found, or where it might have been left by a tramp. two days after the reading of the will she received the following letter from john simcoe: "dear miss covington: i have learned from messrs. farmer & pettigrew the liberal and i may say extraordinary generosity shown towards myself by the late general mathieson, whose loss i most deeply deplore. my feelings of gratitude are at the present moment overwhelmed by the very painful position in which i find myself. i had, of course, heard, upon calling at your door to make inquiries, that little walter was missing, and was deeply grieved at the news, though not at the time dreaming that it could affect me personally. now, however, the circumstances of the case are completely changed, for, by the provisions of the will, i should benefit pecuniarily by the poor child's death. i will not for a moment permit myself to believe that he is not alive and well, and do not doubt that you will speedily recover him; but, until this occurs, i feel that some sort of suspicion must attach to me, who am the only person having an interest in his disappearance. the thought that this may be so is distressing to me in the extreme. since i heard of his disappearance i have spent the greater part of my time in traversing the slums of london in hopes of lighting upon him. i shall now undertake wider researches, and shall to-day insert advertisements in all the daily papers, offering one thousand pounds for his recovery. i feel sure that you at least will not for a moment entertain unjust suspicions concerning me, but those who do not know me well may do so, and although at present none of the facts have been made public, i feel as if i were already under a cloud, and that men in the club look askance at me, and unless the child is found my position will speedily become intolerable. my only support in this trial is my consciousness of innocence. you will excuse me for intruding upon your sorrow at the present moment, but i felt compelled to write as i have done, and to assure you that i will use every effort in my power to discover the child, not only for his own sake and yours, but because i feel that until he is discovered i must continue to rest under the terrible, if unspoken, suspicion of being concerned in his disappearance. "believe me, yours very truly, "john simcoe." chapter xii. dr. leeds speaks. after reading john simcoe's letter, hilda threw it down with an exclamation of contempt. "read it!" she said to netta, who was alone with her. "the letter is good enough as it stands," netta remarked, as she finished it. "good enough, if coming from anyone else," hilda said scornfully, "perhaps better than most men would write, but i think that a rogue can generally express himself better than an honest man." "now you are getting cynical--a new and unpleasant phase in your character, hilda. i have heard you say that you do not like this man, but you have never given me any particular reason for it, beyond, in one of your letters, saying that it was an instinct. now do try to give me a more palpable reason than that. at present it seems to be only a case of dr. fell. you don't like him because you don't." "i don't like him because from the first i distrusted him. personally, i had no reason to complain; on the contrary, he has been extremely civil, and indeed willing to put himself out in any way to do me small services. then, as i told you, walter disliked him, too, although he was always bringing chocolates and toys for him; so that the child's dislike must have been also a sort of instinct. he felt, as i did, that the man was not true and honest. he always gave me the impression of acting a part, and i have never been able to understand how a man of his class could have performed so noble and heroic an act as rushing in almost unarmed to save another, who was almost a stranger to him, from the grip of a tiger. so absolutely did i feel this that i have at times even doubted whether he could be the john simcoe who had performed this gallant action." "my dear hilda, you are getting fanciful! do you think that your uncle was likely to be deceived in such a matter, and that he would not have a vivid remembrance of his preserver, even after twenty years?" "that depends on how much he saw of him. my uncle told me that mr. simcoe brought some good introductions from a friend of his at calcutta who came out in the same ship with him. no doubt he dined at my uncle's two or three times--he may even have stayed a few days in the house--possibly more; but as commanding the district my uncle must have been fully occupied during the day, and can have seen little of him until, i suppose, a week or so after his arrival, when he invited him to join in the hunt for a tiger. although much hurt on that occasion, simcoe was much less injured than my uncle, who lay between life and death for some time, and simcoe had left before he was well enough to see him. if he had dined with my uncle a few times after this affair, undoubtedly his features would have been so impressed on him that he would have recognized him, even after twenty years; but, as it was, he could have no particular interest in this gentleman, and can have entertained but a hazy recollection of his features. in fact, the general did not recognize him when he first called upon him, until he had related certain details of the affair. it had always been a sore point with my uncle that he had never had an opportunity of thanking his preserver, who had, as he believed, lost his life at sea before he himself was off his sick bed, and when he heard the man's story he was naturally anxious to welcome him with open arms, and to do all in his power for him. i admit that this man must either have been in benares then, or shortly afterwards, for he remembered various officers who were there and little incidents of cantonment life that could, one would think, be only known to one who had been there at the time." "but you say he was only there a week, hilda?" "only a week before this tiger business; but it was a month before he was able to travel. no doubt all the officers there would make a good deal of a man who had performed such a deed, and would go and sit with him and chat to while away the hours; so that he would, in that time, pick up a great deal of the gossip of the station." "well, then, what is your theory, hilda? the real man, as you say, no doubt made a great many acquaintances there; this man seems to have been behind the scenes also." "he unquestionably knew many of the officers, for uncle told me that he recognized several men who had been out there when he met them at the club, and went up and addressed them by name." "did they know him also?" "no; at first none of them had any idea who he was. but that is not surprising, for they had seen him principally when he was greatly pulled down; and believing him to be drowned, it would have been strange indeed if they had recalled his face until he had mentioned who he was." "well, it seems to me that you are arguing against yourself, hilda. everything you say points to the fact that this man is the john simcoe he claims to be. if he is not simcoe, who can he be?" "ah! there you ask a question that i cannot answer." "in fact, hilda, you have nothing beyond the fact that you do not like the man, and believe that he is not the sort of man to perform an heroic and self-sacrificing action, on behalf of this curious theory of yours." "that is all at present, but i mean to set myself to work to find out more about him. if i can find out that this man is an impostor we shall recover walter; if not, i doubt whether we shall ever hear of him again." netta lifted her eyebrows. "well, at any rate, you have plenty of time before you, hilda." the next morning dr. leeds, who had not called for the last three or four days, came in to say that he was arranging a partnership with a doctor of considerable eminence, but who was beginning to find the pressure of work too much for him, and wanted the aid of a younger and more active man. "it is a chance in a thousand," he said. "i owe it largely to the kind manner in which both sir henry havercourt and dr. pearson spoke to him as to my ability. you will excuse me," he went on, after hilda had warmly congratulated him, "for talking of myself before i have asked any questions, but i know that, had you obtained any news of walter, you would have let me know at once." "certainly i should; but i have some news, and really important news, to give you." and she related the production of the new will and gave him the details of its provisions. he looked very serious. "it is certainly an ugly outlook," he said. "i have never seen this simcoe, but i know from the tone in which you have spoken of him, at least two or three times, that he is by no means a favorite of yours. can you tell me anything about him?" "not beyond the fact that he saved the general's life from a tiger a great many years ago. shortly after that he was supposed to be lost at sea. certainly the vessel in which he sailed went down in a hurricane with, as was reported, all hands. he says that he was picked up clinging to a spar. of his life for the twenty years following he has never given a very connected account, at least as far as i know; but some of the stories that i have heard him tell show that he led a very wild sort of life. sometimes he was working in a small trader among the islands of the pacific, and i believe he had a share in some of these enterprises. then he claims to have been in the service of a native prince somewhere up beyond burmah, and according to his account took quite an active part in many sanguinary wars and adventures of all sorts." the doctor's face grew more and more serious as she proceeded. "do i gather, miss covington, that you do not believe that this man is what he claims to be?" "frankly that is my opinion, doctor. i own that i have no ground whatever for my disbelief, except that i have naturally studied the man closely. i have watched his lips as he spoke. when he has been talking about these adventures with savages he spoke without effort, and i have no doubt whatever that he did take part in such adventures; but when he was speaking of india, and especially when at some of the bachelor dinners uncle gave there were officers who had known him out there, it was clear to me that he did not speak with the same freedom. he weighed his words, as if afraid of making a mistake. i believe that the man was playing a part. his tone was genial and sometimes a little boisterous, as it might well be on the part of a man who had been years away from civilization; but i always thought from his manner that all this was false. i am convinced that he is a double-faced man. when he spoke i observed that he watched in a furtive sort of way the person to whom he was speaking, to see the effect of his words; but, above all, i formed my opinion upon the fact that i am absolutely convinced that this man could never have performed the splendid action of facing a wounded tiger unarmed for the sake of one who was, in fact, but a casual acquaintance." "you will excuse me if i make no comment on what you have told me, miss covington. it is a matter far too serious for any man to form a hasty opinion upon. i myself have never seen this man, but i am content to take your estimate of his character. one trained, as you were for years, in the habit of closely watching faces cannot but be a far better judge of character than those who have not had such training. i will take two or three days to think the matter over; and now will you tell me what steps you are taking at present to discover walter?" she told him of what was being done. "can you suggest anything else, dr. leeds?" "nothing. it seems to me that the key to the mystery is in the hands of this man, and that it is there it must be sought, though at present i can see no way in which the matter can be set about. when one enters into a struggle with a man like this, one must be armed at all points, prepared to meet craft with craft, and above all to have a well-marked-out plan of campaign. now i will say good-morning. i suppose miss purcell and her niece will stay on with you, at any rate for a time?" "for a long time, i hope," she said. "may i ask if you have stated the view that you have given me to miss netta purcell?" "yes, i have told her. she is disposed to treat it as an absurd fancy on my part, but if i can get anything to go upon which will convince her that there is even a faint possibility of my being right, she will go through fire and water to assist me." "i can well believe that," the doctor said. "i am sure that she has a strong character, although so lively and full of fun. of course, having been thrown with her for four months, i am able to form a very fair opinion of her disposition." after dr. leeds had left, hilda began to build castles for her friend. "it would be a splendid thing for her," she said. "he is certainly not a man to speak in the way he did unless he thoroughly meant it. i should think that they were just suited to each other; though it would be really a pity that the scheme i had set my mind upon for getting her over here as head of an institution for teaching deaf and dumb children on professor menzel's plan should come to nothing. perhaps, though, he might be willing that she should act as the head of such an establishment, getting trained assistants from those she knows in hanover and giving a few hours a day herself to the general supervision, if only for the sake of the good that such an institution would do among, perhaps the most unfortunate of all beings. i am quite sure that, so far, she has no thought of such a thing. however, perhaps i am running on too fast, and that he only means what he said, that he admired her character. i suppose there is no reason that because a man admires a girl's character he should fall in love with her, and yet netta is so bright and cheerful, and at the same time so kind and thoughtful, i can hardly imagine that any man, thrown with her as he has been, could help falling in love with her." netta was surprised when hilda told her that dr. leeds had been inclined to view her theory seriously. "really, hilda? certainly he is not the sort of man to be carried away by your enthusiasm, so please consider all that i have said upon the subject as unspoken, and i will stand neutral until i hear further what he says." "he did not say very much, i admit, netta; but he said that he would take the matter seriously into consideration and let me know what he thinks in two or three days." "i am afraid that he wants to let you down gently," netta said. "well, well, don't looked vexed! i will say no more about it until this solemn judgment is delivered." netta was in the room when dr. leeds called, two days later. "netta is in all my counsels, dr. leeds," hilda said, "and she is, as a rule, a capital hand at keeping a secret, though she did let mine slip out to you." there was no smile on the doctor's face, and both girls felt at once that the interview was to be a serious one. "i am well aware that i can speak before miss purcell," he said, "although there are very few people before whom i would repeat what i am going to say. i have two questions to ask you, miss covington. what is the date of this last will of your uncle's?" "it is dated the th of may." "about a fortnight before the general's alarming seizure?" hilda bowed her head in assent. the next question took her quite by surprise. "do you know whether this man simcoe was one of the party when the seizure took place?" "he was, doctor. my uncle told me that he was going to dine with him, and dr. pearson mentioned to me that he was next to the general and caught him as he fell from his chair." dr. leeds got up and walked up and down the room two or three minutes. "i think that now things have come to the present pass you ought to know what was the opinion that i originally formed of general mathieson's illness. dr. pearson and sir henry havercourt both differed from me and treated my theory as a fanciful one, and without foundation; and of course i yielded to such superior authority, and henceforth kept my ideas to myself. nevertheless, during the time the general was under my charge i failed altogether to find any theory or explanation for his strange attack and subsequent state, except that which i had first formed. it was a theory that a medical man is always most reluctant to declare unless he is in a position to prove it, or at least to give some very strong reason in its favor, for a mistake would not only cost him his reputation, but might involve him in litigation and ruin his career altogether. but i think that i ought to tell you what my opinion is, miss covington. you must not take it for more than it is worth, namely as a theory; but it may possibly set you on a new track and aid you in your endeavor to discover the missing child." the surprise of the two girls increased as he continued, after a pause: "ever since the day when i was first requested to act as the general's resident medical man i have devoted a considerable time to the study of books in which, here and there, could be found accounts of the action of the herbs in use among the obi women, fetich men, and so-called wizards on the west coast of africa, also in india, and among the savage tribes of the malay archipelago and the pacific islands. what drugs they use has never been discovered, although many efforts have been made to obtain a knowledge of them, both in india and on the west coast; but doctors have found it necessary to abandon the attempt, several of them having fallen victims of the jealousy of these people because of the researches they were making. but at the least the effects of the administration of these drugs have been frequently described, and in some respects these correspond so closely to those noticeable in the general's case that i say now, as i said at first, i believe the general's illness was caused by the administration of some drug absolutely unknown to european science." "you think that my uncle was poisoned?" hilda exclaimed in a tone of horror, while netta started to her feet with clenched hands and flushed face. "i have not used the word 'poisoned,' miss covington, though in fact it comes to that. it may not have been administered with the intention of killing; it may have been intended only to bring on a fit, which, in due time, might have been attended by others; but the dose may have been stronger than its administrator intended." "and you think, dr. leeds--you think that it was administered by----" "no, miss covington; i accuse no one. i have no shadow of proof against anyone; but taking this illness, with the abduction of the child, it cannot be denied that one's suspicions must, in the first case, fall upon the man who has profited by the crime, if crime it was. on may this will was drawn up, bequeathing the property to a certain person. the circumstances of the will were curious, but from what i learned from you of the explanation given by the lawyers who drew it up, it seems fair and above-board enough. the general was certainly greatly under the influence of this man, who had rendered him the greatest service one man can render another, and that at the risk of his own life. therefore i do not consider that this will, which was, so to speak, sprung upon you, is in itself an important link in the chain. but when we find that twelve or fourteen days afterwards the general was, when at table, seized with a terrible fit of an extraordinary and mysterious nature, and that the man who had an interest in his death was sitting next to him, the coincidence is at least a strange one. when, however, the general's heir is abducted, when the general is at the point of death, the matter for the first time assumes a position of the most extreme gravity. "at first, like you, i thought that walter had either been stolen by some woman for the sake of his clothes, or that he had been carried off by someone aware that he was the general's heir, with a view to obtaining a large sum of money as his ransom. such things have been done before, and will, no doubt, be done again. the first hypothesis appears to have failed altogether; no woman who had robbed a child of his clothes would desire to detain him for an hour longer than was necessary. the inquiries of the police have failed altogether; the people you have employed have ascertained that neither at the workhouses of london nor in the adjacent counties has any child at all answering to walter's description been left by a tramp or brought in by the police or by someone who had found him wandering about. it cannot be said that the second hypothesis is also proved to be a mistaken one; the men who took him away would be obliged to exercise the greatest caution when opening negotiations for his release, and it might be a month or more before you heard from them. "therefore, it would be unfair to this man simcoe to assume that he is the author of the plot until so long a period has passed that it is morally certain that the boy was not stolen for the purpose of blackmail. however, we have the following suspicious circumstances: first, that, as i believe, the general was drugged by some poison of whose nature we are ignorant beyond that we read of very similar cases occurring among natives races in africa and elsewhere. then we have the point that no one would have had any interest in the general's death, with the exception of the man he had named as his heir in the event of the child's death. we know by the man's statement that he was for many years living among tribes where poisons of this kind are used by the wizards and fetich men to support their authority and to remove persons against whom they have a grudge. lastly, we have the crowning fact of the abduction of the child, who stood between this man and the estates. all this is at best mere circumstantial evidence. we do not know for certain what caused the general's fit, we have no proof that simcoe had any hand in the abduction, and whatever our opinion may be, it is absolutely necessary that we do not breathe a hint to anyone." hilda did not speak; the shock and the horror of the matter were too much for her. she sat with open lips and blanched face, looking at dr. leeds. netta, however, leaped to her feet again. "it must be so, dr. leeds. it does not seem to me that there can be a shadow of doubt in the matter, and anything that i can do to bring the truth to light i will do, however long a time it takes me." "thank you, netta," hilda said, holding out her hand to her friend; "as for me, i will devote my life to clearing up this mystery." "i am afraid, miss covington, that my engagements henceforth will prevent my joining actively in your search, but my advice will always be at your service, and it may be that i shall be able to point out methods that have not occurred to you." "but, oh, dr. leeds!" hilda exclaimed suddenly; "if this villain poisoned my uncle, surely he will not hesitate to put walter out of his path." "i have been thinking of that," dr. leeds exclaimed, "but i have come to the conclusion that it is very unlikely that he will do so. in the first place, he must have had accomplices. the man who spoke to the nurse and the cabman who drove the child away must both have been employed by him, and i have no doubt whatever that the child has been placed with some persons who are probably altogether ignorant of his identity. walter was a lovable child, and as soon as he got over his first grief he would no doubt become attached to the people he was with, and although these might be willing to take a child who, they were told, had lost its parents, and was homeless and friendless, without inquiring too closely into the circumstances, it is unlikely in the extreme that they would connive at any acts of violence. it is by no means easy to murder and then to dispose of the body of a child of seven, and i should doubt whether this man would attempt such a thing. he would be perfectly content that the boy would be out of his way, that all traces of him should be lost, and that it would be beyond the range of probability that he could ever be identified, and, lastly, even the most hardened villains do not like putting their necks in a noose. moreover, if in the last extremity his confederates, believing that he had made away with the child, tried to blackmail him, or some unforeseen circumstance brought home to him the guilt of this abduction, he would be in a position to produce the child, and even to make good terms for himself for doing so. you yourself, whatever your feelings might be as to the man whom you believe to be the murderer of your uncle, would still be willing to pay a considerable sum and allow him to leave the country, on condition of his restoring walter. therefore i think that you may make your mind easy on that score, and believe that whatever has happened to him, or wherever he may be, there is no risk of actual harm befalling him." "thank you very much, doctor. that is indeed a relief. and now have you thought of any plan upon which we had best set to work?" "not at present, beyond the fact that i see that the power you both possess of reading what men say, when, as they believe, out of earshot, ought to be of material advantage to you. as miss purcell has promised to associate herself with you in the search, i should say that she would be of more use in this direction than you would. you have told me that he must be perfectly aware of your dislike for him, and would certainly be most careful, were you in his presence, although he might not dream of this power that you possess. but he has never seen your friend, and would not be on his guard with her. i have at present not thought over any plan by which she could watch him--that must be for after consideration--but it seems to me that this offers some chance of obtaining a clew." "i am ready to do anything, dr. leeds," netta said firmly. "you only have to find out a way, and i will follow out your instructions to the letter. first we must find out whether hilda's theory about this man, which i scoffed at when she first spoke of it to me, is correct." "you mean the theory that this man is not john simcoe at all, but someone who, knowing the facts of the rescue from the tiger, and being also well acquainted with people and things in benares, has personated him? i will not discuss that now. i have an appointment to meet a colleague for consultation in a difficult case, and have already run the time very close. you shall see me again shortly, when i have had time to think the whole matter over quietly." chapter xiii. netta visits stowmarket. "well, netta," hilda said, after dr. leeds had left them, "i suppose you will not in future laugh at my instincts. i only wish that they had been stronger. i wish i had told my dear uncle that i disliked the man so thoroughly that i was sure there was something wrong with him, and implored him not to become very intimate with him. if i had told him how strongly i felt on the subject, although, of course, he could have left or given him any sum that he chose, i do think it would have had some influence with him. no doubt he would have laughed at what he would have called my suspicious nature, but i think he would not have become so friendly with the man; but, of course, i never thought of this. oh, netta! my heart seems broken at the thought that my dear uncle, the kindest of men, should have been murdered by a man towards whom his thoughts were so kindly that he appointed him his heir in the event of walter's death. if he had left him double the sum he did, and had directed that in case of walter's death the property should go to hospitals, the child might now have been safe in the house. it is heartbreaking to think of." "well, dear," netta said, "we have our work before us. i say 'we' because, although he was no relation to me, i loved him from the first, when he came over with the news of your father's death. had i been his niece as well as you, he could not have treated me more kindly than he did when i was staying with you last year, and during the last four months that i have been with you. one could see, even in the state he was in, how kind his nature was, and his very helplessness added to one's affection for him. i quite meant what i said, for until this matter is cleared up, and until this crime, if crime it really is, is brought to light, i will stay here, and be your helper, however the long the time may be. there are two of us, and i do not think that either of us are fools, and we ought to be a match for one man. there is one thing we have, that is a man on whom we can rely. i do not mean dr. leeds; i regard him as our director. i mean tom roberts; he would have given his life, i am sure, for his master, and i feel confident that he will carry out any instructions we may give him to the letter." "i am sure he will, netta. do you think we ought to tell him our suspicions?" "i should do so unhesitatingly, hilda. i am sure he will be ready to go through fire and water to avenge his master's death. as aunt is out i think it will be as well to take him into our confidence at once." hilda said nothing, but got up and rang the bell. when the footman entered she said, "tell roberts that i want to speak to him." when the man came up she went on, "we are quite sure, tom, that you were most thoroughly devoted to your master, and that you would do anything in your power to get to the bottom of the events that have brought about his death and the carrying off of his grandson." "that i would, miss; there is not anything that i would not do if you would only set me about it." "well, roberts, i am about to take you into our confidence, relying implicitly upon your silence and on your aid." "you can do that, miss, safely enough. there is nothing now that i can do for my master; but as for master walter, i would walk to china if i thought that there was a chance of finding him there." "in the first place you must remember, roberts, that we are acting only upon suspicion; we have only that to go upon, and our object must be to find some proofs to justify those suspicions." "i understand, miss; you have got an idea, and you want to see if it is right?" "we ourselves have little doubt of it, roberts. now please sit down and listen to me, and don't interrupt me till i have finished." then she related the grounds that she had for suspicion that the general's death and walter's abduction were both the work of john simcoe, and also her own theory that this man was not the person who had saved the general's life. in spite of her warning not to interrupt, tom roberts' exclamations of fury were frequent and strongly worded. "well, miss!" he exclaimed, when she had finished and his tongue was untied, "i did not think that there was such a villain upon the face of the earth. why, if i had suspected this i would have killed him, if i had been hung for it a week after. and to think that he regular took me in! he had always a cheerful word for me, if i happened to open the door for him. 'how are you, tom?' he would say, 'hearty as usual?' and he would slip a crown into my hand to drink his health. i always keep an account of tips that i receive, and the first thing i do will be to add them up and see how much i have had from him, and i will hand it over to a charity. one don't like setting out to help to bring a man to the gallus when you have got his money in your pocket. i must have been a fool, miss, not to have kept a better watch, but i never thought ill of the man. it seemed to me that he had been a soldier. sometimes when he was talking with me he would come out with barrack-room sayings, and though he never said that he had served, nor the general neither, i thought that he must have done so. he had a sort of way of carrying his shoulders which you don't often see among men who have not learned the goose-step. i will wait, miss, with your permission, until i have got rid of that money, and then if you say to me, 'go to that man's rooms and take him by the throat and squeeze the truth out of him,' i am ready to do it." "we shall not require such prompt measures as that, tom; we must go about our work carefully and quietly, and i fear that it will be a very long time before we are able to collect facts that we can act upon. we have not decided yet how to begin. i may tell you that the only other person who shares our suspicions is dr. leeds. we think it best that even miss purcell should know nothing about them. it would only cause her great anxiety, and the matter will, therefore, be kept a close secret among our four selves. in a few days our plans will probably be complete, and i think that your share in the business will be to watch every movement of this man and to ascertain who are his associates; many of them, no doubt, are club men, who, of course, will be above suspicion, but it is certain that he must have had accomplices in the abduction of the child. whether he visits them or they visit him, is a point to find out. there is little chance of their calling during daylight, and it is in the evening that you will have to keep a close eye on him and ascertain who his visitors are." "all right, miss, i wish he did not know me by sight; but i expect that i can get some sort of a disguise so that he won't recognize me." "i don't think that there will be any difficulty about that. of course we are not going to rely only upon you; miss purcell and myself are both going to devote ourselves to the search." "we will run him down between us, miss, never fear. it cannot be meant that such a fellow as this should not be found out in his villainy. i wish that there was something more for me to do. i know several old soldiers like myself, who would join me willingly enough, and we might between us carry him off and keep him shut up somewhere, just as he is doing master walter, until he makes a clean breast of it. it is wonderful what the cells and bread and water will do to take a fellow's spirit down. it is bad enough when one knows how long one has got to bear it; but to know that there is no end to it until you choose to speak would get the truth out of old nick, begging your pardon for naming him." "well, we shall see, roberts. that would certainly be a last resource, and i fear that it would not be so effectual as you think. if he told us that if he did not pay his usual visit to the boy it would be absolutely certain we should never see him alive again, we should not dare retain him." "well, miss, whatever you decide on i will do. i have lost as a good master as ever a man had, and there is nothing that i would not do to bring that fellow to justice." the girls waited impatiently for the next visit of dr. leeds. it was four days before he came. "i hoped to have been here before," he said, "but i have been so busy that it has not been possible for me to manage it. of course this business has always been in my mind, and it seems to me that the first step to be taken is to endeavor to ascertain whether this fellow is really, as you believe, miss covington, an impostor. have you ever heard him say in what part of the country he formerly resided?" "yes; he lived at stowmarket. i know that some months ago he introduced to uncle a gentleman who was manager at a bank there, and had known him from boyhood. he was up for a few days staying with him." "that is certainly rather against your surmise, miss covington; however, it is as well to clear that matter up before we attempt anything else." "i will go down and make inquiries, doctor," netta said quietly. "i am half a head shorter than hilda, and altogether different in face; therefore, if he learns that any inquiries have been made, he will be sure that whoever made them was not hilda." "we might send down a detective, miss purcell." "no; i want to be useful," she said, "and i flatter myself that i shall be able to do quite as well as a detective. we could hardly take a detective into our confidence in a matter of this kind, and not knowing everything, he might miss points that would give us a clew to the truth. i will start to-morrow. i shall tell my aunt that i am going away for a day or two to follow up some clew we have obtained that may lead to walter's discovery. in a week you shall know whether this man is really what he claims to be." "very well, miss purcell; then we will leave this matter in your hands." "by the way, doctor," hilda covington said, "we have taken roberts into our confidence. we know that we can rely upon his discretion implicitly, and it seemed to us that we must have somebody we can trust absolutely to watch this man." "i don't think that you could have done better," he said. "i was going to suggest that it would be well to obtain his assistance. from what i have heard, very few of these private detectives can be absolutely relied upon. i do not mean that they are necessarily rogues, who would take money from both sides, but that, if after trying for some time they consider the matter hopeless, they will go on running up expenses and making charges when they have in reality given up the search. what do you propose that he shall do?" "i should say that, in the first place, he should watch every evening the house where simcoe lives, and follow up everyone who comes out and ascertain who they are. no doubt the great majority of them will be clubmen, but it is likely that he will be occasionally visited by some of his confederates." "i think that is an excellent plan. he will, of course, also follow him when he goes out, for it is much more likely that he will visit these fellows than that they should come to him. in a case like this he would assuredly use every precaution, and would scarcely let them know who he is and where he resides." "no doubt that is so, doctor, and it would make roberts' work all the easier, for even if they came to the man's lodgings he might be away, following up the track of someone who had called before him." netta returned at the end of four days. "i have not succeeded," she said, in answer to hilda's inquiring look as she came in. "the man is certainly well known at stowmarket as john simcoe; but that does not prove that he is the man, and just as he deceived your uncle he may have deceived the people down there. now i will go upstairs and take off my things, and then give you a full account of my proceedings. "my first step," she began on her return, "was, of course, to find out what members of the simcoe family lived there. after engaging a room at the hotel, which i can assure you was the most unpleasant part of the business, for they seemed to be altogether unaccustomed to the arrival of young ladies unattended, i went into the town. it is not much of a place, and after making some little purchases and inquiring at several places, i heard of a maiden lady of that name. the woman who told me of her was communicative. 'she has just had a great piece of luck,' she said. 'about ten months back a nephew, whom everyone had supposed to have been lost at sea, came home with a great fortune, and they say that he has behaved most handsomely to her. she has always bought her berlin wool and such things here, and she has spent three or four times as much since he came home as she did before, and i know from a neighbor, of whom she is a customer, that the yards and yards of flannel that she buys for making up into petticoats for poor children is wonderful. do you know her, miss?' i said that i did not know her personally, but that some friends of mine, knowing that i was going to stowmarket, had asked me to inquire if miss simcoe was still alive. i said casually that i might call and see her, and so got her address. "i then went to call upon her. she lives in a little place called myrtle cottage. i had been a good deal puzzled as to what story i should tell her. i thought at first of giving myself out as the sister of the young lady to whom her nephew was paying his addresses; and as we knew nothing of him except that he was wealthy, and as he had mentioned that he had an aunt at stowmarket, and as i was coming down there, i had been asked to make inquiries about him. but i thought this might render her so indignant that i should get nothing from her. i thought, therefore, i had better get all she knew voluntarily; so i went to the house, knocked, and asked whether miss simcoe was in. i was shown by a little maid into the parlor, a funny, little, old-fashioned room. presently miss simcoe herself came in. she was just the sort of woman i had pictured--a kindly-looking, little old maid. "'i do not know whether i have done wrong, miss simcoe,' i said, 'but i am a stranger here, and having over-worked myself at a picture from which i hope great things, i have been recommended country air; and a friend told me that stowmarket was a pretty, quiet, country town, just the place for an over-worked londoner to gain health in, so i came down and made some inquiries for a single lady who would perhaps take me in and give me a comfortable home for two or three months. your name has been mentioned to me as being just the lady i am seeking." "'you have been misinformed,' she said, a little primly. 'i do not say that a few months back i might not have been willing to have entertained such an offer, but my circumstances have changed since then, and now i should not think for a moment of doing so.' "rising from my seat with a tired air, i said that i was much obliged to her, but i was very sorry she could not take me in, as i was sure that i should be very comfortable; however, as she could not, of course there was an end of it. "'sit down, my dear,' the old lady said. 'i see that you are tired and worn out; my servant shall get you a cup of tea. you see,' she went on, as i murmured my thanks and sat down, 'i cannot very well do what you ask. as i said, a few months ago i should certainly have been very glad to have had a young lady like yourself to stay with me for a time; i think that when a lady gets to my age a little youthful companionship does her good. besides, i do not mind saying that my means were somewhat straitened, and that a little additional money would have been a great help to me; but everything was changed by the arrival of a nephew of mine. perhaps you may have heard his name; he is a rich man, and i believe goes out a great deal, and belongs to clubs and so on.' "i said that i had not heard of him, for i knew nothing about society, nor the sort of men who frequented clubs. "'no, of course not, my dear,' she said. 'well, he had been away for twenty years, and everyone thought he was dead. he sailed away in some ship that was never heard of again, and you may guess my surprise when he walked in here and called me aunt.' "'you must have been indeed surprised, miss simcoe,' i said; 'it must have been quite a shock to you. and did you know him at once?' "'oh, dear, no! he had been traveling about the world, you see, for a very long time, and naturally in twenty years he was very much changed; but of course i soon knew him when he began to talk.' "'you recognized his voice, i suppose?' i suggested. "'no, my dear, no. of course his voice had changed, just as his appearance had done. he had been what he called knocking about, among all sorts of horrible savages, eating and drinking all kinds of queer things; it made my blood run cold to listen to him. but i never asked any questions about these things; i was afraid he might say that when he was among the cannibals he used to eat human flesh, and i don't think that i could like a man who had done that, even though he was my nephew.' "'did he go out quite as a boy, miss simcoe?' i asked. "'oh, no! he was twenty-four, i think, when he went abroad. he had a situation in the bank here. i know that the manager thought very highly of him, and, indeed, he was everywhere well spoken of. my brother joshua--his father, you know--died, and he came in for two or three thousand pounds. he had always had a great fancy for travel, and so, instead of looking out for some nice girl and settling down, he threw up his situation and started on his travels.' "'had his memory been affected by the hot suns and the hardships that he had gone through?' i asked. "'oh, dear! not at all. he recognized everyone almost whom he had known. of course he was a good deal more changed than they were.' "'they did not recognize him any more than you did?' "'not at first,' she said. 'when a man is believed to have been dead for twenty years, his face does not occur to old friends when they meet an apparent stranger.' "'that is quite natural,' i agreed. 'what a pleasure it must have been to him to talk over old times and old friends!' "'indeed it was, my dear. he enjoyed it so much that for three days he would not move out of the house. dear me! what pleasant talks we had.' "'and you say, miss simcoe, that his coming has quite altered your position?' "'yes, indeed. the very first thing he said after coming into the house was that he had come home resolved to make me and my sister maria thoroughly comfortable. poor maria died some years ago, but of course he did not know it. then he said that he should allow me fifty pounds a year for life.' "'that was very kind and nice indeed, miss simcoe,' i said. "by this time, seeing that my sympathy was with her, her heart opened altogether to me, and she said that she felt sure that her nephew would not like it were she to take in a lodger, and might indeed consider it a hint that he might have been more liberal than he was. but she invited me to stay three days with her while i was looking about for suitable lodgings. i found that her house was a regular rendezvous for the tabbies of the neighborhood. every afternoon there were some four or five of them there. some brought work, others came in undisguisedly to gossip. many of these had known john simcoe in his younger days, and by careless questioning i elicited the fact that no one would have recognized him had it not been for miss simcoe having told them of his arrival. "the manager of the bank i rather shrank from an encounter with, but i managed to obtain from miss simcoe a letter her nephew had written to her when he was away from home a short time before he left england, and also one written by him since his return. so far as i could see, there was not the slightest resemblance between them. "i thought that i might possibly get at someone less likely to be on his guard than the bank manager, and she happened to mention as an interesting fact that one of the clerks who had entered the bank a lad of seventeen, only a month or two before her nephew left, was now married to the daughter of one of her gossips. i said that her story had so deeply interested me that i should be glad to make his acquaintance. "he came with his wife the evening before i left. he was very chatty and pleasant, and while there was a general conversation going on among the others, i said to him that i was a great student of handwriting, and i flattered myself that i could tell a man's character from his handwriting; but i owned that i had been quite disconcerted by two letters which miss simcoe was kind enough to show me from her nephew, one written before he left the bank, the other dated three or four months ago. "'i cannot see the slightest resemblance between the two,' i said, 'and do not remember any instance which has come under my knowledge of the handwriting of any man or woman changing so completely in the course of twenty years. the one is a methodical, business sort of writing, showing marks of steady purpose, regularity of habits, and a kindly disposition. i won't give you my opinion of the other, but the impression that was left upon my mind was far from favorable.' "'yes, there has been an extraordinary change,' he agreed. 'i can recollect the former one perfectly, for i saw him sign scores of letters and documents, and if he had had an account standing at the bank now i should without question honor a check so signed. no doubt the great difference is accounted for by the life that mr. simcoe has led. he told me himself that for years, at one time, he had never taken a pen in hand, and that he had almost forgotten how to write; and that his fingers had grown so clumsy pulling at ropes, rowing an oar, digging for gold, and opening oysters for pearls, that they had become all thumbs, and he wrote no better than a schoolboy.' "'but that is not the case, mr. askill,' i said; 'the writing is still clerkly in character, and does not at all answer to his own description.' "'i noticed that myself, and so did our chief. he showed me a letter that he had received from simcoe, asking him to run up for a few days to stay with him in london. he showed it to me with the remark that in all his experience he had never seen so great and complete a change in the handwriting of any man as in that of mr. simcoe since he left the bank. he considered it striking proof how completely a man's handwriting depends upon his surroundings. he turned up an old ledger containing many entries in simcoe's handwriting, and we both agreed that we could not see a single point of resemblance.' "'thank you,' i said; 'i am glad to find that my failure to recognize the two handwritings as being those of the same man has been shared by two gentlemen who are, like myself in a humble way, experts at handwriting.' "the next morning i got your letter, written after i had sent you the address, and told miss simcoe that i was unexpectedly called back to town, but that it was quite probable that i should ere long be down again, when i would arrange with one or other of the people of whom she had kindly spoken to me. that is all i have been able to learn, hilda." "but it seems to me that you have learned an immense deal, netta. you have managed it most admirably." "at any rate, i have got as much as i expected, if not more; i have learned that no one recognized this man simcoe on his first arrival in his native town, and it was only when this old lady had spread the news abroad, and had told the tale of his generosity to her, and so prepared the way for him, that he was more or less recognized; she having no shadow of doubt but that he was her long-lost nephew. in the three days that he stopped with her he had no doubt learned from the dear old gossip almost every fact connected with his boyhood, the men he was most intimate with, the positions they held, and i doubt not some of the escapades in which they might have taken part together; so that he was thoroughly well primed before he met them. besides, no doubt they were more anxious to hear tales of adventure than to talk of the past, and his course must have been a very easy one. "miss simcoe said that he spent money like a prince, and gave a dinner to all his old friends, at which every dainty appeared, and the champagne flowed like water. we may take it as certain that none of his guests ever entertained the slightest doubt that their host was the man he pretended to be. there could seem to them no conceivable reason why a stranger should come down, settle an income upon miss simcoe, and spend his money liberally among all his former acquaintances, if he were any other man than john simcoe. "lastly, we have the handwriting. the man seems to have laid his plans marvelously well, and to have provided against every unforeseen contingency; yet undoubtedly he must have altogether overlooked the question of handwriting, although his declaration that he had almost forgotten how to use his pen was an ingenious one, and i might have accepted it myself if he had written in the rough, scrambling character you would expect under the circumstances. but his handwriting, although in some places he had evidently tried to write roughly, on the whole is certainly that of a man accustomed at one time of his life to clerkly work, and yet differing as widely as the poles from the handwriting of simcoe, both in the bank ledger and in the letter to his aunt. "i think, hilda, that although the matter cannot be decided, it certainly points to your theory that this man is not the john simcoe who left stowmarket twenty years ago. he attempted, and i think very cleverly, to establish his identity by a visit to stowmarket, and no doubt did so to everyone's perfect satisfaction; but when we come to go into the thing step by step, we see that everything he did might have been done by anyone who happened to have a close resemblance to john simcoe in figure and some slight resemblance in face, after listening for three days to miss simcoe's gossip." chapter xiv. an advertisement. "i cannot wait for dr. leeds to come round," hilda said the next morning at breakfast. "you and i will pay him a visit in harley street. i am sure that he will not grudge a quarter of an hour to hear what you have done." "what mystery are you two girls engaged in?" miss purcell asked, as she placidly poured out the tea. "it is a little plot of our own, aunt," netta said. "we are trying to get on walter's track in our own way, and to be for a time amateur detectives. so far we have not found any decisive clew, but i think that we are searching in the right direction. please trust us entirely, and we hope some day we shall have the triumph of bringing walter back, safe and sound." "i pray god that it may be so, my dear. i know that you are both sensible girls, and not likely to get yourselves into any silly scrape." "i don't think we are, aunt; but i am afraid that neither of us would consider any scrape a foolish one that brought us even a little bit nearer to the object of our search. at any rate, aunt, it will reassure you to know that we are acting in concert with dr. leeds, of whom i know that you entertain the highest opinion." "certainly i do. of course i am no judge whatever as to whether he is a good doctor, but i should think, from what dr. pearson says, that he must, in the opinion of other medical men, be considered an exceptionally clever man for his age; and having seen him for four months and lived in close contact with him, i would rather be attended by him than by anyone else i have ever met. his kindness to the general was unceasing. had he been his son, he could not have been more patient and more attentive. he showed wonderful skill in managing him, and was at once sympathetic and cheerful. but, more than that, i admired his tact in filling the somewhat difficult position in which he was placed. although he was completely one of the family, and any stranger would have supposed that he was a brother, or at least a cousin, there was always something in his manner that, even while laughing and chatting with us all, placed a little barrier between us and himself; and one felt that, although most essentially a friend, he was still there as the general's medical attendant. "it was a difficult position for a man of his age to be placed in. had he been like most of the doctors we knew in germany, a man filled with the idea that he must always be a professor of medicine, and impressing people with his learning and gravity, it might have been easy enough. but there is nothing of that sort about him at all; he is just as high-spirited and is as bright and cheerful as other young men of about the same age, and it was only when he was with the general that his gentleness of manner recalled the fact that he was a doctor. as i say, it was a difficult position, with only an old woman like myself and two girls, who looked to him for comfort and hope, who treated him as if he had been an old friend, and were constantly appealing to him for his opinion on all sorts of subjects. "i confess that, when he first came here with dr. pearson, i thought that it was a very rash experiment to introduce a young and evidently pleasant man to us under such circumstances, especially as you, hilda, are a rich heiress and your own mistress; and feeling as i did that i was in the position of your chaperon, i must say that at first i felt very anxious about you, and it was a great relief to me when after a time i saw no signs, either on his part or yours, of any feeling stronger than friendship springing up." hilda laughed merrily. "the idea never entered into my mind, aunt; it is funny to me that so many people should think that a young man and a young woman cannot be thrown together without falling in love with each other. at present, fortunately, i don't quite understand what falling in love means. i like dr. leeds better, i think, than any young man i ever met, but i don't think that it can be in the least like what people feel when they fall in love. certainly it was always as uncle's doctor, rather than as a possible suitor for my hand--that is the proper expression, isn't it?--that i thought of him." "so i was glad to perceive, hilda; and i was very thankful that it was so. against him personally i had nothing to say, quite the contrary; but i saw that he was greatly attached to a profession in which he seems likely to make himself a fine position, and nothing could be more uncomfortable than that such a man should marry a girl with a fine country estate. either he would have to give up his profession or she would have to settle down in london as the wife of a physician, and practically forfeit all her advantages." hilda again laughed. "it is wonderful that all these things should never have occurred to me, aunt. i see now how fortunate it was that i did not fall in love with him. and now, netta, as we have finished breakfast, we will put on our things at once and go and consult our physician in ordinary. we have a fair chance of being the first to arrive if we start immediately. i told roberts to have the carriage at the door at half-past nine, and he does not begin to see patients until ten." "bravo! miss purcell," dr. leeds exclaimed, when she had given him an account of her mission. "of course there is nothing absolutely proved, but at least it shows that his identity is open to doubt, since none of the people he had known recognized him at first sight, and of course all his knowledge of them may have been picked up from the gossiping old lady, his aunt. something has been gained, but the evidence is rather negative than positive. it is possible that he is not the man that he pretends to be; though at present, putting aside the question of handwriting, we must admit that the balance of probability is very much the other way. to begin with, how could this man, supposing him to be an impostor, know that john simcoe was born in stowmarket, and had relatives living there?" "i forgot to mention that, dr. leeds. an advertisement was inserted in the county paper, saying that if any relatives of john simcoe, who left england about , would communicate with someone or other in town they would hear something to their advantage. i was told this by one of miss simcoe's friends, who saw it in the paper and brought it in to her. she was very proud of having made the discovery, and regarded herself quite in the light of a benefactor to miss simcoe. i remarked, when she told me, that it was curious he should have advertised instead of coming down himself to inquire. miss simcoe said that she had expressed surprise to him, and that he had said he did so because he should have shrunk from coming down, had he not learned there was someone to welcome him." "curious," dr. leeds said thoughtfully. "we may quite put it out of our minds that the reason he gave was the real one. a man of this kind would not have suffered any very severe shock had he found that stowmarket and all it contained had been swallowed up by an earthquake. no, certainly that could not have been the reason; we must think of some other. and now, ladies, as this is the third card i have had brought in since you arrived, i must leave the matter as it stands. i think that we are getting on much better than we could have expected." "that advertisement is very curious, netta," hilda said as they drove back. "why should he have put it in? it would have been so much more natural that he should have gone straight down." "i cannot think, hilda. it did not strike me particularly when i heard of it, and i did not give it a thought afterwards. you see, i did not mention it, either to you or dr. leeds, until it flashed across my mind when we were talking. of course i did not see the advertisement itself, but miss simcoe told me that there had been a good deal of discussion before she answered it, as some of them had thought that it might be a trick." "when was it he went down?" "it was in august last year; and it was in the first week in september that he came here." "he went down to get or manufacture proof of his identity," hilda said. "as it turned out, uncle accepted his statement at once, and never had the smallest doubt as to his being john simcoe. the precaution, therefore, was unnecessary; but at the same time it certainly helps him now that a doubt has arisen. it would have been very strange if a man possessing sufficient means to travel in india should have had no friends or connections in england. i was present when he told my uncle that he had been down to see his aunt at stowmarket, and in the spring he brought a gentleman who, he said, was manager of the stowmarket bank, in which he had himself been at one time a clerk. so you see he did strengthen his position by going down there." "it strengthens it in one way, hilda, but in the other it weakens it. as long as no close inquiries were made, it was doubtless an advantage to him to have an aunt of the same name in stowmarket, and to be able to prove by means of a gentleman in the position of manager of the bank that he, john simcoe, had worked under him three or four and twenty years ago. on the other hand, it was useful to us as a starting-point. if we had been utterly in the dark as to simcoe's birthplace or past career, we should have had to start entirely in the dark. now, at any rate, we have located the birthplace of the real man, and learned something of his position, his family, and how he became possessed of money that enabled him to start on a tour round the world. i adhere as firmly as before to the belief that this is not the real man, and the next step is to discover how he learned that john simcoe had lived at stowmarket. at any rate it would be as well that we should find the advertisement. it might tell us nothing, but at the least we should learn the place to which answers were to be sent. how should we set about that?" "i can get a reader's ticket for the british museum, because the chief librarian was a friend of uncle's and dined with him several times," hilda replied. "if i write to him and say that i want to examine some files of newspapers, to determine a question of importance, i am sure that he will send me a ticket at once. i may as well ask for one for you also. we may want to go there again to decide some other point." hilda at once wrote a note and sent tom roberts with it to the museum, and he returned two hours later with the tickets. "there are three suffolk papers," the chief assistant in the newspaper department said courteously, on their sending up the usual slip of paper. "which do you want?" "i do not know. i should like to see them all three, please; the numbers for the first two weeks in august last." in a few minutes three great volumes were placed on the table. these contained a year's issue, and on turning to the first week in august they found that the advertisement had appeared in all of the papers. they carefully copied it out, and were about to leave the library when netta said: "let us talk this over for a minute or two before we go. it seems to me that there is a curious omission in the advertisement." "what is that?" "don't you see that he does not mention stowmarket? he simply inquires for relations of john simcoe, who was supposed to have been lost at sea. it would certainly seem to be more natural that he should put it only in the paper that was likely to be read in stowmarket, and surely he would have said 'relatives of john simcoe, who left stowmarket in the year .' it looks very much as if, while he knew that simcoe was a suffolk man, he had no idea in what part of the county he had lived." "it is very curious, certainly, netta; and, as you say, it does seem that if he had known that it had been stowmarket he would have said so in the advertisement. possibly!" hilda exclaimed so sharply that a gentleman at an adjoining table murmured "hush!" "he did did not know that it was in suffolk. let us look in the london papers. let us ask for the files of the _times_ and _standard_." the papers were brought and the advertisement was found in both of them. "there, you see," netta said triumphantly, "he still says nothing about suffolk." she beckoned to the attendant. "i am sorry to give you so much trouble, but will you please get us the files of three or four country papers of the same date. i should like them in different parts of the country--yorkshire, for instance, and hereford, and devonshire." "it is no trouble, miss," he replied; "that is what we are here for." in a few minutes the three papers were brought, and netta's triumph was great when she found the advertisement in each of them. "that settles it conclusively," she said. "the man did not know what part of the country john simcoe came from, and he advertised in the london papers, and in the provincial papers all over the country." "that was a splendid idea of yours, netta. i think that it settles the question as to the fact that the theory you all laughed at was correct, and that this man is not the real john simcoe." when they got back, hilda wrote a line to dr. leeds: "dear doctor: i do think that we have discovered beyond doubt that the man is an impostor, and that whoever he may be, he is not john simcoe. when you can spare time, please come round. it is too long to explain." at nine o'clock that evening dr. leeds arrived, and heard of the steps that they had taken. "really, young ladies," he said, "i must retire at once from my post of director of searches. it was an excellent thought to ascertain the exact wording of the advertisement, and the fact that the word stowmarket did not appear in it, and that it was inserted in other county papers, was very significant as to the advertiser's ignorance of john simcoe's birthplace. but the quickness with which you saw how this could be proved up to the hilt shows that you are born detectives, and i shall be happy to sit at your feet in future." "then you think that it is quite conclusive?" "perfectly so. the real john simcoe would, of course, have put the advertisement into the county paper published nearest to stowmarket, and he would naturally have used the word stowmarket. that omission might, however, have been accidental; but the appearance of the advertisement in the london papers, and as you have seen, in provincial papers all over england, appears to me ample evidence that he did not know from what county simcoe came, and was ready to spend a pretty heavy amount to discover it. now, i think that you should at once communicate with mr. pettigrew, and inform him of your suspicion and the discovery that you have made. it is for him to decide whether any steps should be taken in the matter, and, if so, what steps. as one of the trustees he is responsible for the proper division of the estates of general mathieson, and the matter is of considerable importance to him. "i think now, too, that our other suspicions should also be laid before him. of course, these are greatly strengthened by his discovery. john simcoe, who saved your uncle's life at the risk of his own, was scarcely the sort of man who would be guilty of murder and abduction; but an unknown adventurer, who had passed himself off as being simcoe, with the object of obtaining a large legacy from the general, may fairly be assumed capable of taking any steps that would enable him to obtain it. if you'd like to write to mr. pettigrew and make an appointment to meet him at his office at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon, i will be here half an hour before and accompany you." the lawyer was somewhat surprised when dr. leeds entered the office with the two ladies, but that astonishment became stupefaction when they told their story. "in the whole of my professional career i have never heard a more astonishing story. i own that the abduction of the child at that critical moment did arouse suspicions in my mind that this mr. simcoe, the only person that could be benefited by his disappearance, might be at the bottom of it, and i was quite prepared to resist until the last any demand that might be made on his part for walter to be declared to be dead, and the property handed over to him. but that the man could have had any connection whatever with the illness of the general, or that he was an impostor, never entered my mind. with regard to the first, it is still a matter of suspicion only, and we have not a shadow of proof to go upon. you say yourself, dr. leeds, that dr. pearson, the general's own medical attendant, and the other eminent physicians called in, refused absolutely to accept your suggestion, because, exceptional as the seizure and its effects were, there was nothing that absolutely pointed to poison. unless we can obtain some distinct evidence on that point, the matter must not be touched upon; for even you would hardly be prepared to swear in court that the general was a victim to poison?" "no. i could not take my oath to it, but i certainly could declare that the symptoms, to my mind, could be attributed to poison only." "in the case of the abduction of the boy," the lawyer went on, "the only absolute ground for our suspicion is that this man and no one else would have benefited by it; and this theory certainly appears to be, after the discoveries you have made, a very tenable one. it all comes so suddenly on me that i cannot think of giving any opinion as to the best course to be adopted. i shall, in the first place, consult mr. farmer, and in the next place shall feel it my duty to take my co-trustee, colonel bulstrode, into my confidence, because any action that we may take must, of course, be in our joint names. he called here the other day and stated to me that he regarded the whole matter of walter's abduction to be suspicious in the extreme. he said he was convinced that john simcoe was at the bottom of it, his interest in getting the boy out of the way being unquestionable, and that we must move heaven and earth to find the child. he agreed that we can do nothing about carrying out the will until we have found him. i told him of the steps that we have been taking and their want of success. 'by gad, sir,' he said, 'he must be found, if we examine every child in the country.' i ventured to suggest that this would be a very difficult undertaking, to which he only made some remark about the cold-bloodedness of lawyers, and said that if there were no other way he would dress himself up as a costermonger and go into every slum of london. whether you would find him a judicious assistant in your searches i should scarcely be inclined to say, but you would certainly find him ready to give every assistance in his power." the next day, at three o'clock, colonel bulstrode was announced. he was a short man, of full habit of body. at the present moment his face was even redder than usual. "my dear miss covington," he burst out, as he came into the room, "i have just heard of all this rascality, and what you and your friend miss purcell have discovered. by gad, young ladies, i feel ashamed of myself. here am i, harry bulstrode, a man of the world, and, as such, considered that this affair of the man simcoe being made heir in case of the child's death and the simultaneous disappearance of the boy to have been suspicious in the extreme, and yet i have seen no way of doing anything, and have been so upset that my temper has, as that rascal andrew, my old servant, had the impudence to tell this morning, become absolutely unbearable. and now i find that you two girls and a doctor fellow have been quietly working the whole thing out, and that not improbably my dear old friend was poisoned, and that the man who did it is not the man he pretended to be, but an infernal impostor, who had of course carried the child away, and may, for anything we know, have murdered him. it has made me feel that i ought to go to school again, for i must be getting into my second childhood. still, young ladies, if, as is evident, i have no sense to plan, i can at least do all in my power to assist you in your search, and you have only to say to me, 'colonel bulstrode, we want an inquiry made in india,' and i am off by the first p. and o." "thank you very much, colonel," hilda said, trying to repress a smile. "i was quite sure that from your friendship for my dear uncle you would be ready to give us your assistance, but so far there has been no way in which you could have aided us in the inquiries that we have made. indeed, as dr. leeds has impressed upon us, the fewer there are engaged in the matter the better; for if this man knew that we were making all sorts of inquiries about him, he might think it necessary for his safety either to put walter out of the way altogether, or to send him to some place so distant that there would be practically no hope whatever of our ever discovering him. at present i think that we have fairly satisfied ourselves that this man is an impostor, and that the real john simcoe was drowned, as supposed, in the ship in which he sailed from india. who this man is, and how he became acquainted with the fact that john simcoe saved my uncle's life in india, are mysteries that so far we have no clew to; but these matters are at present of minor importance to us. before anything else we want to find where walter is hidden, and to do this we are going to have this man watched. he cannot have carried off walter by himself, and, no doubt, he meets occasionally the people who helped him, and who are now hiding walter. it is scarcely probable that they come to his lodgings. he is not likely to put himself into anyone's power, and no doubt goes by night in some disguise to meet them. as, of course, he knows you perfectly well, it would be worse than useless for you to try to follow him. that is going to be done by tom roberts." "well, my man andrew might help him," the colonel said. "simcoe has often dined with me at the club, but he never came to my chambers. one man cannot be always on the watch, and andrew can take turns with roberts. he is an impudent rascal, but he has got a fair share of sense; so, when you are ready, if you will drop me a line, he shall come here and take his instructions from you." "thank you very much, colonel. that certainly would be of assistance. it is only of an evening that he would be wanted, for we are quite agreed that these meetings are sure to take place after dark." chapter xv. very bad news. a month passed. tom roberts and andrew watched together in jermyn street, the former with a cap pulled well down over his face and very tattered clothes, the latter dressed as a groom, but making no attempt to disguise his face. during that time everyone who called at the house in jermyn street was followed, and their names and addresses ascertained, one always remaining in jermyn street while the other was away. the man they were watching had gone out every evening, but it was either to one or the other of the clubs to which he belonged, or to the theater or opera. "you will trace him to the right place presently, roberts," hilda said cheerfully, when she saw that he was beginning to be disheartened at the non-success of his search. "you may be sure that he will not go to see these men oftener than he can help. does he generally wear evening clothes?" "always, miss." "i don't think there is any occasion to follow him in future when he goes out in that dress; i think it certain that when he goes to meet these men he will be in disguise. when you see him come out dressed altogether differently to usual, follow him closely. even if we only find where he goes it will be a very important step." * * * * * on the seventh week after the disappearance of walter, mr. pettigrew came in one morning at eleven o'clock. his air was very grave. "have you heard news, mr. pettigrew?" hilda asked. "i have very bad news. mr. comfrey, a lawyer of not the highest standing, who is, i have learnt, acting for this fellow, called upon me. he said, 'i am sorry to say that i have some painful news to give you, mr. pettigrew. yesterday the body of a child, a boy some six or seven years old, was found in the canal at paddington. it was taken to the lockhouse. the features were entirely unrecognizable, and the police surgeon who examined it said that it had been in the water over a month. most of its clothing was gone, partly torn off by barges passing over the body; but there still remained a portion of its underclothing, and this bore the letters w. r. the police recognized them as those of the child who has been so largely advertised for, and, as my client, mr. simcoe, had offered a thousand pounds reward, and as all information was to be sent to me, a policeman came down, just as i was closing the office, to inform me of the fact. "'i at once communicated with my client, who was greatly distressed. he went to paddington the first thing this morning, and he tells me that he has no doubt whatever that the remains are those of walter rivington, although he could not swear to his identity, as the features are altogether unrecognizable. as i understand, sir, that you and miss covington were the guardians of this unfortunate child, i have driven here at once in order that you may go up and satisfy yourselves on the subject. i understand that an inquest will be held to-morrow.'" hilda had not spoken while mr. pettigrew was telling his story, but sat speechless with horror. "it cannot be; surely it cannot be!" she murmured. "oh, mr. pettigrew! say that you cannot believe it." "i can hardly say that, my dear; the whole affair is such a terrible one that i can place no bounds whatever to the villainy of which this man may be capable. this may be the missing child, but, on the other hand, it may be only a part of the whole plot." "but who else can it be if it has walter's clothes on?" "as to that i can say nothing; but you must remember that this man is an extraordinarily adroit plotter, and would hesitate at nothing to secure this inheritance. there would be no very great difficulty in obtaining from some rascally undertaker the body of a child of the right age, dressing him up in some of our ward's clothes, and dropping the body into the canal, which may have been done seven weeks ago, or may have been done but a month. of course i do not mean to say that this was so. i only mean to say that it is possible. no. i expressed my opinion, when we talked it over before, that no sensible man would put his neck in a noose if he could carry out his object without doing so; and murder could hardly be perpetrated without running a very great risk, for the people with whom the child was placed would, upon missing it suddenly, be very likely to suspect that it had been made away with, and would either denounce the crime or extort money by holding a threat over his head for years." "yes, that may be so!" hilda exclaimed, rising to her feet. "let us go and see at once. i will take netta with me; she knows him as well as i do." she ran upstairs and in a few words told netta the news, and in five minutes they came down, ready to start. "i have told walter's nurse to come with us," hilda said. "if anyone can recognize the child she ought to be able to do so. fortunately, she is still in the house." "now, young ladies," the lawyer said before they started, "let me caution you, unless you feel a moderate certainty that this child is walter rivington, make no admission whatever that you see any resemblance. if the matter comes to a trial, your evidence and mine cannot but weigh with the court as against that of this man who is interested in proving its identity with walter. of course, if there is any sign or mark on the body that you recognize, you will acknowledge it as the body of our ward. we shall then have to fight the case on other grounds. but unless you detect some unmistakable mark, and it is extremely unlikely that you will do so in the state the body must be in, confine yourself to simply stating that you fail to recognize it in any way." "there never was any mark on the poor child's body," hilda said. "i have regretted it so much, because, in the absence of any descriptive marks, the chance of his ever being found was, of course, much lessened." the lawyer had come in a four-wheeled cab, and in this the party all took their places. not a word was spoken on the way, except that hilda repeated what mr. pettigrew had said to the nurse. it was with very white faces that they entered the lockhouse. the little body was lying on a board supported by two trestles. it was covered by a piece of sailcloth, and the tattered garments that it had had on were placed on a chair beside it. prepared as she was for something dreadful, the room swam round, and had hilda not been leaning on mr. pettigrew's arm she would have fallen. there was scarce a semblance of humanity in the little figure. the features of the face had been entirely obliterated, possibly by the passage of barges, possibly by the work of simple decay. "courage, my dear!" mr. pettigrew said. "it is a painful duty, but it must be performed." the three women stood silent beside the little corpse. netta was the first to speak. "i cannot identify the body as that of walter rivington," she said. "i don't think that it would be possible for anyone to do so." "is the hair of the same color?" the policeman who was in charge of the room asked. "the hair is rather darker than his," netta said; "but being so long in the water, and in such dirty water, it might have darkened." "that was never master walter's hair!" the nurse exclaimed. "the darling had long, soft hair, and unless those who murdered him cut it short, it would not be like this. besides, this hair is stiffer. it is more like the hair of a workhouse child than master walter's." "that is so," hilda said. "i declare that i not only do not recognize the body as that of my ward, but that i am convinced it is not his." "judging only by the hair," mr. pettigrew said, "i am entirely of your opinion, miss covington. i have stroked the child's head many times, and his hair was like silk. i have nothing else to go by, and am convinced that the body is not walter rivington's." they then looked at the fragments of clothes. in two places they were marked "w. r." "that is my marking, miss," the nurse said, after closely examining the initials. "i could not swear to the bits of clothes, but i can to the letters. you see, miss, i always work a line above the letters and another below them. i was taught to do it so when i was a girl in our village school, and i have always done it since. but i never saw anyone else mark them so. you see the letters are worked in red silk, and the two lines in white. the old woman who taught us said that it made a proper finish to the work. yes, miss covington, i can swear to these things being master walter's." "you could not swear to their being those in which he went out the morning he was lost, nurse?" "i can, sir, because there is nothing missing except what he had on. i have all his things properly counted, and everything is there." at this moment there was a little stir outside, and hilda glanced down and whispered to netta: "let down your fall; i do not want this man to recognize you." just as she did so john simcoe entered. he bowed to hilda. "i am sorry, indeed, to meet you under such painful circumstances." "i beg you not to address me, sir," she said haughtily. "i wish to have no communication with or from you. your coming here reminds me of the thirty-seventh verse of the nineteenth chapter of st. john. you can look it out, sir, if you happen to have a bible at home. fortunately it is not wholly applicable, for we are all absolutely convinced that this poor little body is not that of general mathieson's grandson." so saying she stepped out of the little house, followed by the others; leaving john simcoe white with passion. "you should not have shown your hand so plainly, miss covington." "i could not help it," the girl said. "he has called a dozen times at the house and has always received the message, 'not at home,' and he must know that i suspect him of being walter's abductor." "what is the verse you referred him to, hilda?" netta said. "i confess that i do not know any verse in st. john that seems to be at all applicable to him." "the quotation is, 'they shall look on him whom they pierced.'" netta could not help smiling. mr. pettigrew shook his head. "you are really too outspoken, miss covington, and you will get yourself into trouble. as it is, you have clearly laid yourself open to an action for libel for having practically called the man a murderer. we may think what we like, but we are in no position to prove it." "i am not afraid of that," she said. "i wish that he would do it; then we should have all the facts brought out in court, and, even if we could not, as you say, prove everything, we could at least let the world know what we think. no, there is no chance of his doing that, mr. pettigrew." "it is fortunate for us, miss covington, that our clients are for the most part men. your sex are so impetuous and so headstrong that we should have a hard time of it indeed if we had to take our instructions from them." "mr. pettigrew, you will please remember that there are three of my sex in this cab, and if you malign us in this way we will at once get out and walk." the old lawyer smiled indulgently. "it is quite true, my dear. women are always passionately certain that they are right, and neither counsel nor entreaty can get them to believe that there can be any other side to a case than that which they take. talk about men ruining themselves by litigation; the number that do so is as nothing to that of the women who would do so, were they to get as often involved in lawsuits! when dickens drew the man who haunted the courts he would have been much nearer the mark had he drawn the woman who did so. you can persuade a man that when he has been beaten in every court his case is a lost one; but a woman simply regards a hostile decision as the effect either of great partiality or of incompetence on the part of the judge, and even after being beaten in the house of lords will attend the courts and pester the judges with applications for the hearing of some new points. it becomes a perfect mania with some of them." "very well, mr. pettigrew. i would certainly carry my case up to the highest court, and if i were beaten i would not admit that i was in the wrong; still, i do not think that i should pester the poor old judges after that. i suppose we shall all have to come up again to-morrow to the inquest?" "certainly. nurse has recognized the clothes, and i suppose you all recognize the marks, miss covington?" "yes; i have no doubt whatever that the clothes are walter's." "of course we shall be represented by counsel," mr. pettigrew went on. "we must not let the jury find that this is walter's body if we can possibly prevent it." "you think that they will do so?" "i am afraid of it. they will know nothing of the real circumstances of the case; they will only know that the child has been missing for nearly two months, and that, in spite of large rewards, no news has been obtained of him. they will see that this child is about the same age, that the clothes in which it was found are those worn by the missing boy. they will themselves have viewed the body and have seen that identification is almost impossible. this man will give his evidence to the effect that he believes it to be walter rivington's body. we shall give it as our opinion that it is not; that opinion being founded upon the fact that the few patches of hair left on the head are shorter and coarser than this was. to us this may appear decisive, but the counsel who will, no doubt, appear for simcoe, will very legitimately say this fact has no weight, and will point out that no real judgment can be formed upon this. the child was missing--probably stolen for the sake of its clothes. seeing the description in the handbills and placards, the first step would be to cut off its hair, which disposes of the question of length, and, as he will point out, hair which, when very long, seems soft and silky, will stand up and appear almost bristly when cropped close to the head. i am afraid that, in the face of all that we can say, the coroner's jury will find that the body is walter's. as to the cause of death they will probably give an open verdict, for even if the surgeon has found any signs of violence upon the body, these may have been inflicted by passing barges long after death." "will you have it brought forward that simcoe has an interest in proving the body to be walter's?" "i think not. there would be no use in beginning the fight in the coroner's court. it will all have to be gone into when he applies to the higher courts for an order on the trustees of the will to proceed to carry out its provisions. then our case will be fully gone into. we shall plead that in the first place the will was made under undue influence. we shall point to the singularity of the general's mysterious attack, an attack which one of the doctors who attended him at once put down to poison, and that at the moment of the attack simcoe was sitting next to him at dinner. we shall point to the extraordinary coincidence that the child who stood between simcoe and the inheritance disappeared on the evening when the general was _in extremis_, and, lastly, we shall fire our last shot by declaring that the man is not the john simcoe named in the will, but is an impostor who assumed his name and traded upon his brave action on the general's behalf. "but i do not want the fight to begin until we are in a better position than at present to prove what we say. as yet, however satisfactory to us, we have not got beyond the point of conjecture and probabilities, and i trust that, before we have to fight the case, we shall obtain some absolute facts in support of our theory. the man would be able at present to put into court a number of highly respectable witnesses from stowmarket, and of officers he has met here, who would all testify to his being john simcoe, and as against their evidence our conjectures would literally go for nothing. no doubt you will all receive notices to attend this evening. the policeman took your names and addresses, and will have told the officer in charge of the case the nature of the evidence you will probably give. and please remember that, in giving evidence, you must carefully abstain from saying anything that would lead the jury to perceive that you have any personal feeling against simcoe, for they would be likely to put down your declaration of inability to recognize the body as a result of a bias against him. do not let it be seen that there is any personal feeling in the matter at all." the summonses arrived that evening and the next morning they drove to the coroner's court, miss purcell accompanying them. they found mr. pettigrew awaiting them at the door. "there is another case on before ours," he said, "and i should advise you to take a drive for half an hour, and, when you come back, to sit in the carriage until i come for you. the waiting room is a stuffy little place, and is at present full of witnesses in the case now on, and as that case is one of a man killed in a drunken row, they are not of a class whom it is pleasant to mix with." when they returned, he again came out. "i have just spoken to the coroner and told him who you are, and he has kindly given permission for you to go up to his own room. the case he has now before him may last another half hour." it was just about that time when mr. pettigrew came up and said that their case was about to commence, and that they must go down and take their places in court. this was now almost empty; a few minutes before it had been crowded by those interested in the proceedings, which had terminated in the finding of manslaughter against four of those concerned in the fray. the discovery of a child's body in the canal was far too common an event to afford any attraction, and with the exception of the witnesses, two counsel seated in the front line facing the coroner, and two or three officials, there was no one in court. as soon as the little stir caused by the return of the jury from viewing the body had ceased, the coroner addressed them. "we shall now, gentlemen of the jury, proceed to the case of the body of the child said to be that of walter rivington, which was found under very strange and suspicious circumstances near this end of the canal. you will hear that the child was missing from his home in hyde park gardens on the d of october, and for his discovery, as some of you are doubtless aware, large sums have been offered. the day before yesterday the drags were used for the purpose of discovering whether another child, who was lost, and who had been seen going near the bank, had been drowned. in the course of that search this body was brought up. you have already viewed it, gentlemen. dr. macilvaine will tell you that it has certainly been a month in the water, perhaps two or three weeks longer. unfortunately the state of the body is such that it is impossible now to ascertain the cause of death, or whether it was alive when it fell in, or was placed in, the water. fortunately some of its clothes still remain on the body, and one of the witnesses, the nurse of the missing boy, will tell you that the marks upon them were worked by herself, and that she can swear to them. whether any other matters will come before you in reference to the case, which, from the fact that the child was grandson of the late general mathieson and heir to his property, has attracted much attention, i cannot say. the first witness you will hear is the lock-keeper, who was present at the finding of the body." before the witness was called, however, one of the counsel rose and said: "i am instructed, sir, to appear to watch the proceedings on behalf of mr. john simcoe, who, by the death of walter rivington, inherits under the will of the late general mathieson." the coroner bowed. the other counsel then rose. "and i, sir, have been instructed by mr. pettigrew and colonel bulstrode, the trustees under the will, the former gentleman being also joint guardian with miss hilda covington of the missing child, to watch the case on their behalf." there was again an exchange of bows, and the lock-keeper then entered the box. his evidence was given in few words. he simply deposed to assisting in dragging the canal, and to the finding of the body. "have you any questions to ask the witness?" the coroner said, turning to the barristers. the counsel employed by mr. pettigrew rose. "yes, sir; i have a few questions to ask. now, mr. cousins, you say that you took part in dragging the canal. you are in charge of the drags, are you not?" "yes, sir; they are always kept in readiness at the lockhouse." "how came you to use the drags? i suppose you don't take them down and spend a day or two in dragging the canal unless you have reason for supposing that a body is there." "no, sir. the afternoon before a woman came up crying and said that her child had fallen into the water. he had gone out in the morning to play, and when dinner-time came and he didn't return she searched everywhere for him, and two children had just told her that they were playing with him on the bank of the canal, and that he had fallen in. they tried to get him out, but he sank, and they were so frightened that they ran home without saying anything. but they thought now that they had better tell. i said that she had better go to the police station and repeat her statement, and they would send a constable to help me. she did that, and came back with the policeman. it was getting late then, but we took a boat and dragged the canal for two or three hours. the next morning she came again, and said that the boys had shown her just where her child fell in, and we dragged there and found this body. we brought it ashore, and after we had carried it to the lockhouse we set to work again, but could not find any other body." "what became of the woman?" "she was with us till we fetched up this body. when she saw it she ran away crying, and did not come back again." "you have not seen her since, mr. cousins?" "no, sir; i have not seen her since. i believe the constable made inquiries about her." "thank you, i have nothing more to ask." the policeman then entered the box and gave his evidence shortly, as to assisting in the operation of dragging and to finding the body. "about this woman who gave the alarm," the barrister asked. "have you seen her, constable?" "no, sir; not since the body was found. thinking it strange that she did not come back, i reported it at the station. she had given the name of mary smith and an address in old park. i was told to go round there, but no such person was known, and no one had heard of a child being lost. on my reporting this, inquiries were made all round the neighborhood; but no one had heard of such a woman, nor of a missing child." "this is a very strange circumstance, sir, and it looks as if the whole story of the drowning child was a fabrication. the fact that the body of the child whose death we are considering was found close to the spot would certainly seem to point to the fact that some person or persons who were cognizant of the fact that this body was there were for some reasons anxious that it should be found, and so employed this woman to get the drags used at that point in order that the body might be brought to light." "it is certainly a very strange business," the coroner said, "and i hope that the police will spare no efforts to discover this woman. however, as she is not before us, we must proceed with the case." then the officer of the court called out the name of mary summerford, and the nurse went into the witness box. "i understand, mary sommerford, that you were nurse to walter rivington?" "i was, sir." "will you tell the jury when you last saw him, and how it was that he was lost?" she told the story as she had told it to hilda on the day that he was missing. "you have seen the clothes found on the body. do you recognize them as those that he was wearing when you last saw him?" "yes, sir." "how do you recognize them?" "because his initials are worked in two places. i worked them myself, and can swear to them." "you cannot recognize the body, nurse?" "i do not believe it is the body of my young master," she said; "his hair was lovely--long and silky. what hair remains on the body is very short, and what i should call stubbly." "but the hair might have been cut short by the people who stole him," the coroner said. "it is the first precaution they would take to evade the search that would at once be set on foot." "yes, sir, but i don't think that it would have grown up so stiff." "my experience of workhouse children," the coroner remarked, "is that whatever the hair they may have had when they entered the house, it is stiff enough to stand upright when cut close to the head. there is nothing else, is there, which leads you to doubt the identity of the child?" "no, sir, i cannot say that there is; but i don't believe that it is master walter's body." hilda, netta, and mr. pettigrew all gave their evidence. the two former stated that they identified the clothes, but, upon the same ground as the nurse, they failed to recognize the body as that of walter rivington. all were asked if they could in any way account for the finding of the child's body there. the question had been foreseen, and they said that, although they had used every means of discovering the child, they had obtained no clew whatever as to his whereabouts from the time that he was stolen to the time they were summoned to identify the body. "you quite assume that he was stolen, and not that he wandered away, as children will do when their nurses are gossiping?" "we are convinced that he was stolen, sir, because the search was begun so momentarily after he was missed that he could hardly have got out of sight, had he merely wandered away on foot. notice was given to the police an hour after he disappeared, and every street in this part of london was scoured immediately." "children of that age, miss covington, have often a fancy for hiding themselves; and this child may have hidden somewhere close until he saw his nurse pass by, and then made off in the opposite direction. the spot where the child's body was found is little more than a quarter of a mile from the corner where he was missed. he might have wandered up there, found himself on the canal bank, and childlike, have begun to play, and so slipped into the water." john simcoe was the last witness called. he gave his evidence to the effect that he had seen the body, and that personally he saw no reason to doubt that it was that of walter rivington. his counsel then rose. "you are, i believe, mr. simcoe, owing to the death of this poor child, the principal legatee under the will of general mathieson?" "i am sorry to say that i am. the whole business has caused me immense distress. i have felt that, being the only person that would benefit by the child's death, those who did not know me would have a suspicion that i might have had a hand in his mysterious disappearance." "you have taken an active part in the search for him?" "i offered a reward of one thousand pounds for any information that would lead to his discovery, and i believe that i have traveled up and down every obscure slum in london in hopes of lighting upon him." "even without the provision in the will which made you next heir you benefited by it, did you not?" "i did, most munificently. general mathieson had himself informed me that i should find, by his will, that he had not been ungrateful for a service that i rendered him many years ago; but i was not aware of the sum that he had left me. as to the distant contingency of inheriting in case of the child's death, i was altogether ignorant of it; but had i known it, it would in no way have affected me. the little fellow was a fine healthy child, and, therefore, the thought that he might not live to come of age would never have entered my mind." as the other counsel had no question to ask, the evidence was now concluded. "well, gentlemen, you have heard the evidence," the coroner said. "dr. macilvaine has told you, as indeed you might judge for yourselves on viewing the body, that it is impossible, in its advanced state of decomposition, to say whether the child was alive or dead at the time he fell, or was placed in the canal. as to who were the guilty persons who beguiled the child away, if he was beguiled, we have no shadow of evidence, and it may well be that he was stolen for the sake of his clothes. the cutting short of his hair certainly points to the truth of this theory, as does also the fact that no vestige has been found of his upper clothing. it is probable that some woman enticed him away, and kept him for some time with her, and then, when she became alarmed by the search made for him, carried him in his sleep from the house, and perhaps laid him down by the canal, thinking that he would be found there in the morning, and that the poor child awoke in the dark, wandered about, and fell into the canal. "however, this is only theory; but it is at least supported by the mysterious incident of the unknown woman who, by means of a tale which appears beyond doubt to have been wholly fictitious, caused the water at that spot to be dragged. the fact that on the second day she pointed out almost the exact point where the body was found would seem to show that the child could scarcely have fallen in the water, as she suggested, for in that case she could not have known the precise spot. it would seem, then, more likely that either the child died a natural death, perhaps from confinement or bad treatment, or possibly that, terribly alarmed at the search that was being maintained, he was put out of the way and then thrown into the canal at this spot. in that case we may admit that it is certainly strange that she should risk discovery by the course she took, and i can only account for it on the ground that she had been, ever since his death, suffering from remorse, and possibly she may have thought that she might in some sort of way atone for her conduct were she to point out where the child was, and so secure for him christian burial. that, however, is not before us at present, and i see no advantage in an adjournment for an indefinite time until this mystery is solved. the police have taken the matter in hand, and will spare no pains to discover the woman. if they do so, undoubtedly proceedings will be taken in another court. the point that we have to consider is who this child was, and how he came to his death. unfortunately we are absolutely without any evidence of what became of him from the time he got lost up to the discovery of his body, and i think that you cannot do otherwise than find an open verdict. "as to the question of identity, there can, i think, be no shadow of doubt. the clothes in which he was found prove him beyond question to have been walter rivington, although the body itself is absolutely beyond identification. i do not think that you need give any weight to the nurse's failure to recognize him, or to her opinion about the hair. she is naturally reluctant to acknowledge, even to herself, that the child which was lost by her inadvertence is dead, and the ladies would be equally reluctant to admit that all hope was over." the jury put their heads together, and there was evidently no difference of opinion, for in two or three minutes they sat down again and the foreman stood up. "you have decided on your verdict?" the coroner asked. "we have, sir. we find that the body is that of walter rivington, and that he was found dead in the canal, but how he came there and by what means he came by his death, there is no evidence to show." "thank you, gentlemen; that is precisely the verdict that i should myself have given." chapter xvi. a fresh clew. "just the verdict that i expected," mr. pettigrew said, as he and the ladies issued from the courthouse. "i suppose that it is for the best, mr. pettigrew, but it seems hard, when we could have said so much, to be obliged to hold our tongues altogether." "no doubt you will have an opportunity later on, miss covington. our tongues are tied until we can obtain some sort of proof to go upon. we cannot go into court with merely suspicions; we must get facts. all we have done at present is to obtain some sort of foundation on which to work; but facts we shall, i hope, get ere long from what we may discover of this fellow's movements. he is likely to be less careful now that it has been decided that walter is dead. he is doubtless well aware of the fact that trustees have a year given them before proceeding to carry out the provisions of a will, and, therefore, for that time he will keep quiet. at the end of the year his solicitor will write us a courteous letter, asking when we shall be in a position to distribute the estate in accordance with the provisions of the will. we shall reply that we are not in a position to do so. then, after a time, will come letters of a more and more peremptory character, and at last a notice that they are about to apply to the courts for an order for us to act upon the provisions of the will. about two years after the general's death the matter will probably come on. i may say that i have already sent checks to all the small legatees." "thank you, i was aware of that, because tom roberts came to me yesterday with his check for two hundred pounds," and said, "look here, miss covington; you said you meant to keep me on just the same as in the general's time, so this won't be of any use to me, and i should like to spend it in any way that you think best to find out what has become of master walter.' of course i told him that the money could not be spent in that way, and that the work that he was doing was of far greater use than ten times that sum would be." "i will send you your check to-morrow, miss covington. the sum we have paid to the people who have been searching, and all other expenses that may be incurred, will, of course, come out of the estate. you have not as yet settled, i suppose, as to your future plans?" "no, except that i shall certainly keep on the house in hyde park gardens for the present. it is, of course, ridiculously large for me, but i don't want the trouble of making a move until i make one permanently, and shall therefore stay here until this matter is finally cleared up. miss purcell has most kindly consented to remain as my chaperon, and her plans and those of her niece will depend upon mine." they had sent away their carriage when they entered the court, and they walked quietly home, mr. pettigrew returning at once to his office. the next morning tom roberts accosted hilda as she entered the breakfast room, with a face that showed he had news. "we have traced him down to one of his places at last, miss. i said to andrew, 'we must keep a special sharp look out to-night, for like enough, now that the inquest is over, he will be going to talk over the matter with his pals.' well, miss, last night, at half-past nine, out he comes. he wasn't in evening dress, for although, as usual, he had a topcoat on, he had light trousers and walking boots. he did not turn the usual way, but went up into piccadilly. we followed him. i kept close behind him, and andrew at a distance, so that he should not notice us together. at the circus he hailed a cab, and as he got in i heard him say to the driver, 'king's cross station.' as soon as he had gone off andrew and i jumped into another cab, and told the man to drive to the same place, and that we would give him a shilling extra if he drove sharp. "he did drive sharp, and i felt sure that we had got there before our man. i stopped outside the entrance, andrew went inside. in five minutes he arrived, paid the driver his fare, and went in. i had agreed to wait two or three minutes outside, while andrew was to be at the ticket office to see where he booked for. i was just going in when, to my surprise, out the man came again and walked briskly away. i ran in and fetched andrew, and off we went after him. he hadn't more than a minute's start, and we were nearly up to him by the time he had got down to the main road. we kept behind him until we saw him go up pentonville hill, then andrew went on ahead of him and i followed. we agreed that if he looked back, suspicious, i should drop behind. andrew, when he once got ahead, was to keep about the same distance in front of him, so as to be able to drop behind and take it up instead of me, while i was to cross over the road if i thought that he had discovered i was following him. "however, it did not seem to strike him that anyone was watching him, and he walked on briskly until he came to a small house standing by itself, and as he turned in we were in time to see that the door was opened to him by a man. andrew and i consulted. i went in at the gate, took my shoes off, and went round the house. there was only a light in one room, which looked as if there were no servants. the curtains were pulled together inside, and i could see nothing of what was going on. he stopped there for an hour and a half, then came out again, hailed a cab halfway down the hill, and drove off. andrew and i had compared watches, and he had gone back to jermyn street, so that we should be able to know by the time the chap arrived whether he had gone anywhere else on his way back. when i joined him i found that the man must have driven straight to the circus and then got out, for he walked in just twenty minutes after i had seen him start." "that is good news indeed, roberts. we will go and see mr. pettigrew directly after breakfast. please order the carriage to be round at a quarter to ten." netta was as pleased as her friend when she heard that a step had been made at last. "i am sick of this inaction," she said, "and want to be doing something towards getting to the bottom of the affair. i do hope that we shall find some way in which i can be useful." "i have no doubt at all that you will be very useful when we get fairly on the track. i expect that this will lead to something." after tom roberts had repeated his story to mr. pettigrew, hilda said: "i brought roberts with me, mr. pettigrew, that he might tell the story in his own way. it seems to me that the best thing now would be to employ a private detective to find out who the man is who lives in rose cottage. this would be out of the line of tom roberts and colonel bulstrode's servant altogether. they would not know how to set about making inquiries, whereas a detective would be at home at such work." "i quite agree with you," the lawyer said. "to make inquiries without exciting suspicion requires training and practice. an injudicious question might lead to this man being warned that inquiries were being made about him and might ruin the matter altogether. of course your two men will still keep up their watch. it may be that we shall find it is of more use to follow the track of this man than the other. but you must not be too sanguine; the man at rose cottage may be an old acquaintance of simcoe. well, my dear," he went on, in answer to a decided shake of the head on hilda's part, "you must call the man by the only name that he is known by, although it may not belong to him. i grant that the manner in which he drove into king's cross station and then walked out on foot would seem to show that he was anxious to throw anyone who might be watching him off the scent, and that the visit was, so to speak, a clandestine one. but it may relate to an entirely different matter; for this man may be, for aught we know, an adept in crime, and may be in league with many other doubtful characters." "it may be so, mr. pettigrew, but we will hope not." "very well, my dear," the lawyer said. "i will send for a trustworthy man at once, and set him to work collecting information regarding the occupant of the cottage. and now i have a point upon which i wish to ask your opinion. i have this morning received a letter from this man's solicitor, asking if we intend to undertake the funeral of the body which the coroner's jury have found to be that of walter rivington; and announcing that, if we do not, his client will himself have it carried out." "what do you think, mr. pettigrew?" hilda said hesitatingly. "we may be wrong, you know, and it may be walter's body." "i have been thinking it over," the lawyer replied, "and i must say it is my opinion that, as we have all stated our conviction that it is not, we should only stultify ourselves if we now undertook the funeral and put a stone, with his name on, over the grave. if we should at any time become convinced that we have been wrong, we can apply for a faculty to remove the coffin to the family vault down in warwickshire." "if we could do that i should not mind," hilda said; "but even the possibility of walter being buried by the man who we firmly believe was the cause of his death is terrible." "yes, i can quite understand your feelings, but i think that it is necessary that the family should make a protest against its being supposed that they recognize the child, by declining to undertake the funeral. no protest could well be stronger." "if you think that, mr. pettigrew, we certainly had best stand aside and let that poor child be buried by this man." two days later they were driving in the row. it was hilda's first appearance there since the general's death, and, after talking it over with netta, she now appeared there in order to show that she was perfectly convinced that the child which had been found in the canal was not her little cousin. the details of the proceedings of the coroner's court had, of course, been read by all her friends, and her appearance in the park would be the best proof that she could give that the family were absolutely convinced that the body was not that of walter. miss purcell and netta were with her. the latter had on, as usual, a thick veil. this she always wore when driving through any locality where she might meet john simcoe. "that is the man," hilda said to her in a sharp tone; "the farther of those two leaning on the rail the other side of the road." as hilda fixed her eyes on the man she saw him give a sudden movement. then he said to the man next to him: "do you see that girl in deep mourning? it is that little vixen, hilda covington. confound her, she is at the bottom of all this trouble, and i believe she would give ten thousand out of her own pocket to checkmate me." the carriage was opposite to them now. hilda looked straight in front of her, while netta, who was sitting with her back to the horses, took up the watch. "she would have to be sharp indeed to do that," the other man said. "so far everything has gone without a hitch, and i don't see a single weak point in your case. the most troublesome part has been got over." and now some carriages going the other way cut off the view, and netta could read no further. she drew a long breath as hilda's eyes turned towards her. "what did you read?" the latter asked. netta repeated what she had caught, and then hilda took up the conversation. "it is quite evident that this man, whoever he is, is an accomplice. he is a gentlemanly-looking man, and i fancy that he sat in the stalls near to us one evening this spring. however, it is quite clear that he is a confederate of simcoe. just repeat his words over again. they were in answer to his remark that i would give ten thousand pounds to be able to checkmate him." netta repeated the answer of simcoe's companion. "you see, netta, there is something to find out that would checkmate him; that is quite evident. he thinks that i cannot find it out. it must be, i should think, that walter is kept in hiding somewhere. it could not mean that he had killed my uncle, for he would hardly tell that to anyone, and so put himself in their power." "it may mean that you cannot find out that he is not john simcoe," netta suggested. "possibly; but he cannot know we suspect that." "it might be about the last will, hilda." the latter shook her head. "we have never thought that there could be anything wrong about it. the will was drawn up by colonel bulstrode's lawyers, and they knew my uncle by sight; besides, all the legacies were exactly the same as in the other will, the signature and the written instructions were in his handwriting, and he signed it in the solicitor's office in the presence of two of their clerks. no, i don't think he can possibly mean that. it must be either walter's abduction or that he is not john simcoe, and i should say that the former is much the more likely. you see, he had no need of an accomplice in the matter of getting evidence as to identity, whereas he did need an accomplice in the carrying off of walter. i should say that he is far too clever a man to let anyone into any of his secrets, unless he needed his assistance. i wonder who the man with him can be. he is dressed in good style, and i have certainly met him somewhere. i believe, as i said, it was at the opera. i should have thought that a man of that class is the last simcoe would choose as a confederate." miss purcell looked from one to the other as they talked. she had by this time been taken completely into their confidence, but had refused absolutely to believe that a man could be guilty of such wickedness as that which they suspected. on their return home they found a letter awaiting them from mr. pettigrew: "my dear miss covington [it ran]: my detective has not yet finished his inquiries, but has at least discovered that the proprietor of rose cottage, for they say that the place belongs to him, is somewhat of a mystery to his neighbors. he lives there entirely alone. he goes out regularly in a morning, it is supposed to some occupation in the city. no tradesmen ever call at the door; it is supposed that he brings home something for his breakfast and cooks it for himself, and that he dines in the city and makes himself a cup of tea in the evening, or else that he goes out after dark. sometimes, of summer evenings, he has been seen to go out just at twilight, dressed in full evening costume--that is to say, it is supposed so, for he wore a light overcoat--but certainly a white necktie, black trousers, and patent leather boots. of course, in all this there is nothing in itself absolutely suspicious. a man engaged in the city would naturally enough take his meals there, and may prefer to do everything for himself to having the bother of servants. also, if his means permit it, he may like to go to theaters or places of amusement, or may go out to visit business friends. i have, of course, directed the detective to follow him to town and find out what is his business, and where employed. i will let you know result to-morrow." the next day brought the letter. "the man's name is william barens. he has a small office on the third floor of a house of business in great st. helens, and on the doorway below his name is the word 'accountant,' the housekeeper knows nothing about him, except that he has occupied the room for the last twelve years, and that he is a gentleman who gives no trouble. he always puts his papers away at night in his safe, so that his table can be properly dusted. she knows that he has clients, as several times, when he has been away for his dinner hour, she has been asked when he would return. he is a well-spoken gentleman, though not as particular about his dress as some; but liberal with his money, and gives her as handsome a tip at christmas as some people who have three or four rooms, and, no doubt, think themselves much finer people. this certainly does not amount to much. by the way, the old woman said that she knew he was employed by several tradesmen in the neighborhood to keep their books for them." two days later there was another communication: "my dear miss covington: my man has taken a step which i should certainly have forbidden, had he told me beforehand of his intention. he watched the man go out, and then, having previously provided himself with instruments for picking locks, he opened the door and went in. on the table were several heavy ledgers and account books, all bearing the names of tradesmen in the neighborhood, with several files of accounts, bills, and invoices. these fully bore out what the woman had told him. besides the chairs, table, and safe, the only other articles of furniture in the room were an office washing stand and a large closet. in the latter were a dress suit and boots, and a suit of fashionable walking clothes, so that it is evident that he often changed there instead of going home. i am sorry to say that all this throws no further light upon the man's pursuits, and had it not been for simcoe's visit to him, it would be safe to say that he is a hard-working accountant, in a somewhat humble, but perhaps well-paying line; that he is a trifle eccentric in his habits, and prefers living a cheap, solitary life at home, while spending his money freely in the character of a man about town in the evening. i cannot say that the prospect in this direction seems hopeful. i have told my man that for the present we shall not require his services further." "it does not seem very satisfactory, certainly," hilda said with a sigh; "i am afraid that we shall have to keep on watching simcoe. i wish i could peep into his room as this detective did into that of the pentonville man." "i don't suppose that you would find anything there, hilda; he is not the sort of man to keep a memorandum book, jotting down all his own doings." "no," hilda said with a laugh; "still, one always thinks that one can find something." had hilda covington had her wish and looked into john simcoe's room that morning, she would certainly have derived some satisfaction from the sight. he had finished his breakfast before opening a letter that lay beside him. "what a plague the old woman is with her letters! i told her that i hated correspondence, but she persists in writing every month or so, though she never gets any reply except, 'my dear aunt: thanks for your letter. i am glad to hear that you are well.--your affectionate nephew.' well, i suppose i must read it through." he glanced over the first page, but on turning to the second his eye became arrested, and he read carefully, frowning deeply as he did so. then he turned back and read it again. the passage was as follows: "i had quite an interesting little episode a day or two after i last wrote. a young lady--she said her name was barcum, and that she was an artist--came in and asked if i would take her in as a lodger. she was a total stranger to the place, and had come down for her health, and said that some tradesman had recommended her to come here, saying that, as a single lady, i might be glad to accommodate her. of course i told her that i did not take lodgers. she got up to go, when she nearly fainted, and i could not do less than offer her a cup of tea. then we got very chatty, and as i saw that she was really too weak to go about town looking for lodgings, i invited her to stay a day or two with me, she being quite a lady and a very pleasant-spoken one. she accepted, and a pleasanter companion i never had. naturally i mentioned your name, and told her what adventures you had gone through, and how kind you were. she was greatly interested, and often asked questions about you, and i do think that she almost fell in love with you from my description. she left suddenly on receipt of a letter that called her up to town, saying that she would return; but i have not heard from her since, and i am greatly afraid that the poor child must be seriously ill. she was a pretty and intelligent-looking girl, with dark eyes and hair, and i should say that when in good health she must be very bright. of course, she may have changed her mind about coming down. i am sure she would have written if she had been well." "confound the old gossip!" john simcoe said angrily, as he threw the letter down. "i wonder what this means, and who this girl can be? it is clear enough that, whoever she is, she was sent down there to make inquiries about me. it is that girl covington's doing, i have no doubt, though it was not the minx herself, for the description does not tally at all. she has light brown hair and grayish sort of eyes. there is one comfort, she would learn nothing to my disadvantage from the old woman, nor, i believe, from anyone at stowmarket. in fact, she would only get more and more confirmation of my story. i have no fear upon that score, but the thing shows how that girl is working on my track. as for the lawyer, he is an old fool; and if it hadn't been for her i would bet a hundred to one that he would never have entertained any suspicion that all was not right. it is her doing all through, and this is a piece of it. of course she could have no suspicion that i was not john simcoe, but i suppose she wanted to learn if there was any dark spot in my history--whether i had ever been suspected of robbing a bank, or had been expelled from school for thieving, or something of that sort. i begin to be downright afraid of her. she had a way of looking through me, when i was telling my best stories to the general, that always put me out. she disliked me from the first, though i am sure i tried in every way to be pleasant to her. i felt from the day i first saw her that she was an enemy, and that if any trouble ever did come it would be through her. i have no doubt she is moving heaven and earth to find walter; but that she will never do, for harrison is as true as steel, and he is the only man who could put them on the right track. moreover, i have as much pull over him as he has over me. he has never had a doubt about my being john simcoe; he doesn't know about the other affair, but only that walter stood between me and the estate, and he was quite ready to lend me a hand to manage to get him out of the way. so in that business he is in it as deep as i am, while i know of a score of schemes he has been engaged in, any one of which would send him abroad for life. i expect those inquiries were made at stowmarket to endeavor to find out whether any child had been sent down there. if so, miss covington is not so sharp as i took her to be. stowmarket would be the very last place where a man, having relations and friends there, would send a child whom he wished to keep concealed. still it is annoying, confoundedly annoying; and it shows that these people, that is to say hilda covington, are pushing their inquiries in every direction, likely or unlikely. "the only comfort is, the more closely they search the sooner they will come to the conclusion that the boy is not to be found. i believe that, though they declared they did not recognize the body, they had no real doubt about it, and they only said so because if they had admitted it, the trustees would have had no excuse for not carrying out the provisions of the will. that text the girl had the impudence to quote to me looked as if she believed the body was walter's, and that i had killed him, though it may be that she only said it to drive me to bringing the whole business into court, by bringing an action against her for libel; but i am not such a fool as to do that. just at present there is a lot of public feeling excited by the circumstances of the child's loss and the finding of the body, and even if i got a verdict i fancy that the jury would be all on the girl's side, and give me such trifling damages that the verdict would do me more harm than good. no, our game clearly is to let the matter rest until it has died out of the public mind. then we shall apply formally for the trustees to be called upon to act. no doubt they will give us a great deal of trouble, but comfrey says that he thinks that the order must be granted at last, though possibly it may be withheld, as far as the estate is concerned, for some years. at any rate i ought to get the ten thousand at once, as the question whether the boy is alive or dead cannot affect that in the slightest." chapter xvii. netta acts independently. "it seems to me, hilda, that somehow or other we are wasting our time," netta said one morning suddenly, as they were sitting together. "how do you mean, netta?" "well, you see, we relied a great deal on being able to overhear conversation from a distance; and, except those few words we gathered in the park, we have absolutely done nothing that way." "but how can we do more than we are doing?" "i don't know; that is what is troubling me. you know, dear, that i am quite content to give up my own work to help you. at first, of course, aunt and i would have stayed here, at any rate for a time, to keep you company; but your uncle has been dead now for more than eight months, and time is going on. if i were really helping you i would stop, if it were five years; but in fact i am not helping you in the way we intended." "you are helping me, netta!" hilda exclaimed with tears in her eyes. "how should i have got on through all this sad time if you had not been here to comfort and cheer me?" "yes, but the necessity for that is over. you have your friends, and though you don't go out yet, you often go to lady moulton's and some of your other friends', and they come to see you." "yes, and you will never go with me, netta, nor see them when they come." "no, dear; i have nothing in common with them. i do not know the people of whom you talk, and should simply sit there uncomfortably, so i prefer to be out of it altogether. then i really miss my work. ever since you came to us some eight years ago i have been teaching eight or ten hours a day. i like the work; it is immensely interesting, and i am happy in seeing my pupils improve." "and all this means," hilda said sorrowfully, "you are going to say that it is time for you to go back." "no, it does not necessarily mean that--there is an alternative; i must either be doing something or go back." "but, as i said before, netta, what can we do, more than we have done?" "that is what i have been thinking, hilda. anyhow, i mean to try to do something before i give it up and go to germany again." "i warn you, netta, that i shall be furious if you do that. i am my own mistress now, for mr. pettigrew will let me do as i like now i am nineteen, and am quite determined that our old plan shall be carried out, and that you shall start an institution like that of professor menzel somewhere near london. you have been twelve months away, your pupils have already taken to other teachers, and there cannot be the least occasion for your assistance in an institution that is now well stocked with teachers, while here you could do enormous good. anyhow, whether you stay or not, i shall, as soon as all this is settled, take a large house standing in its own grounds, in some healthy place near london, and obtain teachers." "well, we need not talk of that just yet," netta said quietly; "it will be time enough when i have failed in carrying out my plans." "but what are your plans?" "i have not quite settled myself; and when i do i mean to work entirely in my own way, and shall say nothing about it until i come to you and say i have succeeded, or i have failed." hilda opened her eyes in surprise. "but why should i be kept in the dark?" "because, dear, you might not approve of my plans," netta replied coolly. "you are not thinking of doing anything foolish, i hope?" hilda exclaimed. "if it were foolish it would be excusable where the counsels of wisdom have failed," netta laughed; and then more seriously, "nothing would be foolish if it could possibly lead to the discovery of walter's hiding place." that afternoon, when hilda drove out with miss purcell to make some calls, netta rang the bell, and when tom roberts came in she said: "i want to have a long talk with you, roberts. but mind, what i say is to be kept a perfect secret between ourselves." "yes, miss," he said in surprise. "now, sit down," she went on; "we can talk more comfortably so. now, roberts, there is no doubt that we are not making much headway with our search." "that we are not, miss netta," he agreed. "i did think that we had gained something when we traced him to that house on pentonville hill, but it does not seem that anything has come of it, after all." "then it is quite time that we took some other steps," she said decisively. "i am ready, miss," he replied eagerly. "you tell me what to do, and i am game to do it." "well, there are two or three things i have in my mind. first of all, i want to be able to watch john simcoe and this pentonville man when they are talking together." "yes, i understand," he said; "but how is it to be done?" "that is what i want to find out. now, in the first place, about this house. which way did the window look of the room where there was a light?" "that window was at the side of the house, miss; a little way round the corner. we noticed the light there, but there was another window looking out on the front. we did not see any light there, as the shutters were closed." "and you say that the curtains of the other window were pulled very close?" "yes, they crossed each other most of the way down." "now, the question in my mind, roberts, is which would be easier--to cut a slit in the curtain, or to bore a hole in the shutter, or to take a brick out carefully from the side wall and then to deepen the hole until we got to the wall-paper, and then make a slight hole there?" roberts looked at her with astonishment. "do you really mean it, miss?" "certainly i mean it; it seems to me that our only chance of ever finding walter is to overhear those men's talk." "then, miss, i should say that the simplest way would be to cut a window pane out." "yes; but, you see, it is pretty certain that that curtain will not be drawn until they come in, and they would notice it at once. if we took out a pane in the front window the shutter would prevent our seeing or hearing, and the man would be sure to notice the pane was missing as he walked up from the gate to the house." "i should say, miss, that the best plan would be for me to manage to get into the house some time during the day and to hide in that room, under the table or sofa or somewhere, and listen to them." she shook her head. "in the first place, roberts, you would certainly be murdered if they found you there." "i would take my chance of that, miss; and you may be sure that i would take a brace of the general's pistols with me, and they would not find it such easy work to get rid of me." "that may be so," netta said, "but if in the struggle you shot them both, our last chance of ever hearing of walter would be gone. you yourself might be tried for murder, and it would be assumed, of course, that you were a burglar; for the explanation that you had broken into the house only to hear a conversation would scarcely be believed. moreover, you must remember that we don't know how often these men meet. simcoe has not been there since you tracked him there six months ago, and the only thing we have since found out is that the man i saw him with in the park is the man who lives in that house. it would never do for you to make an entrance into the house night after night and week after week, to run the risk of being detected there, or seized as you entered, or caught by the police as a burglar. no, as far as i can see, the only safe plan is to get out a brick very carefully in the side wall and to make a hole behind it through the paper. it might be necessary to make an entry into the house before this was done, so as to decide which was the best spot for an opening. a great deal would depend upon the paper in the room. if it is a light paper, with only a small amount of pattern upon it, any hole large enough to see through might be noticed. if it is a dark paper, well covered, a hole might be made without any fear of its catching the eye. you see, it must be a rather large hole, for, supposing the wall is only nine inches thick, a person standing outside could not see what was passing inside unless the hole were a good size." "but i doubt much if you would be able to hear them, miss netta." "no, i don't think that i should; especially as people talking of things of that sort, even if they had no great fear of being overheard, would speak in a low voice. but that would not matter if i could see their faces. i should know what they were saying." roberts did not think it right to offer any remark on what appeared to him to be impossible, and he confined himself to saying in a respectful voice, "indeed, miss netta." "i am stone-deaf," she said, "but have learned to read what people are saying from the movement of their lips." although the "indeed, miss," was as respectful as before, netta saw that he did not in the slightest degree believe her. "just go to the other end of the room, roberts, and make some remark to yourself. move your lips in the same way as if you were talking, but do not make any sound." roberts, with military obedience, marched to the other end of the room, placed himself in a corner, and turned round, facing her. his lips moved, and, confident that she could not know what he was saying, he expressed his natural sentiments. the girl at once repeated the words: "well, i'm jiggered! this is a rum start; miss netta has gone clean off her head." roberts' jaw dropped, and he flushed up to the hair. "i am sure," he began; but he was stopped by the girl's merry laugh. "do not apologize, roberts; it was natural enough that you should be surprised. well, you see i can do as i say. we will now go on with our talk." greatly abashed, tom roberts returned to the chair, murmuring to himself as he sat down, "well, i'm blowed!" when he was roughly recalled to the necessity of keeping his mouth shut by her quiet remark, "never mind about being blowed at present, roberts; let us talk over another plan. who are the keepers of the house in jermyn street?" "it is kept by a man and his wife, miss. he has been a butler, i believe, and his wife was a cook. he waits upon the gentlemen who lodge there, and she cooks. they have a girl who sweeps and does the bedrooms and the scrubbing and that sort of thing." "what sort of a girl is she, roberts?" "she seems a nice sort of young woman, miss. andrew has spoken to her more than i have, because, you see, my get-up aint likely to take much with a young girl." "i suppose she is not very much attached to her place?" "lor', no, miss; she told andrew that she was only six months up from the country, and they don't pay her but eight pounds a year, and pretty hard work she has to do for it." "well, roberts, i want to take her place." "you want----" and roberts' voice failed him in his astonishment. "yes, i want to take her place, roberts. i should think that if you or andrew were to tell her that you have a friend up from the country who wants just such a place, and is ready to pay five pounds to get one, she might be ready to take the offer; especially as you might say that you knew of a lady who is in want of an under-housemaid and you thought that you could get her the place." "as to that, miss, i have no doubt that she would leave to-morrow, if she could get five pounds. she told andrew that she hated london, and should go down home and take a country place as soon as she had saved up money to do so." "all the better, roberts; then all she would have to do would be to say that she had heard of a place near home, and wanted to leave at once. she did not wish to inconvenience them, but that she had a cousin who was just coming up to london and wanted a place, and that she would jump at it. she could say that her cousin had not been in service before, but that she was a thorough good cleaner and hard worker." "and do you mean that you would go as a servant, miss netta? why, it would not be right for you to do so." "anything would be right that led to the discovery of walter's hiding place, roberts. i have been accustomed to teaching, and i have helped my aunt to look after the house for years, and i do not in the slightest degree mind playing the part of a servant for a short time, in order to try and get at the bottom of this matter. you think that it can be managed?" "i am sure it can be managed right enough, miss; but what miss covington would say, if she knew that i had a hand in bringing it about, i can't say." "well, you won't be drawn into the matter. i shall say enough to my aunt to satisfy her that i am acting for the best, and shall simply, when i go, leave a note for your mistress, telling her that i have gone to work out an idea that i have had in my mind, and that it would be no use for her to inquire into the matter until she hears of me again." "what am i to tell andrew, miss?" "simply tell him that a young woman has been engaged to watch simcoe in his lodgings. then tell him the story he has to tell the girl. i shall want three or four days to get my things ready. i shall have to go to a dressmaker's and tell her that i want three or four print gowns for a young servant about my own figure, and as soon as they are ready i shall be ready, too." "well, miss, i will do as you tell me, but i would say, quite respectful, i hope that you will bear in mind, if things goes wrong, that i was dead against it, and that it was only because you said that it was our only chance of finding master walter that i agreed to lend a hand." "i will certainly bear that in mind," netta said with a smile. "talk it over with andrew to-night; but remember he is only to know that a young woman has been engaged to keep a watch on simcoe." "he will be glad enough to hear, miss, that someone else is going to do something. he says the colonel is so irritable because he has found out so little that there is no bearing with him." "the colonel is trying," netta laughed. "as you know, he comes here two or three times a week and puts himself into such rages that, as he stamps up and down the room, i expect to hear a crash and to find that the dining-room ceiling has fallen down. he is a thoroughly kind-hearted man, but is a dreadful specimen of what an english gentleman may come to after he has had the command of an indian regiment for some years, and been accustomed to have his will obeyed in everything. it is very bad for a man." "it is a good deal worse for his servant, miss," tom roberts said, in a tone of deep sympathy for his comrade. "i doubt whether i could have stood it myself; but though andrew expresses his feelings strong sometimes, i know that if you offered him a good place, even in buckingham palace, he would not leave the colonel." two days later netta heard that the girl in jermyn street had joyfully accepted the offer, and had that morning told her master that she had heard that she was wanted badly at home, and that a cousin of hers would be up in a day or two, and would, she was sure, be very glad to take her place. the master agreed to give her a trial, if she looked a clean and tidy girl. "i shall be clean and tidy, roberts; and i am sure i shall do no injustice to her recommendation." roberts shook his head. the matter was, to his mind, far too serious to be joked about, and he almost felt as if he were acting in a treasonable sort of way in aiding to carry out such a project. on the following monday hilda, on coming down to breakfast, found a note on the table. she opened it in haste, seeing that it was in netta's handwriting, and her eyes opened in surprise and almost dismay as she read: "my darling hilda: i told you that i had a plan. well, i am off to carry it out. it is of no use your asking what it is, or where i am going. you will hear nothing of me until i return to tell you whether i have failed or succeeded. aunt knows what i am going to do." hilda at once ran upstairs to miss purcell's room. "where has netta gone?" she exclaimed. "her letter has given me quite a turn. she says that you know; but i feel sure that it is something very foolish and rash." "i thought that you had a better opinion of netta's common sense," miss purcell said placidly, smiling a little at hilda's excitement. "it is her arrangement, dear, and not mine, and i am certainly not at liberty to give you any information about it. i do not say that i should not have opposed it in the first instance, had i known of it, but i certainly cannot say that there is anything foolish in it, and i admit that it seems to me to offer a better chance of success than any plan that has yet been tried. i don't think there is any occasion for anxiety about her. netta has thought over her plans very carefully, and has gone to work in a methodical way; she may fail, but if so i don't think that it will be her fault." "but why could she not tell me as well as you?" hilda asked rather indignantly. "possibly because she did not wish to raise hopes that might not be fulfilled; but principally, i own, because she thought you would raise objections to it, and she was bent upon having her own way. she has seconded you well, my dear, all through this business." "yes, i know, aunt; she has been most kind in every respect." "well, my dear, then don't grudge her having a little plan of her own." "i don't grudge her a bit," hilda said impetuously, "and, as you are quite satisfied, i will try to be quite satisfied too. but, you see, it took me by surprise; and i was so afraid that she might do something rash and get into trouble somehow. you know really i am quite afraid of this man, and would certainly far rather run a risk myself than let her do so." "of that i have no doubt, hilda; but i am quite sure that, if the case had been reversed, you would have undertaken this little plan that she has hit upon, to endeavor to relieve her of a terrible anxiety, just as she is doing for you." "well, i will be patient, aunt. how long do you think that she will be away?" "that is more than i can tell you; but at any rate she has promised to write me a line at least twice a week, and, should i think it right, i can recall her." "that is something, aunt. you cannot guess whether it is likely to be a week or a month?" miss purcell shook her head. "it will all depend upon whether she succeeds in hitting upon a clew as to where walter is. if she finds that she has no chance of so doing she will return; if, on the other hand, she thinks that there is a probability that with patience she will succeed, she will continue to watch and wait." "miss netta is not ill, i hope, miss?" roberts said, when he came in to clear the breakfast things away. "no she has gone away on a short visit," hilda replied. had she been watching the old soldier's face, she might have caught a slight contortion that would have enlightened her as to the fact that he knew more than she did about the matter; but she had avoided looking at him, lest he should read in her face that she was in ignorance as to netta's whereabouts. she would have liked to have asked when she went; whether she took a box with her, and whether she had gone early that morning or late the evening before; but she felt that any questions of the sort would show that she was totally in the dark as to her friend's movements. in fact netta had walked out early that morning, having sent off a box by the carrier on the previous saturday when hilda was out; roberts having himself carried it to the receiving house. it was four or five days before dr. leeds called again. "is miss purcell out?" he asked carelessly, when some little time had elapsed without her making her appearance. "is that asked innocently, dr. leeds?" hilda said quickly. the doctor looked at her in genuine surprise. "innocently, miss covington? i don't think that i quite understand you." "i see, doctor, that i have been in error. i suspected you of being an accomplice of netta's in a little scheme in which she is engaged on her own account." and she then told him about her disappearance, of the letter that she had received, and of the conversation with her aunt. dr. leeds was seriously disturbed. "i need hardly say that this comes as a perfect surprise to me, miss covington, and i say frankly a very unpleasant one. but the only satisfactory feature is that the young lady's aunt does not absolutely disapprove of the scheme, whatever it is, although it is evident that her approval is by no means a warm one. this is a very serious matter. i have the highest opinion of your friend's judgment and sense, but i own that i feel extremely uneasy at the thought that she has, so to speak, pitted herself against one of the most unscrupulous villains i have ever met, whose past conduct shows that he would stop at nothing, and who is playing for a very big stake. it would be as dangerous to interfere between a tiger and his prey as to endeavor to discover the secret on which so much depends." "i feel that myself, doctor, and i own that i'm exceedingly anxious. aunt has had two short letters from her. both are written in pencil, but the envelope is in ink, and in her usual handwriting. i should think it probable that she took with her several directed envelopes. the letters are very short. the first was: 'i am getting on all right, aunt, and am comfortable. too early to say whether i am likely to discover anything. pray do not fidget about me, nor let hilda do so. there is nothing to be uneasy about.' the second was as nearly as possible in the same words, except that she said, 'you and hilda must be patient. rome was not built in a day, and after so many clever people have failed you cannot expect that i can succeed all at once.'" "that is good as far as it goes," the doctor said, "but you see it does not go very far. it is not until success is nearly reached that the danger will really begin. i do not mind saying to you that miss purcell is very dear to me. i have not spoken to her on the subject, as i wished to see how my present partnership was likely to turn out. i am wholly dependent upon my profession, and until i felt my ground thoroughly i determined to remain silent. you can imagine, therefore, how troubled i am at your news. were it not that i have such implicit confidence in her judgment i should feel it still more; but even as it is, when i think how unscrupulous and how desperate is the man against whom she has, single-handed, entered the lists, i cannot but be alarmed." "i am very glad at what you have told me, doctor. i had a little hope that it might be so. it seemed to me impossible that you could be living for four months with such a dear girl without being greatly attracted by her. of course i know nothing of her feelings. the subject is one that has never been alluded to between us, but i am sure that no girl living is more fitted than she is to be the wife of a medical man. i would give much to have netta back again, but miss purcell is obdurate. she says that, knowing as she does what netta is doing, she does not think that she is running any risk--at any rate, none proportionate to the importance of finding a clew to walter's hiding place." "will you ask her if she will write to her niece and urge her to return, saying how anxious you are about her? or, if she will not do that, whether she will release her from her promise of secrecy, so that she may let us know what she is doing?" "i will go and ask her now; i will bring her down so that you can add your entreaties to mine, doctor." but miss purcell refused to interfere. "i consider netta's scheme to be a possible one," she said, "though i am certainly doubtful of its success. but she has set her heart upon it, and i will do nothing to balk her. i do not say that i am free from anxiety myself, but my confidence in netta's cleverness, and i may say prudence, is such that i believe that the risk she is running is very slight. it would be cruel, and i think wrong at the present moment, when above all things it is necessary that her brain should be clear, to distress and trouble her by interfering with her actions." "perhaps you are right, miss purcell," the doctor said thoughtfully. "being totally in the dark in the matter, i am not justified in giving a decisive opinion, but i will admit that it would not conduce either to her comfort or to the success of her undertaking were we to harass her by interfering in any way with her plan, which, i have no doubt, has been thoroughly thought out before she undertook it. no one but a madman would shout instructions or warnings to a person performing a dangerous feat requiring coolness and presence of mind. such, i take it, is the scheme, whatever it is, in which she is engaged; and as you are the only one who knows what that scheme is, i must, however reluctantly, abide by your decision. when miss covington tells you the conversation that we have had together you will recognize how deeply i am interested in the matter." chapter xviii. down in the marshes. comparatively few of those who nowadays run down to southend for a breath of fresh air give a thought to the fact that the wide stretch of low country lying between the railroad and the thames, from pitsea to leigh, was at one time, and that not so many centuries back, a mud flat, a continuation of the great line of sand that still, with but a short break here and there, stretches down beyond yarmouth; still less that, were it not for the watchfulness of those who dwell upon it, it would in a short time revert to its original condition, the country lying below the level of higher water. along the whole face of the river run banks--the work, doubtless, of engineers brought over by dutch william--strong, massive, and stone-faced, as they need be to withstand the rush and fret of the tide and the action of the waves when, as is often the case, the east wind knocks up ridges of short, angry water in sea reach. similarly, the winding creeks are all embanked, but here dams of earth are sufficient to retain within its bounds the sluggish water as it rises and falls. standing on any of these, the farmhouses and little homesteads lie below, their eaves for the most part level with the top of the bank, though there are a few knolls which rise above the level of the tidal water. the most conspicuous objects are the brown sails of the barges, which seem to stand up in the midst of the brownish-green fields, the hulls being invisible. this cannot be called marsh land, for the ground is intersected by ditches, having sluices through which they discharge their water at low tide. very fertile is the land in some spots, notably in canvey island, where there are great stretches of wheat and broad meadows deep with rich waving grass; but there are other places where the grass is brown and coarse, showing that, though the surface may be hard and dry, water lies not far below. here a few cattle gather a scanty living, and the little homesteads are few and far between. most of the houses are placed near the banks of the creeks. the barges serve as their wagons, and carry their hay up to london and bring down manure and other things required, or carry coal and lime to the wharves of pitsea. a rare place was this in the old smuggling days, and indeed until quite lately the trade was carried on, though upon a reduced scale. vessels drifting slowly up the river would show a light as they passed a barge at anchor or a bawley hanging to its trawl, a light would be shown in answer, and a moment later a boat would row off to the ship, and a score of tubs or a dozen bales of tobacco be quickly transferred, and before morning the contents would be stowed in underground cellars in some of the little farmhouses on the creeks, or be hidden away in the leigh marshes. "will bill be in to-night with the barge?" a child asked a woman, as he came down from the bank to a not uncomfortable-looking homestead ten yards from its foot. "i told you that you are to call him uncle," the woman said sharply, but not unkindly. "i have told you so over and over again, child." "i generally do now, but one forgets sometimes." "there is never any saying"--the woman went on in reply to his question--"there is never any saying; it all depends on tide and wind. sometimes they have to anchor and lose a tide, or maybe two. sometimes they get a cargo directly they get into the pool or at rochester; sometimes they wait two or three days. they have been away four days now; they might have been here yesterday, but may not come till to-morrow. one thing is certain, whenever he do come he will want something to eat, and i hope that they will bring it with them, for there is nothing here but bread and bacon." "and do you think that i shall soon go home again, aunt?" "there is no saying," the woman said evasively. "you are very comfortable here, aint you?" "oh, yes! there are the dogs and the ducks and the chickens, and uncle says that he will take me sometimes for a sail with him in the barge." "yes, i expect it won't be long first. you know, i used to go with him regular till, as i have told you, my little billy fell overboard one night, and we knew nothing of it until he was gone, and i have never liked the barge since. besides, i have plenty to do here. but i am going across to rochester very soon. it's a good place for shopping, and i want groceries and little things for myself and more things for you. i will take you with me, but you will have to promise to be very good and careful." "i will be careful," the child said confidently, "and you know that uncle said that when spring comes he will teach me to swim; and i shall like that, and if i tumble overboard it won't matter. he says that when i get a few years older i shall go with him regularly, and learn to steer and to manage the sails. i shall like that; but i should like to go back sometimes to see hilda and netta and my grandpapa." "well, well, my dear, we will see about it; they can't take you at present. i think that they have gone away traveling, and may not be back for a long time. and mind, you know you are not to talk about them. just when you are here with me i don't care; but you know uncle does not like it, and if anyone asks, you must say just what he told you, that your father and mother are dead, and that uncle bill has took you." "i shan't forget," the boy said. "i never do talk about it before him; it makes him angry. i don't know why, but it does." "but he is always kind to you, jack?" "oh, yes, he is very kind, and he often brings me things when he comes back; he brought me my dear little kitten. pussy, where have you hidden yourself? puss! puss!" and in answer a little ball of white fur bounded out from behind a chair, and the child was soon engaged in a game of romps with it. "it is a shame!" the woman said, as she watched them; "i don't mind the other things, but i never liked this. i wonder who the poor little chap is. by the way he talked when he first came, about his home and his nurse and horses and carriages, his friends must be rich people. bill has never understood why they wanted to get rid of him; but i suppose that he was in somebody's way, and, as he never speaks of his father and mother, but only of those two girls and his grandfather, who seems to have been an invalid, i expect that he must have lost his father and mother before he can remember. well, he will be right enough here; i should miss him dreadful if he were to go away; he seems to have taken the place of my little billy. and bill takes to him, too, wonderfully. he said the other day that when the boy grew up he would buy a barge, a new one of the best kind, and that some day it should be the boy's own. so he won't do so bad, after all." a stranger would have wondered at the comfort in the interior of the little farmhouse. the land round it was very poor. three horses--which seemed as if they had nothing to do but to nibble the coarse grass--and a couple of cows wandered about on a few acres of land, inclosed by deep water ditches; a score or two of ducks and geese paddled in the mud in the bottom of the creek at low tide, or swam about in the water when it was up; and a patch of garden ground, attended to chiefly by the woman, surrounded the cottage. but all this would have afforded a scanty living indeed, were it not that the master, bill nibson, was the owner of the _mary ann_ barge, an old craft with a somewhat dilapidated sail, which journeyed up and down the river with more or less regularity, laden, for the most part, with manure, hay, lime, bricks, or coal. this he navigated with the aid of a lad of fourteen, a waif, whose mother, a tramp, had died by the roadside one bitter cold night four years before. bill had been summoned on the coroner's jury and had offered to take the boy. "i can do with him on board the barge," he said; "he is only a little nipper now, but in a year or two he will be useful. the boy i have got wants to go to sea, and i shan't be sorry to get rid of him; he is getting too knowing for me altogether." as no one else wanted the boy he was handed over to bill, and was now a sharp lad, who, never having been instructed in the niceties of right and wrong, and being especially ignorant that there was any harm in cheating her majesty's customs, was in all things a useful assistant to his master. he had, indeed, very soon imbibed the spirit, not uncommon among the dwellers on the marshes, that if managed without detection, the smuggling of tobacco and spirits was a meritorious action, advantageous to the community at large, and hurting no one except that mysterious and unknown entity, the queen's revenue. he was greatly attached to bill, and took an occasional thrashing as a matter of course; regarding him as having saved him from the workhouse and having put him in a fair way of making a man of himself. the next day at twelve o'clock the child, playing on the bank, ran in and reported that joshua was coming along the bank, and in a few minutes the boy appeared. "morning, missis," he said. "master sent me on to say that the barge got into the haven this morning, and that she will come on with the evening tide. he sent me on with this lump of meat, and these rokers he got from a bawley which came in just as we were getting up sail off grain spit. he says he has got a barrel of beer on board, that he will land as he passes. he will be along about nine o'clock. well, jack, how are you?" "i am all right," the child said, "and so is kitty. i am glad that you are back. how long are you going to stay?" "i suppose that it will take us a couple of days to unload. master is going as usual to hire a couple of men to get the line out, so i shall be over here by breakfast. he says that i may as well do a job of digging in the garden, as he wants to get some things in before we get frosty nights. have you any message for him, missis?" "you can tell him he may as well get a dish of eels from one of the dutchmen there. i suppose there is one in the haven?" "two of them, missis; he will be able to get them, for one of them is the _marden_, and the skipper has always let master have some, though he won't sell an eel to anyone else." "is there any business to be done?" the woman asked significantly. the boy nodded. "all right; tell him that i will get the horses in." the child was put to bed upstairs at seven o'clock, although he in vain petitioned to be allowed to stop up until the barge came along. he already knew, however, by experience, that his request was not likely to be granted, as when the barge came along after dark he was always put to bed, the woman telling him that bill didn't like him to be up when he came in, as he wanted to have a talk with her in quiet, and to eat his supper in peace. an hour after dark the woman went out onto the bank and listened. in a quarter of an hour she heard the rattle of a block in the distance. she went down, stirred up the fire, and put on the kettle, and in twenty minutes the barge came along. the boat, instead of towing behind as usual, was alongside. "you take her on, joshua," its owner said, as he quietly got into the boat; "run in where the water is deep alongside, a quarter of a mile this side pitsea. i will come along and get on board there as soon as i have finished this job. keep a sharp lookout on the banks; some of the coastguardsmen may be about. if they hail you and ask if i am on board, say i landed as we passed here, to have a cup of tea, and that i shall not be five minutes." then he pushed the boat to shore. "well, betsy, how are you? i have got twenty kegs here, and five or six hundredweight of tobacco. i will get it up the bank, and you had better stow it away at once; i will lend you a hand as soon as it is all up." as fast as he could carry the kegs up the banks she slipped slings round them, two at a time, hooked them to a milkmaid's yoke, and went off with them to a shed which served as a stable and cowhouse in the winter. against this was a rick of hay. putting the kegs down she returned for more, and by the time that they were all in the stable her husband had finished his share of the work and had carried the heavy bales of tobacco to the shed. the three horses were already there. "are you going to take them out at once?" "no, not until i come back. i must get on board the barge as soon as possible. we will bundle them all in, in case any of those fellows should come along." three planks were removed from the side of the shed next to the stack, and an opening was seen. some turf was taken up and a trapdoor exposed. the kegs and tobacco were speedily carried down into a large cellar, the trapdoor was closed, and the boards placed securely in position and fastened by six long screws. then they returned to the house. the teapot and cups were on the table, the kettle was boiling, and in two or three minutes they were taking tea. scarcely had they begun their meal when there was a knock at the door. bill got up and opened it, and two coastguards entered. "we saw there was a light burning, and thought that you might be here, bill. the wind is bitter cold." "come in and have a cup of tea or a glass of rum, whichever you like best. as you say, the wind is bitter cold, and i thought that i would land and have a cup of tea. i shall catch the barge up before she gets to pitsea." the coastguardsmen accepted the offer of a cup of tea, glancing furtively round the room as they drank it. "it is good tea." "'tis that," bill said, "and it has never paid duty. i got it from an indiaman that was on the nore three weeks ago. she transshipped part of her cargo on my barge and floated next tide. it was one of the best jobs i've had for some time, and stood me in fifty pounds and a pound or two of tea." "perhaps a chest of it!" one of the men said with a laugh. "well, well, i am not sure that it was not a chest. i like my cup of tea, and so does betsy; and there is no getting tea like this at stanford." they chatted for about ten minutes, when bill remarked, "i must be going," and they went out together, and taking his place in his boat he rowed up the creek, while the coastguards continued their walk along the bank. "he is not a bad 'un, tom," one of them said. "i guess he is like a good many of the others, runs a keg occasionally. however, his place has been searched half a dozen times, and nothing has been found. we have drunk many a glass of ale with him at the 'lobster smack' at hole haven, and i am sure i don't want to catch him unless there is some information to go on. the barge passed us half an hour ago, and i knew that it was no use looking in her, but of course when the boatswain said this afternoon, 'just follow that barge when she gets under way, and see if she goes on to pitsea,' we had to do it; but the boat was late for us where the creek branches off round the island, and before we were across he must have got more than half an hour's start of us. and i am not sorry, tom. we have got to do our duty, but we don't want to be at war with every good fellow on the marshes." "right you are, dick; besides, they are as slippery as eels. who can tell what they have got under their lime or manure? short of unloading it to the bottom there would be no finding it, if they had anything; and it is a job that i should not care for. besides, there aint no place to empty it on; and we could not go and chuck a cargo overboard unless we were quite certain that we should find something underneath. as you say, i dare say bill runs a keg or two now and then, but i don't suppose that he is worse than his neighbors; i have always suspected that it was he who left a keg of whisky at our door last christmas." in the meantime bill had overtaken his barge, and they soon had her alongside of the little wharf at pitsea. "tide is just turning. she will be aground in half an hour," he said. "as soon as you have got these mooring ropes fastened, you had better fry that steak and have your supper. i shall be over by seven o'clock in the morning. if harvey and wilson come alongside before that, tell them they can have the job at the usual price, and can set to work without waiting for me. it will be pretty late before i am in bed to-night." it was over a mile walk back to his cottage. as soon as he arrived he sat down to a hearty supper which his wife had prepared for him. he then got three pack-saddles out of the cellar, put them on the horses, and fastened four kegs on each horse. tying one behind the other, he started, and in an hour the kegs were stowed in the cellars of four farmers near stanford. it was midnight before he returned home. at half-past six he was down to breakfast. "well, uncle, how are you?" he asked the child, who was already up. "i am not your uncle," the boy replied; "you are my uncle." "ah, well, it's a way of speaking down here. it does not mean that anyone is one's uncle; it is just a way of speaking." the child nodded. he was learning many things. "then it is a way of speaking when i call you uncle?" "no, no! that is different. a child like you would not call anyone uncle unless he was uncle; while a man my age calls anyone uncle." "that is funny, isn't it?" "well, i suppose, when you think of it, it is; but, as i said, it is a way we have in this part of the country. well, mother, have you got that fish nearly fried?" "it will be ready in five minutes. this roker is a very thick one. i put it on as soon as i heard you stirring, and it is not quite ready yet. that was a pretty near escape last night, bill." "yes; but, you see, they can hardly catch us unless they send men down in the afternoon. they cannot get along from the station without passing two or three creeks; and coming along with the tide, especially when there is a breath of wind to help her, we can do it in half the time. you see, i always get the things out from under the cargo and into the boat as we come along, so that the barge shall not be stopped." "but they might send down a boat from the thames haven station, bill." "yes; but then they don't know when the barge is in, or when it is going to start. so we get the best of them in that way. besides, they have a good bit to go along the river face, and they have to cross a dozen deep cuts to get there. no, i have no fear of them, nor of the others either, as far as that goes. i have more than once had a word dropped, meant to put me on my guard, and instead of landing the things here have dropped them in a deep hole in the creek, where i could pick them up the next night i came in. things have changed with us for the better, lass. five years ago we had pretty hard work, with the farm and the old boat, to live at all comfortable; but since i have got into the swim things have changed with us, and i can tell you that i am making money hand over fist. i allow that there is a certain risk in it, but, after all, one likes it all the better for that. if the worst came to the worst they could but confiscate the old barge; if they gave me a heavy fine i could pay it, and if they gave me six months i could work it out, and buy a new barge and half a dozen farms like this on the day i came out." "but the other would be more serious, bill?" "well, yes; but i don't see any chance of that being found out. a gent comes to me at a spot we have settled on, say on the road halfway between pitsea and stanford; he hands me a box, sometimes two; i puts them on one of the horses, and rides over here with them; then i stows them away in that secret place off the store, where there aint a shadow of a chance of the sharpest-eyed coastguardsman ever finding them. they would be too delighted to light on the spirits and bacca to think of digging up the floor underneath. there they lie, till i take them down to the _marden_. they put them into the eel tank, and next morning off she sails." "but you have had heavy cases brought once or twice?" "only once--heavy enough to be troublesome. ten cases there was then, each as heavy as a man could lift. it took me three journeys with three horses, and i had to dig a big hole in the garden to bury them till the _marden_ had got rid of her eels, and was ready to sail again. yes, that was a heavy job, and i got a couple of hundred pounds for my share of the business. i should not mind having such a job twice a week. a few months of that, and i could buy the biggest farm on this side of essex--that is to say, if i could make up my mind to cut it and settle down as a farmer." "you will never do that, bill; but you might settle down in rochester, and buy half a dozen barges, with a tip-top one you would sail yourself. you might have a couple of men and a cabin forward, and a nice roomy place for yourself and me aft; and you could just steer when you liked, or sit down and smoke your pipe and watch her going through the fleet as we worked through the swatchway. that would be more your sort, bill, and mine too. i know you have money enough laid by to get such a barge." "that is so, betsy. i allow that i could do that. i have been thinking of it for some time, but somehow or other one never works one's self up to the right point to give it all up of a sudden and cut the old place. well, i suppose one of these days i shall do it, if it is only to please you." "it would please me, you know, bill. i don't see no harm in running the kegs or the bacca--it's what the people about here have been doing for hundreds of years--but i don't like this other business. you don't know what is in the cases, and you don't ask, but there aint much difficulty in guessing. and i don't much like this business of the child. i did not like it at all at first; but when i found that he had no father nor mother as he knew of, and so it was certain that no one was breaking their heart about him, i did not mind it; and i have taken to him, and he has pretty nearly forgotten about his home, and is as contented as if he had been here all his life. i have nothing more to say about him, though it is as certain as eggs is eggs that it has been a bad business. the boy has been cheated out of his money, and if his friends ever find him it is a nice row that we shall get into." "you need not bother yourself about that," the man said; "he aint more likely to be found here than if he was across the seas in ameriky. we have had him near nine months now, and in another three months, if you were to put him down in front of his own house, he would not know it. everyone about here believes as he is my nevvy, the son of a brother of yours who died down in the midlands, and left him motherless. no one asks any questions about him now, no more than they does about joshua. no, no; we are all right there, missis; and the hundred pounds that we had down with him, and fifty pounds a year till he gets big enough to earn his own grub on the barge, all helps. anyhow, if something should happen to me before i have made up my mind to quit this, you know where the pot of money is hidden. you can settle in rochester, and get him some schooling, and then apprentice him to a barge-owner and start him with a barge of his own as soon as he is out of his time. you bear it in mind that is what i should like done." "i will mind," she said quietly; "but i am as likely to be carried to the churchyard as you are, and you remember what i should like, and try, bill, if you give up the water yourself, to see that he is with a man as doesn't drink. most of the things we hears of--of barges being run down, and of men falling overboard on a dark night--are just drink, and nothing else. you are not a man as drinks yourself; you take your glass when the barge is in the creek, but i have never seen you the worse for liquor since you courted me fifteen years ago, and i tell you there is not a night when you are out on the barge as i don't thank god that it is so. i says to myself, when the wind is blowing on a dark night, 'he is anchored somewheres under a weather shore, and he is snug asleep in his cabin. there is no fear of his driving along through it and carrying on sail; there is no fear of his stumbling as he goes forward and pitching over'; and no one but myself knows what a comfort it is to me. you bring him up in the same way, bill. you teach him as it is always a good thing to keep from liquor, though a pint with an old mate aint neither here nor there, but that he might almost as well take poison as to drink down in the cabin." "i will mind, missis; i like the child, and have got it in my mind to bring him up straight, so let us have no more words about it." chapter xix. a partial success. netta had been away three weeks when one morning, just as they were sitting down to breakfast, she suddenly came into the room. with a cry of joy hilda ran into her arms. "you wicked, wicked girl!" she exclaimed. "i know that i ought not to speak to you. you don't deserve that i should even look at you, but i cannot help it." miss purcell embraced her niece more soberly, but hilda saw by the expression of her face that her niece's return relieved her of a burden of anxiety which at times she had had difficulty in concealing. "in the first place, netta, before i even give you a cup of tea, tell me if this is a final return, or whether you are going to disappear again." "that we will decide after you have heard my story," netta said quietly. "and have you got any news of walter?" "i am not sure; i think so. so you have kept my secret, aunt?" "i promised that i would, dear, and of course i have kept my word, though it was very difficult to resist hilda's pleading. dr. leeds, too, has been terribly anxious about you, and not a day has passed that he has not run in for a few minutes to learn if there was any news." "i don't see why he should have known that i have been away." "why, my dear," hilda said, "coming here as often as he does, he naturally inquired where you were, and as i was uncertain how long you would be away, and as he had always been in our counsels, i could hardly keep him in the dark, even had i wished to do so. now, my dear, let us know all about it; there can be no possible reason for keeping silent any longer." "well, hilda, the whole affair has been very simple, and there was not the least occasion for being anxious. i simply wanted to keep it quiet because i felt that you would raise all sorts of objections to the plan. we had, as you know, thought over a great many methods by which we might overhear a conversation between john simcoe and the man on pentonville hill. but it seemed next to be impossible that it could be managed there. suddenly the idea came into my brain that, as a servant at simcoe's lodgings in jermyn street, i might have an excellent chance." hilda gave an exclamation of horror. "my dear netta, you never can really have thought of carrying this out?" "i not only thought of it, but did it. with a little management the girl there was got hold of, and as it fortunately happened that she did not like london and wanted to take a country situation, there was very little difficulty, and she agreed to introduce me as a friend who was willing to take her place. of course, it took a few days to make all the arrangements and to get suitable clothes for the place, and these i sent by parcel delivery, and on the morning of the day that the girl was to leave presented myself at the house. the man and his wife were good enough to approve of my appearance. they had, it seemed, three sets of lodgers, one on each floor; the man himself waited upon them, and my work was to do their rooms and keep the house tidy generally." again hilda gave a gasp. "there was nothing much in that," netta went on, without heeding her. "i used to do most of the house work when we were in germany, and i think that i gave every satisfaction. of course the chief difficulty was about my deafness. i was obliged to explain to them that i was very hard of hearing unless i was directly spoken to. mr. johnstone always answered the bells himself when he was at home. of course, when he was out it was my duty to do so. when i was downstairs it was simple enough, for i only had to go to the door of the room of which i saw the bell in motion. at first they seemed to think that the difficulty was insuperable; but i believe that in other respects i suited them so well that they decided to make the best of it, and when her husband was out and i was upstairs mrs. johnstone took to answering the door bells, or if a lodger rang, which was not very often, for her husband seldom went out unless they were all three away, she would come upstairs and tell me. johnstone himself said to me one day that i was the best girl he had ever had, and that instead of having to go most carefully over the sitting rooms before the gentlemen came in for breakfast, he found that everything was so perfectly dusted and tidied up that there was really nothing for him to do. "but oh, hilda, i never had the slightest idea before how untidy men are! the way they spill their tobacco ash all over the room, and put the ends of their cigars upon mantelpieces, tables, and everywhere else, you would hardly believe it. the ground floor and the second floor were the worst, for they very often had men in of an evening, and the state of the rooms in the morning was something awful. our man was on the first floor, and did not give anything like so much trouble, for he almost always went out in the evening and never had more than one or two friends in with him. one of these friends was the man we saw with him in the row, and who, we had no doubt, was an accomplice of his. he came oftener than anyone else, very often coming in to fetch him. as he was always in evening dress i suppose they went to some club or to the theater together. i am bound to say that his appearance is distinctly that of a gentleman. "i had taken with me two or three things that i foresaw i should want. among them was an auger, and some corks of a size that would exactly fit the hole that it would make. simcoe's bedroom communicated with the sitting room, and he always used this door in going from one room to the other; and it was evident that it was only through that that i could get a view of what was going on. i did not see how i could possibly make a hole through the door itself. it was on one side, next to that where the fireplace was, and there was a window directly opposite, and of course a hole would have been noticed immediately. the only place that i could see to make it was through the door frame. its position was a matter of much calculation, i can assure you. the auger was half an inch bore. i dared not get it larger, and it would have been hopeless to try and see anything with a smaller one, especially as the hole would have to be four or five inches long. as i sometimes went into the room when they were together, either with hot water or grilled bones, or something of that sort, i was able to notice exactly where the chairs were generally placed. simcoe sat with his back to the bedroom door, and the other man on the other side of the hearthrug, facing him. i, therefore, decided to make the hole on the side nearest to the wall, so that i could see the other man past simcoe. of course i wanted the hole to be as low as possible, as it would not be so likely to be noticed as it would were it higher up. i chose a point, therefore, that would come level with my eye when i was kneeling down. "at about four o'clock in the afternoon they always went out, and from then till six johnstone also took his airing, and i went upstairs to turn down the beds and tidy up generally. it was very seldom that any of them dined at home; i, therefore, had that two hours to myself. i got the line the hole should go by leaving the door open, fastening a stick to the back of a chair till it was, as nearly as i could judge, the height of the man's face, tying a piece of string to it and bringing it tight to the point where i settled the hole should start, and then marking the line the string made across the frame. then there was a good deal more calculation as to the side-slant; but ten days ago i boldly set to work and bored the hole. everything was perfectly right; i could see the head of the stick, and the circle was large enough for me to get all the man's face in view. of course i had put a duster on the ground to prevent any chips falling onto the carpet. "i was a little nervous when i set to work to drill that hole; it was the only time that i felt nervous at all. i had beforehand drilled several holes in the shelves of cupboards, so as to accustom myself to use the auger, and it did not take me many minutes before it came through on the other side. the corks were of two sizes; one fitted tightly into the hole, the other could be drawn in or out with very little difficulty. i had gone out one day and bought some tubes of paint of the colors that i thought would match the graining of the door frame. i also bought a corkscrew that was about an inch and a half shorter than the depth of the hole. it was meant to be used by a cross-piece that went through a hole at the top. i had got this cross-piece out with some trouble, and tied a short loop of string through the hole it had gone through. i put the corkscrew into one of the smaller corks and pushed it through until it was level with the frame on the sitting-room side, and found that by aid of the loop of string i could draw it out easily. then i put one of the larger corks in at the bedroom side of the hole and pushed it in until it was level with that side. then i painted the ends of the corks to resemble the graining, and when it was done they could hardly be noticed a couple of feet away. "i had now nothing to do but to wait until the right moment came. it came last night. the man arrived about seven o'clock. johnstone was out, and i showed him upstairs. simcoe was already dressed, and was in the sitting room. i lost no time, but went into the bedroom, where the gas was burning, turned down the bed on the side nearest to the door, and then went round, and with another corkscrew i had ready in my pocket took out the inner cork, got hold of the loop, and pulled the other one out also. even had i had my hearing, i could have heard nothing of what was said inside, for the doors were of mahogany, and very well fitted, and johnstone had said one day that even if a man shouted in one room he would hardly be heard in the next, or on the landing. i pushed a wedge under the door so as to prevent its being opened suddenly. that was the thing that i was most afraid of. i thought that simcoe could hardly move without coming within my line of sight, and that i should have time to jump up and be busy at the bed before he could open the door. but i was not sure of this, so i used the wedge. if he tried the door and could not open it, he would only suppose that the door had stuck and i could snatch out the wedge and kick it under the bed by the time he made a second effort. "kneeling down, i saw to my delight that my calculations had been perfectly right. i could see the man's face well, for the light of the candles fell full upon it. they talked for a time about the club and the men they were going to dine with, and i began to be afraid that there was going to be nothing more, when the man said, 'by the way, simcoe, i went down to tilbury yesterday.' what simcoe said, of course, i could not hear; but the other answered, 'oh, yes, he is all right, getting quite at home, the man said; and has almost ceased to talk about his friends.' then i saw him rise, and at once jumped up and went on turning down the bed, lest simcoe should have forgotten something and come in for it. however, he did not, and two or three minutes later i peeped in again. the room was all dark, and i knew that they had gone. then i put my corks in again, saw that the paint was all right, and went downstairs. i told mrs. johnstone that, if i could be spared, i should like to go out for two or three hours this morning to see a friend in service. it was the time that i could best be spared. i should have finished the sitting rooms by eight o'clock, and as none of the men have breakfast until about eleven, there was plenty of time for me to make the beds after i got back." hilda was crying now. her relief that hearing that walter was alive and well was unbounded. she had absolutely refused to recognize the body found in the canal, but she could not but admit that the probabilities were all against her. it was certain that the clothes were his, the child's age was about the same, the body must have been in the water the right length of time, the only shadow of evidence to support her was the hair. she had taken the trouble to go to two or three workhouses, and found that the coroner's assertion that soft hair when cut quite close will, in a very short time, stand upright, was a correct one. she kept on hoping against hope, but her faith had been yielding, especially since netta's absence had deprived her of the support that she obtained from her when inclined to look at matters from a dark point of view. "oh, netta," she cried, "how can i thank you enough! how happy the news has made me! and to think that i have been blaming you, while you have been doing all this. you cannot tell what a relief it is to me. i have thought so much of that poor little body, and the dread that it was walter's after all has been growing upon me. i have scarcely slept for a long time." "i know, dear. it was because i saw that though you still kept up an appearance of hope, you were really in despair, and could tell from your heavy eyes when you came down of a morning that you had hardly slept, that i made up my mind something must be done. there was no hardship whatever in my acting as a servant for a month or two. i can assure you that i regarded it rather as fun, and was quite proud of the credit that my master gave me. now, the question is, shall i go back again?" "certainly not, netta. you might be months there without having such a piece of luck again. at any moment you might be caught listening, or they might notice the hole that you made so cleverly. besides, we have gained a clew now to walter's hiding place. but even that is as nothing to me in comparison with having learned that he is alive and well, and that he has ceased to fret and is becoming contented in his new home. we can afford to wait now. sooner or later we are sure to find him. before, i pictured him, if still alive, as shut up in some horrible cellar. now i can be patient. i think that we are sure to find him before long." "well, i think, dear," miss purcell said quietly, "that we had better ring the bell and have some fresh tea made. everything is perfectly cold, for it is three-quarters of an hour since it came up." hilda rang the bell and gave the necessary orders. "let janet bring the things up, roberts, and come back yourself when you have given the order. i want to send a line to dr. leeds. you will be delighted to hear that miss purcell has learned, at least, that walter is alive and well; but mind," she went on, as the old soldier was about to burst out into exclamations of delight, "you must keep this altogether to yourself. it is quite possible that we have been watched as closely as we have been watching this man, and that he may in some way learn everything that passes here; therefore it must not be whispered outside this room that we have obtained any news." "i understand, miss. i won't say a word about it downstairs." hilda scribbled a line in pencil to the doctor, saying that netta was back and that she had obtained some news of a favorable description, and that, as she knew that at this hour he could not get away, she would come over with netta at once to tell him what they had learned, and would be in harley street within half an hour of his getting the message. as soon as they had finished breakfast they drove to the doctor's. they were shown up into the drawing room, where dr. leeds joined them almost immediately. "we are not going to detain you more than two or three minutes," hilda said, while he shook hands warmly with netta. "you must come over this evening, and then you shall hear the whole story; but i thought that it was only fair that netta should have the satisfaction of telling you herself what she had learned." "it is very little, but so far as it goes it is quite satisfactory, dr. leeds. i heard, or rather i saw, the man we suspected of being simcoe's accomplice say, 'by the way, i ran down to tilbury yesterday.' simcoe then said something, but what i could not tell, as his face was hidden from me, and the man in reply said, 'oh, yes, he is all right, and has almost ceased to talk about his friends.' now you must be content with that until this evening." "i will be content with it," the doctor said, "if you will assure me that you are not going away again. if you will not, i will stop here and hear the whole story, even at the risk of a riot down in my waiting room." "no, she is not going away, doctor; she had not quite settled about it when she got back this morning, but i settled it for her. i will take care that she does not slip out of my sight till after you have seen her and talked it all over." "then the matter is finally settled," netta said, "for unless i go in half an hour's time i cannot go at all." "then i will be patient until this evening." "will you come to dinner, doctor?" hilda said. "i have sent notes off to mr. pettigrew and colonel bulstrode to ask them to come, as i have news of importance to give them." "what will they do, netta, when they find that you do not come back?" hilda asked as they drove away. "that has puzzled me a good deal. i quite saw that if i disappeared suddenly they might take it into their heads that something had happened to me, and might go to the police office and say i was missing. but that would not be the worst. simcoe might guess, when he heard that i had gone without notice and left my things behind me, that i had been put there to watch him. he certainly would not suspect that he could have been overheard, for he must know that it would be quite impossible for any words to be heard through the doors; still, he would be uneasy, and might even have the child moved to some other locality. so i have written a note, which we can talk over when we get in. of course they may think that i have behaved very badly in throwing them over like this, but it is better that they should do that than they should think there was anything suspicious about it. my wages are due to-morrow; like the girl i succeeded, i was to have eight pounds a year. i have left my box open, so that the mistress can see for herself that there is none of the lodgers' property in it. there are two or three print dresses--i put on my sunday gown when i came out--and the underclothes are all duly marked jane clotworthy." "what a name to take, netta!" "yes, i do not know how i came to choose it. i was thinking what name i would take when clotworthy flashed across my mind. i don't think that i ever heard the name before, and how i came to think of it i cannot imagine; it seemed to me a sort of inspiration, so i settled on it at once." "now, let me see the letter," hilda asked, as soon as they returned home. "i hardly liked to write it," netta said, "it is such a wicked story; but i don't see how a person can act as detective without telling stories, and, at any rate, it is perfectly harmless." "oh, yes; it is quite certain, netta, that you could not write and tell her that you have been in her house in disguise, and that, having found out what you wanted, you have now left her. of course you must make up a story of some sort, or, as you say, simcoe would at once suspect that you had been sent there to watch him. he might feel perfectly sure that no conversation could have been heard outside the room, but he could not be sure that you might not have been hidden under the table or sofa, or behind a curtain. when so much depends upon his thinking that he is absolutely safe, one must use what weapons one can. if you have any scruples about it, i will write the letter for you." "no, i do not think the scruples will trouble me," netta laughed. "of course, i have had to tell stories, and one more or less will not weigh on my mind. here is the letter. if you can think of any better reason for running away so suddenly, by all means let me have it." the letter was written in a sprawling hand, and with many of the words misspelt. it began: "dear mrs. johnstone: i am afraid you will think very badly of me for leaving you so sudding, after you and mr. johnstone have been so kind to me, but who should i meet at my friend's but my young man. we were ingaged to be married, but we had a quarrel, and that is why i came up to town so sudding. we has made it up. he only come up yesterday, and is going down this morning, and nothing would do but that i must go down with him and that we should get married directly. he says that as the banns has been published there aint any occasion to wait, and we might be married at the end of the week, as he has got everything ready and is in good employment. so the long and the short of it is, mam, that i am going down with him home this afternoon. as to the wages that was due to-morrow, of course i forfeit them, and sorry i am to give you troubil, by leaving you without a girl. my box is not locked, plese look in it and you will see that there aint nothing there that isn't my own. in one corner you will find half a crown wrapped up in paper, plese take that to pay for the carriage of the box, the key is in the lock, and i send a labil to tie on." "what do you think of that, hilda?" "i think it will do capitally. i don't think any better excuse could be made. but where will you have the box sent?" "that is what we must settle together. it would not do to send it down to some little village, for if the address was unknown it might be sent back again." "yes; and if john simcoe had any suspicions that the story was a false one he might go down there to make inquiries about jane clotworthy, and, finding no such name known there, and the box still lying at the station, his suspicion that he had been watched would become almost a certainty." "i should think that reading would be a good place to send to it. 'jane clotworthy, luggage office, reading.' then i could go down myself and ask for it, and could bring it up by the next train." "tom roberts could do that, netta; there is no reason why you should trouble about it." "i think that i had better go myself. it is most unlikely that simcoe would send down anyone to watch who took the box away, but if he should be very uneasy he might do so. he would be sure to describe me to anyone that he sent, so that it would be better that i should go myself." "i think that your story is so plausible, netta, that there is no risk whatever of his having any doubts about it, but still one cannot be too careful." "then i will wind up the letter. "'begging your pardon for having left you in the lurch so sudding. i remain, your obedient servant, "'jane clotworthy. "'p.s.--i am very sorry. "'p.s.--plese give my respects to mr. johnstone, and excuse blots.'" hilda burst into a fit of laughter as she glanced at the postscript. "that will do admirably, netta," she said. "now how had we better send it?" "i should think that your maid had better take it. you might tell her to ring at the bell, hand it to the woman, and come away at once, without talking, except saying 'i was told to give you this.' then she would be well away before mrs. johnstone had mastered the contents of the note. it had better be sent off at once, for by this time they will be getting in a way." "i think that i had better send roberts. no doubt johnstone himself will be in, and will answer the door; and he might ask lucy where she came from, and i don't want to tell her anything. roberts could say that a young woman of his acquaintance, down chelsea way, asked him to get on a 'bus and leave it for her. he can be trusted, if the man does detain him and ask him questions, to give sensible answers." the letter was sealed and roberts called up. "take a cab and go down with this to jermyn street," hilda said. "i want it left at that house. if the man who opens the door asks you who you have brought it from, say from a young woman, a friend of yours, in a place down chelsea way. i don't suppose that he will ask any other questions, and you had best say 'good-morning,' and saunter off carelessly, as if, having done your errand, you had nothing else on hand. of course you won't drive up to the door. leave the cab round the corner, and come straight back here in it." "all right, miss," he answered. there was a little look of amusement in the man's face as he glanced at netta that did not this time pass unnoticed by his mistress. she waited until the door had closed behind him, and then turned sharply on her friend. "i believe, netta, you have had roberts in your confidence all the time, and while we have all been working ourselves into a fever as to where you could be, he has known it all along." "one cannot work without accomplices," netta laughed. "it was necessary that someone should make arrangements with the servant there for me to take her place, and who could i trust better than roberts? i think colonel bulstrode's servant helped in the matter; at any rate, they managed it capitally between them. of course it was roberts who carried my box out that morning. you must not be angry with him, hilda, for keeping it from you. i made him promise most faithfully that nothing should induce him to confess." "i shan't be angry with him, netta, but you may be sure that i shall give him a little lecture and say that i will have no more meddling on his part, except by my express orders. it is really annoying, you know, to think that all this time we were fretting about you there was roberts going about laughing in his sleeve." "well, you know, hilda, he has the discovery of walter as much at heart as we have, and he has certainly not spared himself in the search for him." "no, that he has not. he is a faithful fellow, and i promise you that i won't be too hard on him." chapter xx. a dinner party. it was the first time that anyone had dined at the house in hyde park gardens since general mathieson's death, and it seemed strange to hilda when mr. pettigrew, at her request, faced her at the table. the gentlemen had all arrived within a minute or two of each other, and no word had been said by hilda as to the subject about which she had specially asked them there. the table was well lighted and bright with flowers, and the lawyer and colonel bulstrode were both somewhat surprised at the cheerful tone in which hilda began to talk as soon as they sat down. it was, however, eight months since the house was first shut up, and though all had sincerely regretted the general's death, it was an old story now, and they were relieved to find that it was evidently not hilda's intention to recall the past. during dinner the talk went on as usual, and it was not until the servants had left the room that hilda said: "now, mr. pettigrew, i have no doubt that both you and colonel bulstrode are wondering what the matter of importance about which i asked you to come here can be. it is rather a long story, so instead of going upstairs we will stop here. my news is great news. we have discovered--at least my friend miss purcell has discovered--that without doubt walter is alive and well." an exclamation of surprise broke from mr. pettigrew and the colonel. "by gad, that is great news indeed!" the latter exclaimed; "and i congratulate you most heartily. i had quite given up all hope myself, and although i would have fought that fellow to the last, i never had any real doubt in my mind that the child they fished out of the canal was general's mathieson's grandson." "you astonish me indeed," mr. pettigrew said. "i own that, while i was able to swear that i did not recognize him, yet as a reasonable man i felt that the evidence was overpowering the other way. though i would not dash your hopes by saying so, it appeared to me certain that, sooner or later, the courts would decide that the provisions of the will must be carried out. and so you discovered this, miss netta? may we ask how you did it?" "netta wanted her share in the matter to remain a secret, mr. pettigrew; but i told her that was out of the question, and that it was quite necessary that you and colonel bulstrode should know the precise facts, for that, as a lawyer, you could not take any action or decide upon any course to be pursued unless you knew the exact circumstances of the case. however, she asked me, as she has given me the whole particulars, to tell the story for her. when i have done she will answer any questions you may like to ask." hilda then repeated, almost word for word, the story netta had told her. mr. pettigrew and the colonel several times broke in with exclamations of surprise as she went on. dr. leeds sat grave and thoughtful. "splendidly done!" colonel bulstrode exclaimed when she brought her story to an end. "it was a magnificent idea, and it must have needed no end of pluck to carry it out as you did. but how, by looking at a fellow's mouth through a hole, you knew what he said beats me altogether." "that part was very simple, colonel bulstrode," netta said quietly. "i learned it by a new system that they have in germany, and was myself a teacher in the institution. you may not know, perhaps, that i am stone-deaf." "you are not joking, miss purcell; are you?" the colonel said, looking at her earnestly. "why, i have talked to you a dozen times and it never struck me that you were in the slightest degree deaf." "i am absolutely so, as miss covington will tell you, and mr. pettigrew knows it also. fortunately i did not lose my hearing until i was six years old, and i had not altogether lost the habit of speaking when i went out to germany, three years later. had i been born deaf and dumb i could have learned to understand what was said perfectly, but should never have spoken in a natural voice." "well, it is wonderful altogether, and i should not have believed it if a stranger had told me. however, the great thing at present is that you have found out that the child is alive. we ought not to be long in laying hands on him now, pettigrew, eh?" "i hope not, colonel; but you must not be too sanguine about that; we have evidently very crafty scoundrels to deal with. still, now that we feel sure that the child is alive and well, the matter is a comparatively straightforward one, and we can afford to work and wait patiently. tilbury is only a bit of a village, but beyond that stretch great marshes--in fact, all south essex as far as the mouths of the rivers crouch, blackwater, and coln. he would say, 'i went down to tilbury,' because tilbury is the terminus of the railway. possibly he may have crossed to gravesend; possibly he may have gone inland to upminster or some other village lying in that district; or he may have driven down as far as foulness, which, so far as anybody knows anything about it, might be the end of the world. therefore, there is a wide area to be searched." "but he can be followed when he goes down again, mr. pettigrew?" "of course, my dear, that is what must be done, though there is no reason why we should not set about inquiries at once. but, you see, it is not so easy to follow a man about country roads as it is in the streets of london. no doubt he must drive or ride, unless, indeed, walter is within two or three miles of the station, and you may be sure that if he sees a trap coming after him he will not go near the place where the child is. possibly, again, he may not go near the place at all, but may meet someone who takes the money for the child's keep. it may be a bargeman who sails round to harwich or somewhere along the south coast. it may be the steward of a steamer that goes regularly backwards and forwards to france. "i don't want to dishearten you, my dear," he broke off, as he saw how hilda's face fell as he went on, "but, you see, we have not common rogues to deal with; their whole proceedings have shown an exceptional amount of coolness and determination. although i own that i can see nothing absolutely suspicious in the way that last will was drawn up and signed, still i have never been able to divest my mind of an idea that there is something radically wrong about it. but putting aside the strange death of your uncle, we have the cunning way in which the boy was stolen, the complete success with which our search was baffled, the daring attempt to prove his death by what we now know must have been the substitution of the body of some other child of the same age dressed in his clothes. all this shows how carefully every detail must have been thought out, and we must assume that equal care will be shown to prevent our recovering the boy. were they to suspect that they had been traced to tilbury, and were watched there, or that any inquiries were being made in the neighborhood, you may be sure that walter would be at once removed some distance away, or possibly sent abroad, perhaps to australia or the states. there could be no difficulty about that. there are hundreds of emigrants going out every week with their families, who would jump at the offer of a hundred pounds for adopting a child, and once away it would be next to impossible ever to come upon his traces. so, you see, we shall need to exercise the most extreme caution in our searches." "i see, mr. pettigrew," hilda said quietly, "that the difficulties are far greater than i ever dreamt of. it seemed to me that when we had found out that walter was alive and well, and that tilbury was, so to speak, the starting place of our search, it would be an easy matter to find him. now i see that, except for the knowledge that he is alive, we are nearly as far off as ever." "i think mr. pettigrew is rather making the worst of things, miss covington," dr. leeds said, speaking for the first time. "no doubt the difficulties are considerable, but i think we have good heads on our side too, as miss purcell has proved, and i feel confident that, now that we have learned as much as we have done, we shall be successful in the end." "my opinion," colonel bulstrode said, "is that we ought to give these two fellows in custody as rogues, vagabonds, and kidnapers. then the police will set to work to find out their antecedents, and at least while they are shut up they can do no harm. gad, sir, we should make short work of them in india." "i am afraid that that would hardly do, colonel bulstrode," mr. pettigrew said mildly. "we have practically nothing to go upon; we have no evidence that a magistrate would entertain for a moment. the men would be discharged at once, and we should no doubt be served the next morning with a writ for at least ten thousand pounds' damages, and, what is more, they would get them; and you may be very sure that you would never find the child." "then it is shameful that it should be so," the colonel said warmly; "why, i served three years as a police officer in india, and when i got news that a dacoit, for instance, was hiding in a jungle near a village, down i would go, with a couple of dozen of men, surround the place, and make every man and woman a prisoner. then the police would examine them, and let me tell you that they have pretty rough ways of finding out a secret. of course i knew nothing about it, and asked no questions, but you may be sure that it was not long before they made someone open his mouth. hanging up a man by his thumbs, for instance, freshens his memory wonderfully. you may say that this thorough way of getting at things is not according to modern ideas. i don't care a fig for modern ideas, and, as far as that goes, neither do the natives of india. my object is to find out the author of certain crimes; the villagers' object is to shield him. if they are obstinate, they bring it on themselves; the criminal is caught, and justice is satisfied. what is the use of police if they are not to catch criminals? i have no patience with the maudlin nonsense that prevails in this country, that a criminal should have every chance of escape. he is warned not to say anything that would incriminate himself, material evidence is not admitted, his wife mayn't be questioned. why, it is downright sickening, sir. the so-called spirit of fairness is all on the side of the criminal, and it seems to me that our whole procedure, instead of being directed to punish criminals, is calculated to enable them to escape from punishment. the whole thing is wrong, sir--radically wrong." and colonel bulstrode wiped his heated forehead with a huge indian silk handkerchief. hilda laughed, netta smiled, and mr. pettigrew's eyes twinkled. "there is a good deal in what you say, colonel bulstrode, though i cannot go with you in the matter of hanging men up by their thumbs." "why, sir," broke in colonel, "what is it? their own native princes would have stretched them over a charcoal fire until they got the truth out of them." "so, possibly, would our own forefathers, colonel." "humph! they had a lot more common sense in those days than they have now, mr. pettigrew. there was no sentimentality about them; they were short and sharp in their measures. they were men, sir--men. they drank like men, and they fought like men; there was sterling stuff in them; they didn't weaken their bodies by drinking slops, or their minds by reading newspapers." "well, colonel bulstrode," hilda said, smiling, "if it is not contrary to your convictions, we will go upstairs and have a cup of tea. no doubt there is something to be said for the old days, but there is a good deal to be said on the other side of the question, too." when they went upstairs dr. leeds sat down by netta. "i am afraid that you blame me for what i did, dr. leeds," she said timidly. "no, i do not blame you at all for doing it, but i do think that you ought to have consulted us all before undertaking it. your intention was a noble one, but the risk that you ran was so great that certainly i should not have felt justified in allowing you to undertake it, had i had any voice in the matter." "but i cannot see that it was dangerous," the girl said. "he could not have knocked me down and beaten me, even if he had caught me with my eye at the peep-hole. he could only have called up johnstone and denounced me as an eavesdropper, and at the worst i should only have been turned straight out of the house." "i do not think that that would have been at all his course of action. i believe, on the contrary, that although he would have spoken angrily to you, he would have said nothing to the lodging-house keeper. he would have at once guessed that you had not taken all this trouble merely to gratify a silly curiosity, but would have been sure that you had been employed as a spy. what he would have done i do not know, but he would certainly have had you watched as you watched him, and he would, in his conversation with his confederates, have dropped clews that would have sent us all off on wild-goose chases. i don't think that he would have ventured on getting you removed, for he would have known that he would have been suspected of foul play at once by those who had employed you. i hope you will give me a promise that you will never undertake any plan without consulting miss covington and myself. you can hardly realize what anxiety i have suffered while you have been away." "i will promise willingly, dr. leeds. i did not think anything of the danger, and do not believe even now there was any; but i do think that hilda would not have heard of my going as a servant, and that you would not have approved of it. still, as i saw no harm in it myself, i thought that for once i would act upon my own ideas." "there are circumstances under which no one need disapprove of a lady acting as a servant," he said quietly. "if a family misfortune has happened, and she has to earn her own living, i think that there are many who would be far happier in the position of a servant in a good family, than as an ill-paid and over-worked governess. the one is at least her own mistress, to a large extent, as long as she does her work properly; the other can never call her time her own. in your case, certainly, the kind object with which you undertook the task was a full justification of it, had you not been matching yourself against an unscrupulous villain, who, had he detected your disguise, would have practically hesitated at nothing to rid himself of you. it happened, too, in this case you were one of the few persons who could have succeeded; for, as you say, it would have been next to impossible for anyone unpossessed of your peculiar faculty to have overheard a conversation, doubtless conducted in a somewhat low voice, through such a hole as you made." "then you don't think any worse of me for it?" "you need not be afraid of that," he said quietly. "my opinion is already so fixed on that subject that i doubt if anything you could do would shake it." then he got up and walked across to where the others were chatting together. "now, are we to have another council?" hilda asked. "i think not," dr. leeds said; "it seems to me that the matter requires a great deal of thinking over before we decide, and fortunately, as the man went down to tilbury only two days ago, he is not likely to repeat his visit for another month at least, possibly for another three months. men like that do not give away chances, and he would probably pay for three months' board for the child at a time, so as to avoid having to make the journey oftener, however confident he might be that he was not watched." "i agree with you, dr. leeds," mr. pettigrew said. "it would never do to make a false step." "still," hilda urged, "surely there cannot be any need to wait for his going down again. a sharp detective might find out a good deal. he could inquire whether there was anyone at tilbury who let out traps. probably nothing beyond a gig or a pony-cart could be obtained there. he would, of course, hire it for a drive to some place within three or four miles, and while it was got ready would casually ask if it was often let; he might possibly hear of someone who came down from town--a bagman, perhaps, who hired it occasionally for calling upon his customers in the villages round." "i think that that is a capital suggestion," mr. pettigrew said. "i don't see why, while we are thinking over the best way to proceed, we should not get these inquiries made. they might be of some assistance to us. i will send a man down to-morrow or next day. as you say, it may give us something to go upon." netta went down two days later to reading. she had the box labeled to oxford, and took a third-class ticket for herself. she had a suspicion that a man who was lolling on a seat on the platform looked closely at her, and she saw him afterwards saunter away towards the luggage office. when the train came in her box was put into the van, and she got out at the next station and returned by the first train to london, feeling satisfied that she would never hear anything more of the box. the next day a detective called who had been engaged earlier in the search for walter and had frequently seen hilda. "mr. pettigrew said, miss covington, that i had better come to you and tell you exactly what i have done. i went down to tilbury yesterday. i took with me one or two cases made up like a traveler's samples, and i presently found that the man at the public house by the water had a pony-trap which he let. i went over to him and said that i wanted it for the day. "'how far are you going?' he asked. "'i am going to stanford,' i said; 'then by a crossroad by laindon to hornchurch and back.' "'it is rather a long round for one day,' he said. "''tis a long round,' i said. 'well, maybe i might sleep at hornchurch, and go on to upminster.' "'you will have to pay a deposit of a couple of pounds,' he said, 'unless you like to take a boy.' "i said i preferred driving myself, and that it was less weight for the pony. 'i suppose you often let it out?' i remarked. "'pretty often,' he said; 'you see, there is no way of getting about beyond this. it would pay me to keep a better trap if it wasn't that commercials generally work this country in their own vehicles, and take the road from barking through dagenham, or else from brentwood or chelmsford or one of the other great eastern stations. there is one in your line comes occasionally; he goes by the same route you are taking, and always has the trap to himself. he travels for some spirit firm, i think; he always brings down a couple of cases of bottles.' "'that is my line too,' i said. 'he hasn't been here lately, i hope?' "'well, yes, he was here three or four days ago; he is a pretty liberal chap with his samples, i should say, for he always comes back with his cases empty.' of course i hired the pony and trap. i drove through new tilbury, low street, and stanford. i put up there for three or four hours. at each place i went to all the public houses, and as i marked the liquors cheap i got several orders. i asked at every place had anyone in my line been round lately, and they all said no, and nobody had noticed the pony cart; but of course that did not prove that he might not have driven through there." "you did not make any inquiries about a missing child?" "no, miss covington. mr. pettigrew particularly told me that i was not to make any inquiries whatever." "yes, that is what we agreed upon, bassett; we don't want to run the slightest risk of their suspecting that we are inquiring in that direction. my own idea is that you could do no harm if you went round several times, just as you did yesterday; and perhaps it would be better for you not to start from the same place, but to hire a vehicle and drive round the country, stopping at all the villages, and apparently trying to get orders for spirits or tobacco. that idea of yours is an excellent one, because your inquiry whether another man had been along in the same trade would seem natural. you might say everywhere that you had heard of his going round there, but that it did not look much like business driving a rickety little trap with a pony not worth fifty shillings. at any village public houses at which he stopped they could hardly help noticing it, and if you heard that he had put up there for an hour or two, it would certainly be something to go upon, and a search round there might lead to a result. however, do not go until you hear again from me. i will talk it over with mr. pettigrew, and see what he thinks of it." "it certainly seems to me that we might light upon a clew that way, miss covington, and if he were to happen to hear that another man in the same line had been there asking questions about him, it would seem natural enough, because of course a commercial would like to know what line another in the same branch was following, and how he was doing. then i will wait your further orders. there would be sure to be traps to be hired at barking or rainham, and if there are not, i could get one at bromley. indeed, as i should want it for a day or two, it would be just as well to get it there as farther east, and i should be likely to get a better-looking turnout. in little places a man with a good turnout is more likely to do business than one who looks second-rate altogether. it seems a sort of credit to the place; and they would give him orders where they would not to a man who made no sort of show. i should say, miss, that as i shall be going over the ground more than once, it would be best to send on the goods i get orders for; they don't amount to very much, and i should get about the same price that i gave for them. i know a clerk in the firm whose liquors i took down. i told him that i was going down in that part of essex, and asked if they would give me a commission on anything that i could sell. they said 'yes' willingly enough, and the clerk said i was a respectable man who could be trusted; and so it will cost nothing, and will open the way for my making another call. of course when i am known there i can ask questions more freely, sit in the bar-parlor, smoke a cigar with the landlord, and so on." "i think that is an excellent idea. well, at any rate you shall hear in the course of a day or two." miss purcell had gone on quietly with her knitting and uttered no remarks while the man was present. immediately he had left, she said, "i think, netta, that we shall gradually get at it." "yes, i think so; that man seems really a sharp fellow. i had quite lost all faith in detectives, but i see that when they have really got something to go upon, they know how to follow it up." hilda wrote a long letter to mr. pettigrew, and received three words in answer: "by all means." so bassett was written to and told to continue his career as a commercial traveler, but to abstain altogether, for the present, from any questions about the boy. ten days later mr. pettigrew forwarded a letter that he had received from bassett, which was as follows: "sir: i have to report that i have for the last fortnight been engaged in driving about the country in accordance with miss covington's instructions. the only place where i can ascertain that the pony and cart from tilbury was noticed about that time was at stanford. my inquiries there before had failed, but after dining at the inn, i went out into the yard behind, and asked the helper whether the same trap that i drove over in from tilbury had been there since. "'not since you were here last,' he said; 'at least if it was you as drove the pony over somewhere about three weeks ago. i did not see you then, i was doing a job over at the cowhouse. that pony aint been here since then, though he was here two days before. the man put him up for three or four hours, and hired a horse from the landlord to ride over to billericay. he must have gone cross country, i should say, by the mud on its legs. however, he tipped me a bob, so i cleaned it up and said nothing to master; but the horse was all in a lather and must have been taken along at a hunting pace all the way.' waiting further orders, "i remain, "yours respectfully, "h. bassett." mr. pettigrew came down himself in the evening. "well, miss covington, i think that the scent is getting warm. now is the time that you must be very cautious. i think we may take it that the child is somewhere within ten or twelve miles of stanford, north or east of it. the man was away for over three hours, and he rode fast. it's not likely that the horse was anything out of the way. however, allowing for half an hour's stay somewhere, i think we may take twelve miles as the limit. still, a circle of twelve miles' radius covers a very large area. i have been looking up the map since that man set about inquiring down there. twelve miles would include the whole of the marshes as far as leigh. it goes up to brentwood, billericay, downham, and touches rayleigh; and in that semicircle would be some sixty or seventy villages, large and small." "i have been looking at the map too, mr. pettigrew, and it does not seem to me at all likely that he would go near the places that you first mentioned; they are quite close to the great eastern railway, by which he would have traveled, instead of going round such an enormous detour by tilbury and stanford." "one would think so, my dear, certainly; but, you see, a man having the least idea that he was watched, which i admit we have no reason for believing that this fellow has, would naturally choose a very circuitous route. however, i think that we need hardly try so far to the north, to begin with; i should say that the area of our search need go no farther north than downham, and that between a line running west from that place and the river the child is most likely to be hidden." "i should say, mr. pettigrew, that the detective might engage four or five fellows who could act separately in villages on each of the roads running from stanford east or northeast. the villages should be at least two miles away from stanford, because he might start by one road and then turn off by another. but in two miles he would probably settle down on the road he was going to follow and we should, therefore, get the general direction of walter's hiding place. then, as soon as he passed, the watcher should follow him on foot till he met him coming back. if he did meet him, he would know that at any rate he had been farther; if he did not meet him, he would know that he had turned off somewhere between him and the village that he had passed. netta and i have been talking the matter over, and it seems to us that this would be the best plan, and that it would be as well, also, to have a man to watch at tilbury station; because he may possibly choose some entirely different route the next time he comes, and the men in the villages, not knowing that he had come down at all, might be kept there for a month waiting for his next visit." "you and your friend have certainly put your heads together to good purpose," the old lawyer said, "and i do not see any better plan than you suggest. you had better have bassett down here, and give him your instructions yourself." "yes, mr. pettigrew; and i shall be glad if you will write a line to him to-night, for in three days it will be a month since this man last went down, or at any rate since we know that he went down. of course, it may be three months before he goes again, and if he does not come in four or five days the men must be recalled; for although each of them could stop in a village for a day or two under the pretense of finding work in the neighborhood, they certainly could not stop for a month." "very well, i leave you a free hand in the matter, altogether, miss covington; for frankly i acknowledge that you are vastly more likely to ferret the thing out than i am." chapter xxi. a box at the opera. "i tell you what it is, simcoe," harrison said two months later, "this affair of yours is getting to be a good deal more troublesome than i bargained for. it all looked simple enough; one only had to pick up a child, drive him in a cab across london, then down in a trap to pitsea, hand him over to a man i knew would take good care of him, and take the payments for him when they became due, which would be no trouble, as i had to see the man occasionally on my own business. of course i expected that there would be a big hue and cry for him, but i had no fear whatever of his being found. then i managed through another man to get that body from the workhouse undertaker, and you managed the rest easily enough; but i tell you that the matter is getting a good deal hotter than i ever thought it would. "i told you that i had been followed several times after leaving your place, and one morning when i went out early i saw footmarks, showing that someone had been walking round my house and trying to look in at the windows. i have a strong suspicion that i have been followed to my office, and i know that someone got in there one day at my dinner hour. i know, because i always fasten a piece of thread, so that if the door is opened it breaks it. there is nothing there that anyone could make anything of, but it is just as well to know if anyone has been prying about. the woman of the house was sure that she had not been in there, nor had she let anyone in; so the lock must have been picked. of course anyone is liable to have his office robbed when he is out and it is empty; but nothing was taken, and if a common thief had found nothing else he would probably have made off with my dress suit, which would have brought him a sov. in a second-hand clothes shop. "you know i have an excessive objection to being watched. i have had nothing on hand lately, at any rate nothing that has come off, but i might have had, you know. well, yesterday i was going down to see my man in the marshes, and to tell him that likely enough i should bring something down to him next week. i got out of the train at tilbury, and, as you know, there are not a dozen houses anywhere near the station. now, i have a habit of keeping my eyes open, and i saw a man sitting on an old boat. what called my attention particularly to him was that he was turned half round watching the entrance to the station as i came out. you can always tell whether a man is watching for someone, or whether he is merely looking generally in that direction, and this man was certainly watching for someone. the instant his eye fell upon me he turned round and stared at the river. the path to the public house lay just behind him. now, it would be natural that hearing a footstep a man doing nothing would look round and perhaps say a word--ask the time, or something of that sort. well, he didn't turn round. now, it is my habit, and a very useful one, always to carry a glass of about the size of a folded letter in my pocket. instead of going on to the public house i turned off from the path and walked away from the river. when i had got some little distance i took out my glass, and still walking along, i held it up so that i could see in it what was going on behind. the man was standing up, watching me. i put the glass in my pocket and dropped my handkerchief. i stooped down to pick it up, of course partly turning as i did so, and saw that he had instantly dropped into a sitting position again, with his back to me. "that was good enough. i turned, cut across the fields, went straight back to the station and took the next ferry-boat to gravesend, and came back that way. it is quite clear to me that not only is this girl on the track still, but the chase is getting to be a very hot one, and that not only are they watching you, but they are watching me, and have in some way or other, though how, i cannot guess, found out that i go down to tilbury, and have accordingly sent a man down to follow me. now, i tell you frankly, i will have no more to do with the matter--that is to say, as far as going down on your business. as i have told you, i have always managed my own affairs so well that the police and i have no acquaintance whatever; and i am not going to be spied upon and followed and have the 'tecs upon my track about an affair in which i have no interest at all, except that, you having stood by my brother, i was glad to do you any service i could. but this is getting serious. i don't like it. i have told you i have business with the man, and get things off abroad through him that i should have great trouble in getting rid of in any other way; but unless in quite exceptional cases, these things are so small that they could be hidden away for months without much risk of their being found, however sharp the hunt after them might be. as i am in no way pressed for money i can afford to wait, though i own that i like to get the things off my hands as soon as i can, and as i considered that i ran practically no risk in going down with them into essex, i never kept them at my house. however, for a time i must do so. i must tell you that when i am going down i always write beforehand and make an appointment for him to have his barge at the wharf at pitsea, and i send my letter addressed to him: 'mr. william nibson, barge _mary ann_, care of mr. scholey, spotted horse, pitsea.' you had better write to him in future. you need not put anything inside the envelope except notes for twenty-five pounds, and the words, 'for the child's keep for six months.' i need not say that you had better disguise your writing, both on the envelope and on the inside, and it is best that you should get your notes from some bookmaker on a race-course. you tell me you often go to races now and do a little betting. they are not the sort of men who take the numbers of the notes they pay out, and it would be next to impossible for them to be traced to you." "thank you, harrison; you have behaved like a true pal to me, and i am ever so much obliged to you. i quite see what you mean, and indeed it is as much for my interest as yours that you should not go down there any more. confound that girl covington! i am sure she is the moving spirit of it all. i always felt uneasy about her from the first, and was sure that if there was any trouble it would come from her. i wonder how the deuce she ever found out that you went down to tilbury." "that beats me too, simcoe. as you may guess, i am always most cautious about it, and always take a very roundabout way of going to the station." "i have been uneasy ever since that girl at our place left so suddenly. a fortnight afterwards we found that there was a hole bored through the doorpost. of course it might have been bored before i went there; but in that case it is curious that it was never noticed before. i cannot help thinking that she did it." "yes, you told me; but you said that you tried the experiment, and found that when your man and his wife were talking there in a loud voice, and you had your ear at the hole, you could not catch a single word." "yes, that was certainly so. i could hear them talking, but i could not make out a word of their conversation. still it is evident that somebody has been trying to hear. i cannot help thinking that it was that girl, though both johnstone and his wife spoke very highly of her. certainly the story she told them was true to a certain extent, for when they sent the box down to reading i sent a man down there to watch, and she called to fetch it, and my man found out that she labeled it 'oxford,' and took it away with her on the down train. as he had no directions to follow her farther he came back. after we found the hole i sent him down again; but he never came upon her traces, though he inquired at every village near oxford." "she may have been put there as a spy," the other said; "but as it is evident that she couldn't hear through that hole, it is clear that she could not have done them any good. that is, i suppose, why they called her off; so the puzzle still remains how they got on my track at tilbury. i should like to have a good look at this covington girl. i can admire a clever wench, even when she is working against me." "there is 'the huguenots' at her majesty's to-night, the first time this season. she very often goes in lady moulton's box, and it is likely enough that she will go to-night. it's the third box from the stage, on the first tier; i will go down to bond street and see if i can get hold of a box opposite, on the second or third tier. the money will be well laid out, for i should very much like you to study her face, and i won enough at pool at the club this afternoon to pay for it." "very well, then i will come round to your place. i really am curious to see the girl. i only caught a passing glimpse of her in the park that day." simcoe was not wrong in his conjecture, for hilda dined at lady moulton's, and they took their places in the latter's box just as the first bar of the overture sounded. she was in half mourning now, and in black lace, with white camellias in her hair and breast, was, as netta had told her before starting, looking her best. "that is the girl," simcoe exclaimed, as she went forward to the front of the box. "well, there is no denying that she is good-looking," the other said, as he turned his glasses upon her; "there is not a better-looking woman in the house. plenty of self-possession too," he added, as hilda took her seat and at once, in apparent ignorance that any glasses were upon her, took her own lorgnettes from their case and proceeded calmly to scan the stalls and boxes, to see who among her numerous acquaintances were there. as her eyes fell upon the two men sitting nearly opposite to her, her glasses steadied, then after a minute she lowered them. "lady moulton, i regard it as a providence that you brought me here this evening. do you see those two men there in the box nearly opposite, in the second tier? well, one of the men is simcoe, to whom my uncle left all his property if walter should not live to come of age, and who i am absolutely convinced carried the child away." "i see them, my dear; they are staring at you. i suppose they are as much interested in you as you in them." hilda again put her glasses to her eyes. "she has just told lady moulton who i am," simcoe said. "she has a clever face, simcoe--broad across the chin--any amount of determination, i should say. ah! there, she is getting up to make room for somebody else." "stay where you are, my dear," lady moulton said, putting her hand on hilda's arm; "there is plenty of room for three." "plenty," she replied; "but i want to watch those two men, and i cannot keep my glasses fixed on them while i am sitting in the front row." "hardly, my dear," lady moulton said with a smile. "well, have your own way." a fourth lady came in almost immediately. she took the third chair in the front, and hilda, sitting half in the shade, was able to devote herself to her purpose free from general observation. she had already heard that simcoe's companion had apparently suspected that he was watched, and had returned to town at once without speaking to anyone at tilbury. she felt that he would probably henceforth choose some other route, and the chances of following him would be greatly diminished. the opportunity was a fortunate one indeed. for months she had been hoping that some day or other she could watch these men talking, and now, as it seemed by accident, just at the moment when her hopes had fallen, the chance had come to her. "she has changed her place in order to have a better look at us," john simcoe said, as she moved. "she has got her glasses on us." "we came to stare at her. it seems to me that she is staring at us," harrison said. "well, i should think that she knows my face pretty well by this time," simcoe laughed. "i told you she has a way of looking through one that has often made me uncomfortable." "i can quite understand that. i noticed myself that when she looked at us, without her glasses, there was a curious intentness in her expression, as if she was taking stock of every point about us. she cannot be the girl who has been to your lodging." "certainly not," the other said; "i know her a great deal too well for her to try that on. besides, beyond the fact that the other was a good-looking girl too--and, by the way, that she had the same trick of looking full in your face when you spoke--there was no resemblance whatever between them." the curtain now drew up, and silence fell upon the house, and the men did not speak again until the end of the first act. they then continued their conversation where they had left it off. "she has moved, and has been attending to the opera," simcoe said; "but she has gone into the shade again, and is taking another look at us." "i am not given to nervousness, but upon my word those glasses fixed upon me make me quite fidgety." "pooh, man! she is not looking at you; she is looking at me. i don't know whether she thinks that she can read my thoughts, and find out where the child is hidden. by the way, i know nothing about this place pitsea. where is it, and which is the best way to get there?" "you can drive straight down by road through upminster and laindon. the place lies about three miles this side of benfleet. there are only about half a dozen houses, at the end of a creek that comes up from hole haven. but i should not think of going near the house. the latter, directed as i told you, is sure to find the man." "oh, i am not thinking of going! but i shall get a man to watch the fellows they sent down to watch you, and if i find that they seem to be getting on the right track, i shall run down at all hazards and take him away." "your best plan by far will be to go with him, on board nibson's barge, up to rochester. no doubt he can find some bargeman there who will take the boy in. or, what would perhaps be better, hire a trap there, and drive him down to margate or ramsgate. there are plenty of schools there, and you might get up a yarn about his being a nephew of yours, and leave him there for a term or two. that would give you time to decide. by this time he will have but a very faint remembrance of his life in town, and anything that he may say about it will certainly meet with no attention." "would it be as well to do it at once, do you think?" simcoe asked. "no; we have no idea how many people they may have on the watch, and it would be only running unnecessary risks. stick to the plan that we have already agreed on, of communicating only by writing. but i think your idea of sending two or three sharp fellows down there to find out what the party are doing is really a good one." hilda lowered her glasses as the curtain rose again. "oh, lady moulton!" she whispered, "i have found out all that i have been so long wanting to know. i believe now that in three days i shall have the child home again." lady moulton turned half round. "how on earth have you found that out, hilda? are you a wizard indeed, who can read men's thoughts in their faces? i always thought that there was something uncanny about you, ever since that day of my fête." to harrison's relief, miss covington did not turn her glass towards him again during the evening. when the curtain fell on the next act a gentleman, to whom lady moulton had nodded in the stalls, came in. after shaking hands with her and her friends, he seated himself by the side of hilda. "miss covington," he said, "i have never had an opportunity of speaking to you since that fête at lady moulton's. i have understood that the gypsy on that occasion was engaged by you, and that there was, if you will excuse me saying so, some little mystery about it. i don't wish to pry into that, but if you should ever see the woman again you will oblige me very greatly by telling her that i consider i owe her a deep debt of gratitude. she said something to me then that made a tremendous impression upon me, and i do not mind telling you it brought me up with a round turn. i had been going ahead a great deal too fast, and i see now that, had i continued on the same course, i should have brought absolute ruin upon myself, and blighted my life in every way. the shock she gave me by warning me what would come if i did not give up cards and racing showed me my utter folly, and on that day i swore never to touch a card or lay a penny upon a horse for the rest of my life. when i tell you that i have completely pulled myself round, and that, by the aid of an old uncle, to whom i went and made a clean breast of all, i am now straight in every way, and, as you may have heard, am going to be married to miss fortescue in a fortnight, you may guess what deep reason i have to be grateful to this gypsy woman of yours, and how i hope that, should you come across her again, you will tell her so, and should there be any possible way in which i can prove my gratitude, by money or otherwise, i shall be delighted to do so." "i will tell her, captain desmond," the girl said in a low voice. "i am sure that it will make her happy to know that she did some good that evening. i do not think that she is in need of money or assistance of any kind, but should she be so i will let you know." "and do you really mean that you have discovered where general mathieson's grandson is living?" lady moulton asked, as they rose to leave their seats when the curtain fell. "i think so; i am almost sure of it." lady moulton had heard a good deal from hilda as to the situation. mr. pettigrew had strongly impressed upon both hilda and colonel bulstrode that it was very important that the contents of the will should not be talked about. "we don't want our private affairs discussed in the press and made the subject of general talk," he had said, and it was only to lady moulton that hilda had spoken freely of the matter, so far as the discovery of the new will, the change that had been made, and the singularity of walter being missing. she had also mentioned her belief that simcoe was at the bottom of this, but had breathed no words of her suspicion that the general had come to his death by foul play, or of her own conviction that simcoe was an impostor, although there had been some talk in the clubs over the matter, for colonel bulstrode was by no means so discreet as hilda, and among his intimate friends spoke his mind with great vehemence and strength of language as to general mathieson having made so singular a disposition of his property, and he made no secret of his suspicion that simcoe was at the bottom of walter's disappearance. thus the matter had gradually gone the round of the clubs; but it was not until simcoe's own counsel had drawn from him the fact that walter's death would put him into possession of the estate that the public in general learned the facts. "it was a clever move," mr. pettigrew had said, talking it over with his partner. "no doubt he was afraid that the question would be asked by our counsel, and he thought that it was better that the fact should come voluntarily from himself. his best plan by far was to brazen it out. no doubt nine men out of ten will consider that the affair is a very suspicious one, and some of them will give him the cold shoulder; but whatever their opinions, they dare not express them without laying themselves open to an action for libel, while, on the other hand, the fact that a man is heir to a good estate will always cause a good many to rally round him. not the best of men, you know, but enough to prevent his being a lonely figure in a club. "yes, i think he was certainly well advised to declare his heirship voluntarily, instead of having it drawn from him. he must have known, of course, that sooner or later the matter would be made public, and it is better for him to get the talk and gossip over now instead of the matter being known for the first time when he begins to take legal steps to compel us to put him into possession of the estate." "what on earth did you mean, hilda," lady moulton said, as the door of the carriage was closed and they drove off from her majesty's, "by saying that you had discovered a clew by which you might in a few days find your little cousin?" "i cannot tell you exactly how i discovered it. at present it is a secret that both my mother and uncle charged me to keep, but when these troubles are over i will explain it all to you, though i should certainly do so to no one else." "well, i suppose i must be content with that, hilda. but it certainly does seem extraordinary to me that by merely seeing two men in a box on the other side of the house you should have obtained a clew to what you have for a year now been trying to get at." "it does seem extraordinary, lady moulton, but it really is not so, and i hope to convince you that i am right by producing walter in a week from the present time." "i hope you will, hilda. i sincerely hope so, both for the child's sake, yours, and my own. of course, when he is found there will be no possible reason for your keeping yourself shut up as you have done. i have missed you very much, and shall be very glad to have you under my wing again." "thank you for saying so, lady moulton; but so far as i have formed my plans, they are that walter's trustees shall either let or sell the house in hyde park gardens, and that i shall go down for a time with him into the country. i have had a great deal of anxiety this last year, and i shall be very glad of complete rest for a time." "that is reasonable enough, my dear, but i do hope that you are not thinking of burying yourself in the country for good. there, i am at home. good-night, hilda; thanks for the lift. it is not often my horses or my coachmen have a night off during the season." chapter xxii. nearing the goal. "i suppose miss netta is in bed?" hilda asked, as she entered the house. "yes, miss; she and miss purcell went to their rooms soon after ten o'clock." hilda ran upstairs to netta's room. "are you awake, netta?" she asked, as she opened the door. "well, i think i was asleep, hilda; i didn't intend to go off, for i made sure that you would come in for a chat, as usual, when you got back; but i think i must have dozed off." "well, if you had been so sound asleep that i had had to violently wake you up, i should have done so. i have had my chance, netta. simcoe and his friend were in a box opposite to ours, and i have learned where walter is." "that is news indeed," netta exclaimed, leaping up; "that is worth being awakened a hundred times for. please hand me my dressing-gown. now let us sit down and talk it over comfortably." hilda then repeated the whole conversation that she had overheard. "splendid!" netta exclaimed, clapping her hands; "and that man was right, dear, in feeling uncomfortable when your glasses were fixed on his face, though he little guessed what reason he had for the feeling. well, it is worth all the four years you spent with us to have learned to read people's words from their lips. i always said that you were my best pupil, and you have proved it so now. what is to be done next?" "we shall need a general council for that!" hilda laughed. "we must do nothing rash now that success seems so close; a false move might spoil everything." "yes, we shall have to be very careful. this bargeman may not live near there at all; though no doubt he goes there pretty often, as letters are sent there for him. besides, simcoe may have someone stationed there to find out whether any inquiries have been made for a missing child." "yes, i see that we shall have to be very careful, netta, and we must not spoil our chances by being over hasty." they talked for upwards of an hour, and then went to their beds. the next morning roberts took a note to dr. leeds. it contained only a few lines from hilda: "my dear dr. leeds: we have found a most important clew, and are going to have a consultation, at which, of course, we want you to be present. could you manage to be at mr. pettigrew's office at three o'clock? if so, on hearing from you, i will send to him to make an appointment." the answer came back: "i congratulate you heartily, and will meet you at three o'clock at pettigrew's office." a note was at once sent off to the lawyer's to make the appointment, and the girls arrived with miss purcell two or three minutes before the hour, and were at once shown into mr. pettigrew's room, where mr. farmer immediately joined them. "i will wait a minute or two before i begin," hilda said. "i have asked dr. leeds to join us here. he has been so very kind throughout the whole matter that we thought it was only fair that he should be here." "certainly, i thoroughly agree with you. i never thought that terrible suspicion of his well founded, but he certainly took immense pains in collecting information of all sorts about these native poisons, and since then has shown the greatest desire to assist in any way." a minute later dr. leeds was shown in. "now, miss covington," mr. farmer said, "we are ready to hear your communication." hilda then related what she had learned at the opera. "really, miss covington," mr. farmer continued, "it is a thousand pities that you and your friend cannot utilize your singular accomplishment in the detective line. you ought to make a fortune by it. i have, of course, heard from my partner of the education that you had in germany, and of your having acquired some new system by which you can understand what people are saying by watching their lips, but i certainly had no conception that it could be carried to such an extent as you have just proved it can. it is like gaining a new sense. now i suppose you have come to us for advice as to what had best be done next." "that is it, mr. farmer. it is quite evident to us that we must be extremely careful, for if these people suspect that we are so far on their track, they might remove walter at once, and we might never be able to light upon a clew again." "yes, i see that. of course, if we were absolutely in a position to prove that this child has been kept down near pitsea with their cognizance we could arrest them at once; but, unfortunately, in the words you heard there was no mention of the child, and at present we have nothing but a series of small circumstantial facts to adduce. you believe, mr. pettigrew tells me, that the man who calls himself john simcoe is an impostor who has no right to the name, and that general mathieson was under a complete delusion when he made that extraordinary will. you believe that, or at any rate you have a suspicion that, having got the general to make the will, he administered some unknown drug that finally caused his death. you believe that, as this child alone stood between him and the inheritance, he had him carried off with the assistance of the other man. you believe that the body the coroner's jury decided to be that of walter rivington was not his, and that the child himself is being kept out of the way somewhere in essex, and you believe that the conversation that you most singularly overheard related to him. "but, unfortunately, all these beliefs are unsupported by a single legal fact, and i doubt very much whether any magistrate would issue a warrant for these men's arrest upon your story being laid before him. even if they were arrested, some confederate might hasten down to pitsea and carry the child off; and, indeed, pitsea may only be the meeting-place of these conspirators, and the child may be at limehouse or at chatham, or at any other place frequented by barges. therefore we must for the present give up all idea of seizing these men. any researches at pitsea itself are clearly attended by danger, and yet i see no other way of proceeding." "it seems," dr. leeds said, "that this other man, who appears to have acted as simcoe's agent throughout the affair, took the alarm the other day, and instead of taking a trap as usual from tilbury, returned to the station, took the ferry across to gravesend, and then, as we suppose, came up to town again, told simcoe that he found he was watched, and that simcoe must himself take the matter up. evidently, by what miss covington overheard, he had instructed him where and how to communicate with this bargeman, or in case of necessity to find him. i should think that the first step would be to withdraw the men now on watch, for it is possible that they may also send down men to places in the locality of pitsea. in point of fact, your men have been instructed to make no such inquiries, but only to endeavor to trace where simcoe's agent drives to. still, i think it would be as well to withdraw them at once, as they can do no further good." mr. pettigrew nodded. "i know nothing of pitsea," the doctor went on, "but i do know hole haven. when i was walking the hospital, three or four of us had a little sailing-boat, and used to go out from saturday until monday morning. hole haven was generally the limit of our excursions. it is a snug little harbor for small boats, and there is a comfortable old-fashioned little inn there, where we used to sleep. the coastguards were all sociable fellows, ready to chat with strangers and not averse to a small tip. of course the same men will not be there now, nor would it be very safe to ask questions of them; for no doubt they are on friendly terms with the men on the barges which go up and down the creek. i might, however, learn something from them of the ways of these men, and i should think that, on giving my card to the petty officer in charge, i could safely question him. i don't suppose that he would know where this man nibson has his headquarters. if he lives at rochester, or chatham, or at limehouse, or shadwell, he certainly would not know him; but if he lives at pitsea he might know him. i fancy they keep a pretty sharp lookout on the barges. i know that the coastguard told me that there was still a good deal of smuggling carried on in the marshes between leigh and thames haven. i fancy, from what he said, that the leigh fishermen think it no harm to run a few pounds of tobacco or a keg of spirit from a passing ship, and, indeed, as there are so many vessels that go ashore on the sands below, and as they are generally engaged in unloading them or helping them to get off, they have considerable facilities that way. at any rate, as an old frequenter of the place and as knowing the landlord--that is to say if there has been no change there--no suspicion could fall upon me of going down there in reference to your affair. to-day is friday. on sunday morning, early, i will run down to gravesend, hire a boat there, and will sail down to hole haven. it will be an outing for me, and a pleasant one; and at least i can be doing no harm." "thank you very much indeed, dr. leeds," hilda said warmly; "that is a splendid idea." on sunday evening dr. leeds called at hyde park gardens to report his day's work. "i think that my news is eminently satisfactory. i saw the petty officer in command of the coastguard station, and he willingly gave me all the information in his power. he knew the bargee, bill nibson. he is up and down the creek, he says, once and sometimes twice a week. he has got a little bit of a farm and a house on the bank of the creek a mile and a half on this side of pitsea. they watch him pretty closely, as they do all the men who use the creek; there is not one of them who does not carry on a bit of smuggling if he gets the chance. "'i thought that was almost given up,' i said. 'oh, no; it is carried on,' he replied, 'on a much smaller scale than it used to be, but there is plenty of it, and i should say that there is more done that way on the thames than anywhere else. in the first place, dutch, german, and french craft coming up the channels after dark can have no difficulty whatever in transferring tobacco and spirits into barges or fishing-boats. i need hardly say it is not ships of any size that carry on this sort of business, but small vessels, such as billy-boys and craft of that sort. they carry their regular cargoes, and probably never bring more than a few hundredweight of tobacco and a dozen or so kegs of spirits. it is doubtful whether their owners know anything of what is being done, and i should say that it is generally a sort of speculation on the part of the skipper and men. on this side the trade is no doubt in the hands of men who either work a single barge or fishing-boat of their own, or who certainly work it without the least suspicion on the part of the owners. "'the thing is so easily arranged. a man before he starts from ostend or hamburg, or the mouth of the seine, sends a line to his friends here, at rochester or limehouse or leigh, "shall sail to-night. expect to come up the south channel on monday evening." the bargeman or fisherman runs down at the time arranged, and five or six miles below the nore brings up and shows a light. he knows that the craft he expects will not be up before that time, for if the wind was extremely favorable, and they made the run quicker than they expected, they would bring up in margate roads till the time appointed. if they didn't arrive that night, they would do so the next, and the barge would lay there and wait for them, or the fishermen would go into sheerness or leigh and come out again the next night. "'you might wonder how a barge could waste twenty-four or forty-eight hours without being called to account by its owners, but there are barges which will anchor up for two or three days under the pretense that the weather is bad, but really from sheer laziness. "'that is one way the stuff comes into the country, and, so far as i can see, there is no way whatever of stopping it. the difficulty, of course, is with the landing, and even that is not great. when the tide turns to run out there are scores, i may say hundreds, of barges anchored between chatham and gravesend. they generally anchor close in shore, and it would require twenty times the number of coastguards there are between chatham and gravesend on one side, and foulness and tilbury on the other, to watch the whole of them and to see that boats do not come ashore. "'a few strokes and they are there. one man will wait in the boat while the other goes up onto the bank to see that all is clear. if it is, the things are carried up at once. probably the barge has put up some flag that is understood by friends ashore; they are there to meet it, and in half an hour the kegs are either stowed away in lonely farmhouses or sunk in some of the deep ditches, and there they will remain until they can be fished up and sent off in a cart loaded with hay or something of that sort. you may take it that among the marshes on the banks of the medway and thames there is a pretty good deal done in the way of smuggling still. we keep a very close eye upon all the barges that come up here, but it is very seldom that we make any catch. one cannot seize a barge like the _mary ann_, that is the boat belonging to nibson, with perhaps sixty tons of manure or cement or bricks, and unload it without some specific information that would justify our doing so. indeed, we hardly could unload it unless we took it out into the thames and threw the contents overboard. we could not carry it up this steep, stone-faced bank, and higher up there are very few places where a barge could lie alongside the bank to be unloaded. we suspect nibson of doing something that way, but we have never been able to catch him at it. we have searched his place suddenly three or four times, but never found anything suspicious.' "'may i ask what family the man has?' i said. "he shook his head. 'there is his wife--i have seen her once or twice on board the barge as it has come in and out--and there is a boy, who helps him on the barge--i don't know whether he is his son or not. i have no idea whether he has any family, but i have never seen a child on the barge.' "all this seemed to be fairly satisfactory. i told him that we suspected that a stolen child was kept in nibson's house, and asked him whether one of his men off duty would, at any time, go with me in a boat and point out the house. he said that there would be no difficulty about that. my idea, miss covington, was that it would be by far the best plan for us to go down with a pretty strong party--that is to say, two or three men--and to go from gravesend in a boat, arriving at hole haven at eleven or twelve o'clock at night. i should write beforehand to the coastguard officer, asking him to have a man in readiness to guide us, and then row up to the house. in that way we should avoid all chance of a warning being sent on ahead from pitsea, or from any other place where they might have men on watch. "i mentioned this to the officer, and he said, 'well, i don't see how you could break into the man's house. if the child is not there you might find yourself in a very awkward position, and if nibson himself happened to be at home he would be perfectly justified in using firearms.' i said of course that was a point i must consider. it is indeed a point on which we must take mr. pettigrew's opinion. but probably we shall have to lay an information before the nearest magistrate, though i think myself that if we were to take the officer into our confidence--and he seemed to me a bluff, hearty fellow--he would take a lot of interest in the matter, and might stretch a point, and send three or four men down after dark to search the place again for smuggled goods. you see, he has strong suspicions of the man, and has searched his place more than once. then, when they were about it, we could enter and seize walter. should there be a mistake altogether, and the child not be found there, we could give the officer a written undertaking to hold him free in the very unlikely event of the fellow making a fuss about his house being entered." the next morning hilda again drove up with netta to see mr. pettigrew. "we must be careful, my dear; we must be very careful," he said. "if we obtain a search warrant, it can only be executed during the day, and even if the coastguards were to make a raid upon the place, we, as civilians, would not have any right to enter the house. i don't like the idea of this night business--indeed, i do not see why it should not be managed by day. apparently, from what dr. leeds said, this hole haven is a place where little sailing-boats often go in. i don't know much of these matters, but probably in some cases gentlemen are accompanied by ladies, and no doubt sometimes these boats go up the creeks. now, there must be good-sized boats that could be hired at gravesend, with men accustomed to sailing them, and i can see no reason why we should not go down in a party. i should certainly wish to be there myself, and think colonel bulstrode should be there. you might bring your two men, and get an information laid before an essex magistrate and obtain a warrant to search this man's place for a child supposed to be hidden there. by the way, i have a client who is an essex magistrate; he lives near billericay. i will have an information drawn out, and will go myself with it and see him; it is only about five miles to drive from brentwood station. if i sent a clerk down, there might be some difficulty, whereas, when i personally explain the circumstances to him, he will, i am sure, grant it. at the same time i will arrange with him that two of the county constabulary shall be at this place, hole haven, at the time we arrive there, and shall accompany us to execute the warrant. let me see," and he turned to his engagement book, "there is no very special matter on for to-morrow, and i am sure that mr. farmer will see to the little matters that there are in my department. by the way, it was a year yesterday since the general's death, and we have this morning been served with a notice to show cause why we should not proceed at once to distribute the various legacies under his will. i don't think that refers to the bequest of the estates, though, of course, it may do so, but to the ten thousand pounds to which simcoe is clearly entitled. of course, we should appear by counsel in any case; but with walter in our hands we can bring him to his knees at once, and he will have to wait some time before he touches the money. we cannot prevent his having that. he may get five years for abducting the child, but that does not affect his claim to the money." "unless, mr. pettigrew, we could prove that he is not john simcoe." "certainly, my dear," the lawyer said, with an indulgent smile. "your other theories have turned out very successful, i am bound to admit; but for this you have not a shadow of evidence, while he could produce a dozen respectable witnesses in his favor. however, we need not trouble ourselves about that now. as to the abduction of the child, while our evidence is pretty clear against the other man, we have only the fact against simcoe that he was a constant associate of his, and had an immense interest in the child being lost. the other man seems to have acted as his intermediary all through, and so far as we actually know, simcoe has never seen the child since he was taken away. of course, if walter can prove to the contrary, the case is clear against him; but without this it is only circumstantial, though i fancy that the jury would be pretty sure to convict. and now, how about the boat? who will undertake that? we are rather busy at present, and could scarcely spare a clerk to go down." "we will look after that, mr. pettigrew; it is only an hour's run to gravesend, and it will be an amusement for us. we will take roberts down with us. what day shall we fix it for?" "well, my dear, the sooner the better. i shall get the warrant to-morrow, and there is no reason why the constable should not be at hole haven the next day, at, say, two in the afternoon. so if you go down to-morrow and arrange for a boat, the matter may as well be carried out at once, especially as i know that you are burning with anxiety to get the child back. of course this rascal of a bargeman must be arrested." "i should think that would depend partly on how he has treated walter," hilda said. "i don't suppose he knows who he is, or anything of the circumstances of the case; he is simply paid so much to take charge of him. if he has behaved cruelly to him it is of course right that he should be punished; but if he has been kind to him i don't see why he should not be let off. besides, we may want him as a witness against the others." "well, there is something in that. of course we might, if he were arrested, allow him to turn queen's evidence, but there is always a certain feeling against this class of witness. however, we needn't discuss that now. i suppose that we ought to allow an hour and a half or two hours to get to this place from gravesend, but you can find that out when you hire the boat. of course, it will depend a good deal on which way the tide is. by the way, you had better look to that at once; for if it is not somewhere near high tide when we get to hole haven there may not be water enough to row up the creek." he called in one of the clerks, and told him to go out to get him an almanac with a tide-table. "i want to know when it will be high water the day after to-morrow at gravesend," he said. "i can tell you that at once, sir. when i came across waterloo bridge this morning at a quarter to nine the tide was running in. i should say that it was about half-flood, and would be high about twelve o'clock. so that it will be high about half-past one o'clock on wednesday. it is about three-quarters of an hour earlier at gravesend. i don't know whether that is near enough for you, sir?" "yes, that is near enough, thank you. so, you see," he went on after the clerk had left the room, "the tide will be just about high when you get to gravesend, and you will get there in about an hour, i should say. i don't know exactly how far this place is, but i should say seven or eight miles; and with a sail, or, if the wind is contrary, a couple of oars, you will not be much above an hour, and i should think that there will be still plenty of water in the creek. you had better see colonel bulstrode. as joint trustee he should certainly be there." they drove at once to the colonel's and found him in. he had not heard of the discovery hilda had made, and was greatly excited at the prospect of so soon recovering walter, and bringing, as he said, "the rascals to book." the next morning they went down with roberts to gravesend, to engage a large and roomy boat with two watermen for their trip. just as they were entering hyde park gardens, on their return, a man passed them. roberts looked hard at him, and then said, "if you don't want me any more now, miss, i should like to speak to that man; he is an old fellow-soldier." "certainly, roberts. i shall not want you again for some time." roberts hurried after the man. "sergeant nichol," he said, as he came up to him, "it is years since i saw you last." "i remember your face, if i do not remember your name," the man said. "i am tom roberts. i was in your company, you know, before you went onto the staff." "i remember you now, roberts," and the two shook hands heartily. "what are you doing now? if i remember right, you went as servant to general mathieson when you got your discharge." "yes; you see, i had been his orderly for two or three years before, and when i got my discharge with my pension, i told him that i should like to stop with him if he would take me. i was with him out there for five years after; then i came home, and was with him until his death, and am still in the service of his niece, miss covington, one of the young ladies i was with just now. and what are you doing?" "i am collector for a firm in the city. it is an easy berth, and with my pension i am as comfortable as a man can wish to be." so they chatted for half an hour, and when they parted roberts received a hearty invitation to look in at the other's place at kilburn. "both my boys are in the army," he said, "and likely to get on well. my eldest girl is married, my youngest is at home with her mother and myself; they will be pleased to see you too. the missus enjoys a gossip about india, and is always glad to welcome any old comrade of mine." chapter xxiii. walter. the wind was westerly, and the boat ran fast down the river from gravesend; roberts and andrew, both in civilian clothes, were sitting in the bows, where there were stowed a large hamper and a small traveling-bag with some clothes. one waterman sat by the mast, in case it should be necessary to lower sail; the other was aft at the tiller. the men must have thought that they had never had so silent and grave a pleasure party before: two elderly gentlemen and two girls, none of whom seemed inclined to make merry in any way. colonel bulstrode, indeed, tried hard to keep up a conversation about the ships, barges, and other craft that they met, or which lay at anchor in the stream, and recalling reminiscences of trips on indian rivers. netta was the only one of his hearers who apparently took any interest in the talk. to her the scene was so new that she regarded everything with attention and pleasure, and looked with wonder at the great ships which were dragged along by tiny tugs, wondered at the rate at which the clumsy-looking barges made their way through the water, and enjoyed the rapid and easy motion with which their own boat glided along. mr. pettigrew was revolving in his mind the problem of what should next be done; while hilda's thoughts were centered upon walter, and the joy that it would be to have him with her again. "this is hole haven," the boatman in the stern said, as a wide sheet of water opened on their left. "why don't you turn in, then?" colonel bulstrode asked. "there is scarce water enough for us, sir; they are neap tides at present, and in half an hour the sands will begin to show all over there. we have to go in onto the farther side--that is, where the channel is. you see those craft at anchor; there is the landing, just in front of the low roof you see over the bank. that is the 'lobster smack,' and a very comfortable house it is; and you can get as good a glass of beer there as anywhere on the river." as they turned into the creek they saw two constables on the top of the bank, and at the head of the steps stood a gentleman talking with a coastguard officer. "that is my friend, mr. bostock," mr. pettigrew said. "he told me that, if he could manage it, he would drive over himself with the two constables. i am glad that he has been able to do so; his presence will strengthen our hands." a coast guard boat, with four sailors in it, was lying close to the steps, and the officer came down with mr. bostock, followed by the two constables. the magistrate greeted mr. pettigrew and took his place in the boat beside him, after being introduced to the two ladies and the colonel. the officer with the two constables stepped into the coastguard boat, which rowed on ahead of the other. "i could not resist the temptation of coming over to see the end of this singular affair, of which i heard from mr. pettigrew," mr. bostock said to hilda. "the officer of the coastguard is going on, partly to show us the way to the house, and partly because it will be a good opportunity for him to search the place thoroughly for smuggled goods. he tells me that the barge is up the creek now; it went up yesterday evening. so we may find the fellow at home." "now, my men," colonel bulstrode said to the boatmen, "we have got to follow that boat. you will have plenty of time for beer when you get there, and a good lunch besides. so pull your hardest; we have not got very far to go. can either of you men row?" [illustration: "i am a magistrate of the county of essex."--_page ._] "i can pull a bit," roberts said, and, aided by the sail and the three oars, the boat went along at a fair rate through the water, the coastguard boat keeping a short distance ahead of them. after a quarter of an hour's rowing the bargeman's house came in view. the revenue officer pointed to it. "now, row your hardest, men," colonel bulstrode said; "we have but a hundred yards further to go." the two boats rowed up to the bank together; mr. bostock sprang out, as did the constables and sailors, and ran up the bank, the others following at once. as they appeared on the bank a boy working in the garden gave a shrill whistle; a man immediately appeared at the door and looked surprised at the appearance of the party. he stepped back a foot, and then, as if changing his mind, came out and closed the door after him. "i am a magistrate of the county of essex," mr. bostock said, "and i have come to see a warrant executed for the search of your house for a child named walter rivington, who is believed to be concealed here, and who has been stolen from the care of his guardians." "i know nothing of any child of that name," the man replied, "but i have a child here that i am taking care of for a gentleman in london; i have had him here for just a year, and no one has made any inquiries about him. you are welcome to enter and see if he is the one you are in search of. if he is, all that i can say is that i know nothing about his being stolen, and shall be very sorry to lose him." he stood aside, and the two constables entered, followed closely by hilda. the latter gave a cry of joy, for seated on the ground, playing with a box of soldiers, was walter. she would hardly have known him anywhere else. his curls had been cut short, his face was brown and tanned, and his clothes, although scrupulously clean, were such as would be worn by any bargeman's boy at that age. the child looked up as they entered. hilda ran to him, and caught him up in her arms. "don't you know me, walter? don't you remember cousin hilda?" "yes, i remember you," the child said, now returning her embrace. "you used to tell me stories and take me out in a carriage for drives. where have you been so long? and where is grandpapa? oh, here is netta!" and as hilda put him down he ran to her, for during the four months spent in the country she had been his chief playmate. "i have learned to swim, netta. uncle bill has taught me himself; and he is going to take me out in his barge some day." the woman, who had come in with her arms covered with lather, from the little washhouse adjoining the house, now came forward. "i hope, miss, that there is nothing wrong," she said to hilda. "we have done our best for the little boy, and i have come to care for him just as if he had been my own; and if you are going to take him away i shall miss him dreadful, for he is a dear little fellow," and she burst into tears. walter struggled from netta's arms, and ran to the woman, and, pulling her by the apron, said: "don't cry, aunt betsy; jack is not going away from you. jack will stay here; he likes going in a barge better than riding in a carriage." "well, miss covington," mr. bostock said, "the recognition appears to be complete on both sides; now what is the next step? do you give this man into custody for unlawfully concealing this child and aiding and abetting in his abduction?" "will you wait a minute while i speak to mr. pettigrew?" she said; and they went out of the house together. "well, what do you think, mr. pettigrew?" "i have been thinking it over all the way as we came down," the lawyer said. "of course, we have no shadow of proof that this man was aware who the child was, and, in fact, if he had seen the placards offering altogether fifteen hundred pounds for his recovery, we must certainly assume that he would have given him up; for however well he may have been paid for taking charge of him, the offer would have been too tempting for a man of that kind to have resisted. no doubt he had strong suspicions, but you can hardly say that it amounted to guilty knowledge that the child had been abducted. if walter had been ill-treated i should have said at once, 'give him into custody'; but this does not seem to have been the case." "no; they have evidently been very kind to him. i am so grateful for that that i should be sorry to do the man any harm." "that is not the only point," the lawyer went on. "it is evident that the other people very seldom come down here, and from what you heard, in future simcoe is going to write. if we arrest this man the others will know at once that the game is up. now, if you will take the child away quietly, we can tell the man that he shall not be prosecuted, providing that he takes no steps whatever to inform his employers that the child is gone; even if one of them came down here to see the child, the wife must say that he is away on the barge. anyhow, we shall have ample time to decide upon what steps to take against simcoe, and can lay hands upon him whenever we choose; whereas, if he got an inkling that we had discovered the child, he and his associate would probably disappear at once, and we might have lots of trouble to find them." "yes, i think that would be a very good plan, mr. pettigrew. i will ask him and his wife to come out." "that will be the best way, my dear. we could hardly discuss the matter before bostock." hilda went in. as soon as she spoke to the man and his wife mr. bostock said, "if you want a conference, miss covington, i will go out and leave you to talk matters over." he and the two constables withdrew, and mr. pettigrew came in. "now, my man," he began, "you must see that you have placed yourself in a very awkward position. you are found taking care of a child that has been stolen, and for whose recovery large rewards have been offered all over the country. it is like the case of a man found hiding stolen goods. he would be called upon to account for their being in his possession. now, it is hardly possible that you can have been ignorant that this child was stolen. you may not have been told so in words, but you cannot have helped having suspicions. from what the child no doubt said when he first came here, you must have been sure that he had been brought up in luxury. no doubt he spoke of rides in a carriage, of servants, his nurse, and so on. however, miss covington is one of the child's guardians, and i am the other, and we are most reluctant to give you in charge. it is evident, from the behavior of the child, and from the affection that he shows to yourself and your wife, that you have treated him very kindly since he has been here, and these toys i see about show that you have done your best to make him happy." "that we have, sir," the man said. "betsy and i took to him from the first. we have no children of our own, none living at least, and we have made as much of him as if he had been one of our own--perhaps more. we have often talked it over, and both thought that we were not doing the fair thing by him, and were, perhaps, keeping him out of his own. i did not like having anything to do with it at first, but i had had some business with the man who gave him to me, and when he asked me to undertake the job it did not seem to me so serious an affair as it has done since. i am heartily sorry that we have had any hand in it; not only because we have done the child harm, but because it seems that we are going to lose him now that we have come to care for him as if he was our own." "of course you played only a minor part in the business, nibson. we quite understand that, and it is the men who have carried out this abduction that we want to catch. do you know the name of the man who brought the child to you?" "i don't, sir. he knows where to find me, but i have no more idea than a child unborn who he is or where he lives. when he writes to me, which he generally does before he comes down, which may be two or three times a month, or may be once in six months, he signs himself smith. i don't suppose that is his right name, but i say fairly that if i knew it, and where he lived, i would not peach upon him. he has always been straight with me in the business i have done with him, and i would rather take six months for this affair than say anything against him." "we are not asking you at present to say anything against him, and he is not the principal man in this business. i believe he is only acting as agent for another more dangerous rascal than himself. we are not prepared at the present moment to arrest the chief scoundrel. before we do that we must obtain evidence that will render his conviction a certainty. we have reason to believe that this man that you know will not come down for some time, and that you will receive the money for the child's keep by post; but if we abstain altogether from prosecuting you in this matter, you must give us your word that you will not take any steps whatever to let them know that the child is no longer with you. he says that you promised to take him out in your barge. well, if by any chance this man--not your man, but the other--comes down here, and wants to see the child, you or your wife will lead him to believe that he is on board your barge. it will also be necessary that, if we do arrest them, you should enter as a witness to prove that the man handed the child over to you. you could let it be seen that you are an unwilling witness, but the evidence of the handing over of the child will be an absolute necessity." "all right, sir, i will undertake that. there is no fear of my letting him know that the child has gone, for i don't know where to write him; and if he or the other should come down, if i am here i shall have no difficulty in keeping it from him that the child has gone, for my man has never set foot in this house. he just meets me on the road near pitsea, says what he has to say, and gives me what he has to give me, and then drives off again. of course, if i am summoned as a witness, i know that the law can make me go. i remember now that when he gave me the child he said he was doing it to oblige a friend of his, and he may be able to prove that he had nothing to do with carrying it off." "that is as it may be," the lawyer said dryly. "however, we are quite content with your promise." "and i thank you most heartily, you and your wife," hilda covington said warmly, "for your kindness to the child. it would have made me very happy all this time if i could have known that he was in such good hands, but i pictured him shut up in some vile den in london, ill treated, and half starved. he has grown very much since he has been with you, and looks a great deal more boyish than he did." "yes, he plays a good deal with my barge boy, who has taken to him just as we have." "well, your kindness will not be forgotten nor unrewarded, mr. nibson." "i'm sure we don't want any reward, miss; we have been well paid. but even if we hadn't been paid at all after the first month, we should have gone on keeping him just the same." "now, walter," hilda said, "we want you to come home with us; we have all been wanting you very badly. nurse and tom roberts have been in a terrible way, and so has dr. leeds. you remember him, don't you? he was very kind to you all the time that you were down in the country." the child nodded. "i should like to see tom roberts and nurse, but i don't want to go away. i am going out in the barge soon." "well, dear, i dare say that we shall be able to arrange for you to come down sometimes, and to go out in it, especially as you have learned to swim. we are going away now in a boat." "i often go out in the boat," walter pouted. "i go with joshua; he is a nice boy, joshua is, and i like him." "well, dear, we will see what we can do for joshua." "you are sure that i shall come back and go out in the barge?" "quite sure, dear; and perhaps i will go out with you, too." "yes, you must go, like a good boy," mrs. nibson said. "you know, dear, that i shall always love you, and shall be very, very glad if the ladies can spare you to come down to see me sometimes. you won't forget me, will you?" "no, aunt betsy, i shall never forget you; i promise you that," the child said. "and i don't want to go away from you at all, only cousin hilda says i must." mr. pettigrew went out to tell mr. bostock that they should not give nibson into custody. "the principal scoundrels would take the alarm instantly," he said, "and, above all things, we want to keep them in the dark until we are ready to arrest them. it will be much better that we should have this man to call as a witness than that he should appear in the dock as an accomplice." "i think that you are right there," the magistrate agreed; "and really, he and his wife seem to have been very kind to the child. i have been talking to this young barge boy. it seems he is no relation of these people. his mother was a tramp, who died one winter's night on the road to pitsea. he was about ten or eleven years old then, and they would have sent him to the workhouse; but nibson, who was on the coroner's jury, volunteered to take him, and i dare say he finds him very useful on board the barge. at any rate, he has been well treated, and says that nibson is the best master on the river. so the fellow must have some good in him, though, from what the coastguard officer said, there are very strong suspicions that he is mixed up in the smuggling business, which, it seems, is still carried on in these marshes. well, no doubt you have decided wisely; and now, i suppose, we shall be off." at this moment they were joined by the coastguard officer. "he has done us again," he said. "we have been investigating these outhouses thoroughly, and there is no question that he has had smuggled goods here. we found a clever hiding-place in that cattle-shed. it struck me that it was a curious thing that there should be a stack of hay built up right against the side of it. so we took down a plank or two, and i was not surprised to find that there was a hollow in the stack. one of the men stamped his foot, and the sound showed that there was another hollow underneath. we dug up the ground, and found, six inches below it, a trapdoor, and on lifting it discovered a hole five or six feet deep and six feet square. it was lined with bricks, roughly cemented together. it is lucky for him that the place is empty, and i should think that after this he will go out of the business for a time. of course we cannot arrest a man merely for having a hidden cellar; i fancy that there are not many houses on the marshes that have not some places of the sort. indeed, i am rather glad that we did not catch him, for in other respects nibson is a decent, hard-working fellow. sometimes he has a glass or two at the 'lobster smack,' but never takes too much, and is always very quiet and decent in his talk. i doubt whether the men would have found that hiding-place if i had not been there; they all know him well, and would not get him into a scrape if they could help it, though there are some fellows on the marshes they would give a month's pay to catch with kegs or tobacco." the door of the house opened, and the three women and nibson came out with walter, who was now dressed in the clothes that they had brought down for him. while the others were getting ready to enter the boat the officer took nibson aside. "you have had a close squeak of it, nibson; we found your hiding-place under the stack, and it is lucky for you that it was empty. so we have nothing to say to you. i should advise you to give it up, my man; sooner or later you are bound to be caught." the man's brow had darkened as the officer began, but it cleared up again. "all right," he said; "i have been thinking for the last half hour that i shall drop the business altogether, but when a man once gets into it, it is not so easy to get out. now that you have found that cellar, it is a good excuse to cut it. i can well say that i dare not risk it again, for that, after so nearly catching me, you would be sure to keep an extra sharp eye on me in the future." "you give me your word for that, nibson?" "yes, sir; i swear off it altogether from the present day." "good. i will take your word for it, and you can go in and come out as you like without being watched, and you need not fear that we shall pay you another visit." walter went off in fair spirits. the promise that he should come down again and see his friends and have a sail in the barge lessened the pang of leaving, and as hilda's and netta's faces came more strongly back to him, as they talked to him and recalled pleasant things that had almost faded from his memory, he went away contentedly, while betsy nibson went back to the house and had what she called "a good cry." she too, however, cheered up when her husband told her how narrow an escape he had had, and how he had given his word that he would drop smuggling altogether. "that makes my mind easier than it has been for years, bill. and will you give up the other thing, too? there may not be much harm in running kegs and bacca, but there is no doubt about its being wrong to have anything to do with stolen goods and to mix yourself up with men who steal them." "yes, i will give that up, too, betsy; and, as soon as i have time to look round, i will give an order for a new barge to be built for me. i have been ashamed of the old thing for a long time past with her patched sails. of course, she suited my purpose, for when the other barges kept on their course it gave me a good excuse for anchoring; but it aint pleasant to have every barge passing you. there is old joe hargett; he said the other day that, if i ever thought of getting a new barge, he would give a hundred for her. he has got a set of decent sails, and he is a pretty handy carpenter, and no doubt he will make her look decent again. a hundred pounds aint much, but it will help. i can get a new one complete, sails and all, for fourteen or fifteen hundred, and have a hundred or two left in the bag afterwards. i tell you what, betsy, i will get an extra comfortable cabin made, and a place forward for joshua. it will be dull for you here now the child is gone, and it would be a sight more comfortable for us both to be always together." "that it will, bill," she said joyfully. "i was always very happy on board till we lost our billy. i took a dislike to it then, and was glad enough to come here; but i have got over it now, and this place is very lonely during the long winter nights when you are away." then they talked over the barge, and how the cabin should be fitted up, and, in spite of having lost walter, the evening was a pleasant one to them. that was not the only conversation that took place that day with reference to a new barge for bill nibson. as they rowed up against the tide, hilda said: "we must do something for that bargeman, colonel bulstrode. i am sure we cannot be too grateful to him and his wife for their treatment of walter. think how different it might have been had he fallen into bad hands. now he looks the picture of health; the change in the life and the open air has done wonders. you know, dr. leeds said that the officer of the coastguard had told him that nibson's barge was one of the oldest and rottenest crafts on the river. now, i propose that we buy him a new one. what would it cost, colonel bulstrode?" "i have not the slightest idea," the colonel replied; "it might cost five hundred pounds, or it might cost five thousand, for all i know." "i will ask the waterman," hilda said, and raising her voice she said, "how much do barges cost when they are new?" "from ten or eleven hundred up to fifteen," the man said. "does that include sails and all?" "yes, miss; down to the boat." "who is considered the best barge-builder?" "well, there are a good many of them, miss; but i should say that gill, of rochester, is considered as good as any." "what do you think, mr. pettigrew?" hilda said. "should we, as walter's guardians, be justified in spending this money? mind, i don't care a bit whether we are or not, because i would buy it myself if it would not be right for us to use his money." "i am afraid that it would not be right," mr. pettigrew said. "as a trustee of the property, i should certainly not feel myself justified in sanctioning such a sum being drawn, though i quite admit that this good couple should be rewarded. i cannot regard a barge as a necessary; anything in reason that the child could require we should be justified in agreeing to. of course, whatever may be his expenses at a public school, we should pay them without hesitation; but for a child of that age to give a present of fifteen hundred pounds would be altogether beyond our power to sanction." "very well," hilda said decidedly, "then i shall take the matter into my own hands, and i shall go down to rochester to-morrow and see if these people have a barge ready built. i don't know whether they are the sort of things people keep in stock." "that i can't say, my dear. i should think it probable that in slack times they may build a barge or two on speculation, for the purpose of keeping their hands employed, but whether that is the case now or not i don't know. if these people at rochester have not got one you may hear of one somewhere else. i want you all to come up to the office one day next week to talk over this matter of the order simcoe is applying for--for us to carry out the provisions of the will--at any rate, as far as his legacy is concerned." "very well, mr. pettigrew, i will come up any time that you write to me, but you know that i have very strong opinions about it." "i know your opinions are strong, as ladies' opinions generally are," mr. pettigrew said with a smile; "but, unfortunately, they are much more influenced by their own view of matters than by the legal bearing of them. however, we will talk that over when we meet again." the arrival of walter occasioned the most lively joy in hyde park gardens. hilda had written to his nurse, who had gone home to live with her mother when all hope of finding walter had seemed to be at an end, to tell her that he would probably be at home on wednesday evening, and that she was to be there to meet him. her greeting of him was rapturous. it had been a source of bitter grief to her that he had been lost through a momentary act of carelessness on her part, and the relief that hilda's letter had caused was great indeed. the child was scarcely less pleased to see her, for he retained a much more vivid recollection of her than he did of the others. he had already been told of his grandfather's death, but a year had so effaced his memory of him that he was not greatly affected at the news. in the course of a few hours he was almost as much at home in the house as if he had never left it. chapter xxiv. a new barge. the next morning hilda went down to rochester with netta, tom roberts accompanying them. they had no difficulty in discovering the barge-builder's. it seemed to the girls a dirty-looking place, thickly littered as it was with shavings; men were at work on two or three barges which seemed, thus seen out of the water, an enormous size. "which is mr. gill?" hilda asked a man passing. "that is him, miss," and he pointed to a man who was in the act of giving directions to some workmen. they waited until he had finished, and then went up to him. "i want to buy a barge, mr. gill," hilda said. "to buy a barge!" he repeated in surprise, for never before had he had a young lady as a customer. hilda nodded. "i want to give it to a bargeman who has rendered me a great service," as if it were an everyday occurrence for a young lady to buy a barge as a present. "i want it at once, please; and it is to be a first-class barge. how much would it cost?" the builder rubbed his chin. "well, miss, it is a little unusual to sell a barge right off in this way; as a rule people want barges built for them. some want them for speed, some want them for their carrying capacity." "i want a first-class barge," hilda replied. "i suppose it will be for traffic on the thames, and that he will like it to be fast." "well, miss," the builder said slowly, for he could not yet quite persuade himself that this young lady was really prepared to pay such a sum as a new barge would cost, "i have got such a barge. she was launched last week, but i had a dispute with the man for whom i built her, and i said that i would not hold him to his bargain, and that he could get a barge elsewhere. he went off in a huff, but i expect he will come back before long and ask me to let him have her, and i should not be altogether sorry to say that she is gone. she is a first-class barge, and i expect that she will be as fast as anything on the river. of course, i have got everything ready for her--masts, sails, and gear, even down to her dingey--and in twenty-four hours she would be ready to sail. the price is fifteen hundred pounds," and he looked sharply at hilda to see what effect that communication would have. to his great surprise she replied quietly: "that is about the sum i expected, mr. gill. can we look at her?" "certainly, miss; she is lying alongside, and it is nearly high tide." he led the way over piles of balks of timber, across sloppy pieces of ground, over which at high tide water extended, to the edge of the wharf, where the barge floated. she was indeed all ready for her mast; her sides shone with fresh paint, her upper works were painted an emerald green, a color greatly in favor among bargemen, and there was a patch of the same on her bow, ready for the name, surrounded by gilt scrollwork. "there she is, miss; as handsome a barge as there is afloat." "i want to see the cabin. what a little place!" she went on, as she and netta went down through a narrow hatchway, "and how low!" "it is the usual height in barges, miss, and the same size, unless especially ordered otherwise." "i should like the cabin to be made very comfortable, for i think the boatman will have his wife on board. could it not be made a little larger?" "there would be no great difficulty about that. you see, this is a water-tight compartment, but of course it could be carried six feet farther forward and a permanent hatchway be fixed over it, and the lining made good in the new part. as to height, one might put in a good-sized skylight; it would not be usual, but of course it could be done." "and you could put the bed-place across there, could you not, and put a curtain to draw across it?" "yes, that could be managed easy enough, miss; and it would make a very tidy cabin." "then how much would that cost extra?" "forty or fifty pounds, at the outside." "and when could you get it all finished, and everything painted a nice color?" "i could get it done in a week or ten days, if you made a point of it." "i do make a point of it," hilda said. "what do you say to our leaving this bulkhead up as it is, miss, and making a door through it, and putting a small skylight, say three feet square, over the new part? you see, it will be fifteen feet wide by six feet, so that it will make a tidy little place. it would not cost more than the other way, not so much perhaps; for it would be a lot of trouble to get this bulkhead down, and then, you see, the second hand could have his bunk in here, on the lockers, and be quite separate." "isn't there a cabin at the other end?" "well, there is one, miss; you can come and look at it. that is where the second hand always sleeps when the bargeman has got his wife on board." "i think that it would be better to have the second hand sleep there," hilda said. "this is very rough," she went on, when she inspected the little cabin forward; "there are all the beams sticking out. surely it can be made more comfortable than this." "we could matchboard the timbers over if you like, but it is not usual." "never mind, please do it; and put some lockers up for his clothes, and make it very comfortable. has the barge got a name yet?" "well, miss, we have always called her the _medway_; but there is no reason that you should stick to that name. she has not been registered yet, so we can call her any name you like." "then we will call her the _walter_," hilda said, for the girls had already settled this point between them. "and now, mr. gill, i suppose there is nothing to do but to give you a check for fifteen hundred pounds, and i can pay for the alterations when i come down next monday week. can you get me a couple of men who understand the work--bargees, don't you call them? i want them to take her as far as hole haven and a short way up the creek." "i can do that easily enough," the builder said; "and i promise you that everything shall be ready for sailing, though i don't guarantee that the paint in the new part of the cabin will be dry. all the rest i can promise. i will set a strong gang of men on at once." a few days later hilda wrote a line to william nibson, saying that she intended to come down with the child on the following monday, and hoped that he would be able to make it convenient to be at home on that day. "she is not long in coming down again, betsy," he said, when on the friday the barge went up to pitsea again, and he received the letter, which was carried home and read by his wife, he himself being, like most of his class at the time, unable to read or write. "i suppose the child pined in his new home, and she had to pacify him by saying that he should come down and see us next week. that will suit me very well. i have a load of manure waiting for me at rotherhithe; it is for farmer gilston, near pitsea, so that i shall just manage it comfortably. next week i will go over to rochester and see if i can hear of a good barge for sale." on the following monday morning the girls again went down to rochester, this time taking walter with them; having the previous week sent off three or four great parcels by luggage train. roberts went to look for a cart to bring them to the barge-builder's, and the girls went on alone. "there she lies, miss," mr. gill said, pointing to a barge with new tanned sails lying out in the stream; "she is a boat any man might be proud of." "she looks very nice indeed," hilda said, "though, of course, i am no judge of such things." "you may be sure that she is all right, miss covington." "is the paint dry, down below?" "yes. i saw that you were anxious about it, so put plenty of drier in. so that, though she was only painted on saturday morning, she is perfectly dry now. but you are rather earlier than i had expected." "yes; we have sent a lot of things down by rail. our man is getting a cart, and i dare say they will be here in a quarter of an hour." the things were brought on a large hand-cart, and as soon as these were carried down to the boat they went off with mr. gill to the barge. "there, miss," he said, as he led the way down into the cabin; "there is not a barge afloat with such a comfortable cabin as this. i put up two or three more cupboards, for as they will sleep in the next room there is plenty of space for them." except in point of height, the cabin was as comfortable a little room as could be desired. it was painted a light slate color, with the panels of the closets of a lighter shade of the same. the inner cabin was of the same color. a broad wooden bedstead extended across one end, and at the other were two long cupboards extending from the ceiling to the floor. the skylight afforded plenty of light to this room, while the large one in the main cabin gave standing height six feet square in the middle. "it could not have been better," hilda said, greatly pleased. "well, miss, i took upon myself to do several things in the way of cupboards, and so on, that you had not ordered, but seeing that you wanted to have things comfortable i took upon myself to do them." "you did quite right, mr. gill. this big skylight makes all the difference in height. i see that you have painted the name, and that you have got a flag flying from the masthead." "yes; bargemen generally like a bit of a flag, that is to say if they take any pride in their boat. you cannot trade in the barge until you have had it registered; shall i get that done for you?" "yes, i should be very much obliged if you would." "and in whose name shall i register it? in yours?" "no; in the name of william nibson. if you want his address it is creek farm, pitsea." "well, miss, he is a lucky fellow. i will get it done, and he can call here for the register the first time he comes up the medway." roberts was sent ashore again for a number of hooks, screws, and a few tools. "now, mr. gill, we are quite ready to start. we shall get things straight on the voyage." "you will have plenty of time, miss; she will anchor off grain spit till the tide begins to run up hard. you won't be able to get up the creek till an hour before high tide." "that won't matter," hilda said; "it will not be dark till nine." "you can get up the anchor now," the builder said to two men who had been sitting smoking in the bow. the barge's boat was lying bottom upwards on the hatches and another boat lay behind her. "this boat does not belong to her, mr. gill; does she?" hilda asked. "no, miss; that is the men's boat. when they have got the barge to where she is to be moored, they will row down to hole haven, and get a tow up with the first barge that comes down after the tide has turned. how will you be coming back, miss covington?" "we have arranged for a gig to be at hole haven at eight o'clock to drive us to brentwood, where we shall take train to town. we shall not be up before half-past eleven, but as we have our man with us that does not matter; besides, the carriage is to be at the station to meet the train." the girls and walter watched the operation of getting up the anchor and of setting the foresail and jib. they remained on deck while the barge beat down the long reach past the dockyards, and then with slackened sheets rounded the wooded curve down into gillingham reach, then, accompanied by roberts, they went below. here they were soon hard at work. the great packages were opened, and mattresses and bedclothes brought out. "this reminds one of our work when you first came to us," netta laughed, as they made the bed. "yes, it is like old times, certainly. we used to like to work then, because we were doing it together; we like it still more to-day, because not only are we together, but we are looking forward to the delight that we are going to give." carpets were laid down, curtains hung to the bed, and a wash-hand stand fixed in its place. a hamper of crockery was unpacked and the contents placed on the shelves that had been made for them, and cooking utensils arranged on the stove, which had been obtained for them by the builder. by this time roberts had screwed up the hooks in the long cupboards, and in every spot round both cabins where they could be made available. then numerous japanned tin boxes, filled with tea, sugar, and other groceries, were stowed away, and a large one with a label, "tobacco," placed on a shelf for bill nibson's special delectation. curtains that could be drawn were fixed to the skylights, looking-glasses fastened against the walls, and by the time that the barge neared sheerness their labors were finished. then the forward cabin was similarly made comfortable. walter had assisted to the best of his power in all the arrangements, and when he became tired was allowed to go up on deck, on his promise to remain quiet by the side of the helmsman. "now i think that everything is in its place," hilda said at last, "and really they make two very pretty little rooms. i can't say that the one in the bow is pretty, but at any rate it is thoroughly comfortable, and i have no doubt that joshua will be as pleased with it as the nibsons are with theirs. oh, dear, how dusty one gets! and we never thought of getting water on board for the jugs." on going up on deck, however, they observed two barrels lashed together. "are those water?" hilda asked the man at the tiller. "yes, ma'am." "how do you get it out? i don't see a tap." "you put that little pump lying by the side into the bunghole. i will do it for you, miss." "now we will go downstairs and tidy up, and then come and sit up here and enjoy ourselves," said hilda. when they were below they heard a rattle of the chain, and, on going up, found that the barge had come to anchor in the midst of some thirty or forty others. the foresail had been run down and the jib lowered, but the great mainsail, with its huge, brightly painted sprit, was still standing. roberts now opened a hamper that had been left on deck, and produced luncheon. cold meat and beer were handed to the two watermen, who went up into the bow to eat it. an hour later the tide began to slacken, and many of the barges got up sail. "shall we get up the anchor, ma'am?" one of the watermen asked. "there's plenty of time, is there not?" hilda asked. "yes, ma'am, but we thought that you would like to see how she goes with the others." "yes, i should like that," hilda said, and in a few minutes the barge was under sail again. "she is a clipper, and no mistake," the man at the tiller said, as one by one they passed the barges that had started ahead of them, and walter clapped his hands in delight. "we may as well go down to the lower end of the hope, miss. we shall have plenty of time to get back again before there is water enough for us in the creek." for three hours they sailed about, the girls enjoying it as much as walter. "i do think, netta, that i shall have to buy a barge on my own account. it is splendid, and, after all, the cabins are large enough for anything." "you had better have a yacht," netta laughed. "you would soon get tired of always going up and down the river." "one might do worse," hilda said. "of course, now we shall give up that big house in hyde park gardens, which is ridiculous for me and the boy. we have each got a country house, and when we want a thorough change i would infinitely rather have a yacht than a small house in town. i don't suppose that it would cost very much more. besides, you know, it is arranged that i am always to have rooms at your house at the institute. that is to be the next thing seen after; you know that is quite agreed upon." "i shall be glad to be at work again," netta said. "now that walter is found, there is certainly nothing to keep us any longer in town." "i know that it must have been horribly dull for you, netta, but you see that you are partly to blame yourself for refusing to go out with me." "that would have been duller still," netta laughed. "i should have been a long time before i got to know people, and there is no good in knowing people when you are going right away from them in a short time, and may never meet them again." at last the men said that there would be water enough to get up the creek. "we shan't be able to sail up, miss; you see, the wind will be right in our teeth. but that don't matter; we can pole her up. the tide will take us along, and we shall only have to keep her straight and get her round the corners." "are you sure that there will be water enough?" "yes, miss. you see, she is empty, and doesn't draw much more than a foot of water." as they entered the haven the head sails were dropped and the mainsail brailed up. the tide was running in strong, and, as the men had said, they had nothing to do but to keep the barge in the deepest part of the channel. * * * * * "how do you think they will be coming, bill?" betsy nibson said, as she joined her husband, who was standing on the bank dressed in his sunday clothes. "i cannot say, betsy; if i had known i should have gone to meet them. they cannot drive here from pitsea, but must walk; and, of course, i would have been there if i had been sure of their coming that way. but i should think most likely that they will drive to the haven and come up by boat." "there is a new barge coming up the creek," joshua said. "you can see that she is new by her spars and sails." "that's so, boy," bill agreed. "she has got a flag i haven't seen before at her masthead. it is white, and i think there are some red letters on it--her name, i suppose. 'tis not often that a new barge comes up to pitsea. she is a fine-looking craft," he went on, as a turning in the creek brought her wholly into view. "a first-class barge, i should say. yes, there is no doubt about her being new. i should say, from the look of her spars, she cannot have made many trips up and down the river." "she has got a party on board," mrs. nibson said presently. "there are two women and a child. perhaps it's them, bill. they may have some friend in the barge line, and he has offered to bring them down, seeing that this is a difficult place to get at." "i believe you are right, betsy. they are too far off to see their faces, but they are certainly not barge people." "they are waving their handkerchiefs!" betsy exclaimed; "it is them, sure enough. well, we have wondered how they would come down, but we never thought of a barge." the three hurried along the bank to meet the barge. walter danced and waved his hat and shouted loudly to them as they approached. "you did not expect to see us arrive in a barge, mrs. nibson," hilda called out as they came abreast of them. "no, indeed, miss; we talked it over together as to how you would come, but we never thought of a barge." "it belongs to a friend of ours, and we thought that it would be a pleasant way of coming. she is a new boat. you must come on board and have a look at her before we land." in a few minutes the barge was alongside the bank, opposite the house. a plank was run across and walter scampered over it to his friends. "bless his little face!" mrs. nibson said, as she lifted him up to kiss her. "what a darling he looks, bill! and he has not forgotten us a bit." "he could not well forget in a week," bill said, rather gruffly, for he, too, was moved by the warmth of the child's welcome. "well, let us go on board and pay our respects. she is a fine barge, surely; and she has got the same name as the child." "why, it is not 'jack,'" his wife said, looking up. "jack!" her husband repeated scornfully. "didn't they call him walter the other day? go on, wife; the lady is waiting at the end of the plank for you." mrs. nibson put the child down and followed him across the plank, smoothing her apron as she went. "my best respects, miss," she said, as hilda shook hands with her warmly. "we are glad to see you again, mrs. nibson, and hope that you have not missed walter very much." "i cannot say that i have not missed him a good deal, miss, but, luckily, we have had other things to think about. we are giving up the farm; it is lonesome here in the winter, and i am going to take to barge life again." "well, what do you think of this barge, mr. nibson?" hilda asked. "i allow she is a handsome craft, and she ought to be fast." "she is fast. we have been sailing about until there was enough water in the creek, and we have passed every barge that we have come near. she is comfortable, too. come below and look at her cabin." "well, i never!" mrs. nibson said, pausing in astonishment at the foot of the ladder. "i have been in many barge cabins, but never saw one like this." her surprise increased when the door of the bulkhead was opened and she saw the sleeping cabin beyond. "did you ever, bill?" "no, i never saw two cabins in a barge before," her husband said. "i suppose, miss, the owner must have had the cabin specially done up for his own use sometimes, and the crew lived forward." "there is a place forward for the second hand," she replied, "and i suppose the owner will sleep here." "of course it is a loss of space, but she will carry a big load, too. who is the owner, miss, if i may make so bold as to ask?" "the registered owner is william nibson," hilda said quietly. the bargeman and his wife gazed at each other in astonishment. "but," he said hesitatingly, "i have never heard of any owner of that name." "except yourself, nibson." "yes, except myself; but i am not an owner, as i have sold the _mary ann_." "there is no other owner now," she said, "that i know of, of that name. the barge is yours. it is bought as testimony of our gratitude for the kindness that you have shown walter, and you see it is named after him." "it is too much, miss," said bill huskily, while his wife burst into tears. "it is too much altogether. we only did our duty to the child, and we were well paid for it." "you did more than your duty," hilda said. "the money might pay for food and shelter and clothes, but money cannot buy love, and that is what you gave, both of you; and it is for that that we now pay as well as we can." "miss covington should say 'i,'" netta broke in, "for it is her present entirely. walter's trustees could not touch his money for the purpose, and so she has done it herself." "hush, netta! you should have said nothing about it," hilda said; and then, turning to nibson, went on, "i am his nearest relative--his only relative, in fact--besides being his guardian, and, therefore, naturally i am the most interested in his happiness; and as, fortunately, i am myself very well off, i can well afford the pleasure of helping those who have been so good to him. please do not say anything more about it. now we will go on deck for a few minutes, and leave you and your wife to look round. we will show joshua his cabin." so saying, she and netta went on deck. joshua, led by walter, was just crossing the plank. he had not received a special invitation, and he felt too shy to go on board with these ladies present. walter, however, had run across to him, and at last persuaded him to come. "well, joshua," hilda said, as she reached him, "what do you think of the barge?" "she is as good a one as ever i seed," the boy said. "well, joshua, she belongs to mr. nibson." "to bill?" joshua exclaimed. "you don't mean it, miss." "i do mean it," she said; "this is his barge." "well, i shouldn't have thought that bill was that artful!" joshua exclaimed almost indignantly. "fancy his keeping it from the missis and me that he had been and bought a new barge! but she is a fine one, there aint no doubt about that." "come forward and look at your cabin, joshua. i think you will say that it is more comfortable than usual." "well, i am blowed!" the boy ejaculated, as he followed her down the ladder and looked round. "why, it is a palace, that is wot it is; it is more comfortable than the master's cabin aft in most barges. and what a bed! why, it is soft enough for a hemperor." "there are no sheets, joshua. they told me that the men never use sheets in barges." "lor' bless you! no, ma'am. we mostly stretch ourselves on the locker and roll ourselves up in a blanket, if we are lucky enough to have one. why, i don't know as i shan't be afraid of getting into that bed, though i does take a header in the water every morning. there are lockers on both sides, too, and a basin. who ever heard of such a thing as a basin? why, miss, we allus washes in the pail on deck." "well, i should think that it would be a good deal more comfortable to wash down here in a basin on a cold morning." "well, i suppose it might, miss; it be sharp sometimes outside. why, there is oilcloth all over the floor, and a mat to wipe one's feet at the bottom of the ladder, and a rug by the side of the bed! i never did see such things. bill must have gone clean off his chump. well, i am blessed!" "it is miss covington who has given bill the barge and seen to its being fitted up," netta said, "and she has done her best to make your cabin as comfortable as possible, because you have been so kind to walter." "and i hope to do some more for you, joshua, when i can see my way to do it. you will find two or three suits of clothes for your work in those lockers. i do not know that they will quite fit, but i dare say if they don't mrs. nibson can alter them for you, and you will find shirts and warm underclothing, and so on, in that cupboard." joshua sat down suddenly on a locker, completely overpowered with what seemed to him the immensity of his possessions. there the girls left him, and they went up on deck again. going aft, they sat down and talked for a few minutes, and were then joined by nibson and his wife. the latter still bore traces of tears on her cheeks, and there was a suspicious redness about bill's eyes. "we won't try to say what we would like to say," the man began, "'cause we could not say it, but we feels it just the same. here we are with everything man or woman could wish for, ready to hand." "as i have said before, nibson, please do not say anything more about it. it has made me quite as happy to get this barge for you, and to make it comfortable, as it can do you both to receive it. and now we will go ashore." in the house they found that tea was ready, save pouring the water into the pot. a ham and a couple of cold chickens were on the table, and jam and honey were specially provided for walter. joshua did not make one of the party. after recovering from the contemplation of his own cabin he had gone aft and remained in almost awe-struck admiration at the comfort and conveniences there, until summoned by bill to take his place and help to get the new boat into the water, and to row the ladies down to hole haven. chapter xxv. a crushing exposure. the case of the application by john simcoe for an order for the trustees of the will of the late general mathieson to carry its provisions into effect was on the list of cases for the day. tom roberts was walking up and down in westminster hall, waiting for it to come on, when he saw a face he knew. "hullo, sergeant nichol, what brings you here?" "just curiosity, roberts. i happened to see in the list of cases one of simcoe against the trustees of general mathieson. 'what,' i said to himself, 'simcoe? that is the name of the chap who saved general mathieson's life.' i remember their being both brought into cantonment, as well as if it were yesterday. i was with paymaster-sergeant sanderson, the fellow who bolted a short time afterwards with three hundred pounds from the pay-chest and never was heard of afterwards. we heard that simcoe was drowned at sea; and sorry we all were, for a braver fellow never stepped in shoe leather, and there was not a man there who did not feel that he owed him a debt of gratitude for saving the brigadier's life. so when i saw the paper i said to myself, 'either the man was not drowned at all, or he must be some relation of his. i will go into court and have a look at him.'" "it is the same man, but i am sorry to say that, though he may be as brave as a lion, he is a rogue. but you can see him without going into court. that is him, talking with the man in a wig and gown and that little man in black, who is, i suppose, his lawyer. he knows me, so i won't go near him; but you can walk as close as you like to him, and take a good look at him." not content with looking once, sergeant nichol passed him backwards and forwards three times. when he rejoined roberts the latter saw that he looked flushed and excited. "what is it, sergeant?" "i don't believe it is simcoe at all," the sergeant said. "it is that man sanderson i was speaking about just now. several of us noticed how like he was to simcoe, but the expression of their faces was different. simcoe was five or six years younger, and had a pleasant expression; sanderson had a hard face. none of us liked him, he was a man one could never get friendly with; you might be in the same mess for years and not know more about him at the end than you did at the beginning. of course, they would both be changed a good deal by this time, but i don't believe that simcoe would have grown so as to be like this man; and i am sure that sanderson would. he had a mark on him that i should know him by. one day when he was a recruit his musket went off, and the ball went through his left forearm. it was only a flesh wound, but it left a blackened scar, and i will bet all that i am worth that if you turned up that fellow's sleeve you would find it there." "that is very important, sergeant. i will go and tell my young lady; she is talking with her lawyers and colonel bulstrode at the other end of the hall." hilda clapped her hands. "what do you say now, mr. pettigrew? i was right, after all. bring your friend up, roberts, and let us hear his story ourselves." sergeant nichol was fetched, and repeated the story that he had told to roberts. "thank you very much, sergeant," the barrister said. "please remain here while we talk it over. what do you think of this, mr. pettigrew?" "it would seem to explain the whole matter that has puzzled us so. i did not tell you, because it was not in my opinion at all necessary to the case, that miss covington has always maintained that the man was not simcoe, and so positive was she that her friend, miss purcell, went down to stowmarket to make inquiries. it was certainly believed by his friends there that he was simcoe, and this to my mind was quite conclusive. but i am bound to say that it did not satisfy miss covington." "may i ask, miss covington, why you took up that opinion in the first place?" "because i was convinced that he was not the sort of man who would have risked his life for another. after miss purcell came back from stowmarket we found out that just before he called on my uncle he advertised for relatives of the late john simcoe, and that the advertisement appeared not in the suffolk papers only, but in the london and provincial papers all over the country; and it was evident, if this man was john simcoe, he would not advertise all over england, instead of going down to stowmarket, where his family lived, and where he himself had lived for years. he received a reply from an old lady, an aunt of john simcoe's, living there, went down and saluted her as his aunt, at once offered to settle a pension of fifty pounds a year on her, and after remaining for three days in her house, no doubt listening to her gossip about all john simcoe's friends, went and introduced himself to them. there was probably some resemblance in height and figure, and an absence of twenty years would have effected a change in his face, so that, when it was found that his aunt unhesitatingly accepted him, the people there had no doubt whatever that it was their old acquaintance. therefore, this in no way shook my belief that he was not the man. "it turns out now, you see, that there was another man at benares at the time who was remarkably like him, and that this man was a scoundrel and a thief. when he deserted no doubt he would take another name, and having doubtless heard that john simcoe was dead, and remembering the remarks made as to his likeness to him, he was as likely to take that name as any other, though probably not with any idea of making any special use of it. when in england he may have heard general mathieson's name mentioned, and remembering that simcoe had saved the life of the general, may have thought that the name and the likeness might enable him to personate the man. he first set about establishing his identity by going down to stowmarket, and after that it was easy. i have thought it all over so many times that although it never struck me that there might have been at benares some man bearing a striking resemblance to john simcoe, all the rest is exactly as i had figured it out to my mind. now i will leave you, gentlemen, to decide what use you will make of the discovery, while i go and tell my friends of it." the seats allotted to the general public were empty, as a case of this sort offered but slight attraction even to the loungers in the hall, but a large number of barristers were present. it had been whispered about that there were likely to be some unexpected developments in the case. the counsel engaged on both sides were the leaders of the profession, who could hardly have been expected to be retained in a mere case of a formal application for an order for trustees to act upon a will. "the facts of the case, my lord," the counsel who led for john simcoe commenced, "are simple, and we are at a loss to understand how the trustees of the late general mathieson can offer any opposition to our obtaining the order asked for. nothing can be more straightforward than the facts. the late general mathieson, early in march, , made a will, which was duly signed and witnessed, bequeathing, among other legacies, the amount of ten thousand pounds to mr. john simcoe, as a mark of his gratitude for his having saved him from a tiger some twenty years before in india. the act was one of heroic bravery, and mr. simcoe nearly lost his own life in saving that of the general." he then related with dramatic power the incidents of the struggle. "there is, then, no matter of surprise that this large legacy should have been left to mr. simcoe by the general, who was a man of considerable wealth. the bulk of the property was left to his grandson, and in the event of his dying before coming of age it was to go to a niece, a miss covington, to whom only a small legacy was left; she being herself mistress of an estate and well provided for. two months afterwards the general, upon reflection, decided to enlarge his gift to mr. simcoe, and he, therefore, in another will named him, in place of miss covington, who was amply provided for, his heir in the event of his grandson's death. i may say that the second will was not drawn up by the solicitors who had framed the first will. probably, as often happens, the general preferred that the change he had effected should not be known until after his death, even to his family solicitors. he, therefore, went to a firm of equal respectability and standing, messrs. halstead & james, who have made an affidavit that he interviewed them personally on the matter, and gave them written instructions for drawing up his will, and signed it in their presence. "i may say that in all other respects, including the legacy of ten thousand pounds, the wills were absolutely identical. the trustees, after waiting until the last day permitted by law, have, to our client's surprise, proved the first of these two wills, ignoring the second; on what ground i am at a loss to understand. as my client is entitled to ten thousand pounds under either will it might be thought that the change would make little difference to him; but unhappily the circumstances have entirely changed by the fact that the general's grandson was lost or stolen on the day before his death, and in spite of the most active efforts of the police, and the offer of large rewards--my client, who was deeply affected by the loss of the child, himself offering a thousand pounds for news of his whereabouts--nothing was heard of him until two months after his disappearance, when his body was found in the canal at paddington, and after hearing evidence of identification, and examining the clothes, which all parties agreed to be those of the missing child, the jury returned a verdict that the body was that of walter rivington, and that there was no proof of how he came by his end. "as the residence of general mathieson was in hyde park gardens, no doubt the poor child strolled away from the care of a careless nurse, came to the canal, and, walking near the bank, fell in and was drowned. no one could have been more grieved than my client at this, and although it practically put him into possession of a large property, he would, i am sure, gladly forfeit a large portion of it rather than come into possession of it in so melancholy a manner. i have not heard of the slightest reason why the last will of general mathieson should be put aside. i believe that no question could arise as to his state of mind at the time that it was made. it may be that a plea of undue influence may be raised, but this, to those who knew the general, would appear absurd. he was a man of active habits, and vigorous both in mind and body. here was no case of a man living in the house and influencing an old gentleman approaching his dotage. they met only at clubs and at dinners; and although the general was rightly and naturally attached to simcoe, he was certainly not a man to be influenced against his will. i beg, therefore, to ask, my lord, that you will pronounce in favor of this second will, and issue an order to the trustees to carry out its provisions forthwith." "but upon the face of your appeal to the court, sir henry, there is no question as to the validity of the will you propound set up by the trustees?" "none, my lord. in fact, at the time the case was put down we were ignorant that there would be any attempt on the part of the trustees to dispute the second will, and that they should do so came upon us as a surprise. however, at a consultation between my learned friend and myself just before we came into court, it was agreed that, if your lordship would permit it, we would take the two matters at once. one of the trustees is a member of the firm who are and have been the family lawyers of general mathieson, and of his father before him, for a long period of years. they are gentlemen of well-known honor, who are, i am sure, as anxious as we are to obtain from your lordship a judicial decision on which they can act." "it is irregular," the judge said, "but as both parties seemed agreed upon it, it will doubtless save much expense to the estate if the whole matter can be settled at once. i will permit the whole matter to be taken. now, brother herbert, we will hear you on the other side." "i am sorry to say, my lord, that it will be impossible for me to imitate my learned brother in the brevity with which he opened the case. so far from the facts being extremely simple, they are, i may say, of a very complicated nature. we own that we have no explanation to offer with regard to the second will. it was strange, very strange, that general mathieson, a man of methodical habits, having just drawn up his will, should go to another firm of solicitors and draw up a fresh one, but the fact that the whole of the minor bequests are the same in the two wills is certainly a very strong proof, as also is the fact that the instructions for drafting the will were written by the general himself, or, at any rate, by someone intimately acquainted with the contents of that will, which we admit was difficult to believe could be the case, as the will, from the time it was signed by the general, has not been out of messrs. farmer & pettigrew's hands until it was taken for probate the other day. "now, my lord, i trust that you will allow me a certain amount of license while i go into this somewhat singular story. twenty-three years ago, general mathieson's life was saved in india by mr. john simcoe. mr. simcoe himself was seriously wounded, and when he recovered somewhat he was recommended by the surgeon who attended him to go down to calcutta at once and take a sea voyage. he did so, and embarked upon the ship _nepaul_, which was lost in a terrible gale in the bay of bengal a few days later, with, as was supposed, all hands. twenty years passed, and then to the surprise, and i may say to the delight of the general, who had much grieved over the loss of his preserver, mr. simcoe presented himself. for a moment the general did not recognize him; but it was not long before he became convinced of his identity, for he knew the officers who had been at the station at the time, and was well up in the gossip of the place, and the general at once hailed him as the man who had saved his life, introduced him to many friends, got him put up at a good club, and became, i may say, very fond of him. mr. simcoe brought up a friend or two who had known him at stowmarket, where he had an aunt still living, and the result of all this was that the general requested messrs. farmer & pettigrew to draw up a new will bequeathing to john simcoe the sum of ten thousand pounds. "then came the singular episode of the second will. a fortnight later, when at dinner at his club, the general was smitten with a strange kind of fit, from which he recovered, but only lived for a few months, a half-paralyzed invalid. he was attended during that time by dr. leeds--a gentleman with a very high reputation, and now practicing in harley street as a consulting physician. the general was brought up to town, but broke down during the journey and died two days later. "now we come to the second strange fact in this strange case. a day before his death his grandson, walter rivington, was missing. the efforts of the police, aided by a number of private detectives, failed to obtain any clew to the child until a body was found in the canal at paddington. that the body was dressed in some of the clothes worn by the child when carried off was unquestionable; but the three persons who knew walter rivington best, namely, miss covington, a friend of hers named miss purcell, who had been all the summer assisting her to nurse general mathieson, and the child's own nurse, all declared that the body was not that of the general's grandson. they were unable to adduce anything in support of this belief beyond the fact that the hair of the child found was short and to some extent bristly, whereas that of walter rivington was long and silky. the jury, however, adopted the view of the coroner that hair, however soft, when cut close to the skull will appear more or less bristly, and gave a verdict to the effect that the body was that of walter rivington. miss covington and her friends refused to accept the verdict, and continued their search for the child. "without occupying your attention by going into details, my lord, i may briefly say that a close watch was set on mr. simcoe, and it was found that he was exceedingly intimate with a man of whom no one seemed to know anything; and before i go further i will ask, my lord, that you will give orders that mr. simcoe shall not leave the court until i have finished." "you are not asking without strong reason, i trust, brother herbert?" "certainly not, my lord." the order was, therefore, given. simcoe grew very white in the face, but otherwise maintained an air of stolid indifference. "i will now go back for a moment, my lord. general mathieson was attended by three of the leading physicians in london at the time of his seizure. the symptoms were so peculiar that in all their experience they had not met a similar case. dr. leeds, however, differed from them, but being their junior could not press his opinion; but he told them that his opinion was that the fit was due to the administration of some drug unknown to the british pharmacopoeia, as the effects were precisely similar to those in cases that he had read of in africa and among other savage people, where a poison of this kind was used by the native fetich men or wizards. that opinion was confirmed rather than diminished by the subsequent progress of the malady and the final death of his patient. the one man who could benefit by the general's death was sitting next to him at dinner at the time of his seizure, and that man, according to his own statement, had been for many years knocking about among the savages of the south sea islands and the islands of the malay archipelago. "i do not accuse john simcoe of this crime, but i need hardly say that the mere possibility of such a thing heightened the strong feeling entertained by miss covington that simcoe was the author of the abduction of walter rivington. she and her devoted friend, miss purcell, pursued their investigations with unflagging energy. they suspected that the man who was very intimate with simcoe had acted as his agent in the matter, and a casual remark which was overheard in a singular manner, which will be explained when the case goes into another court, that this man was going to tilbury, gave them a clew. then, in a manner which many persons might find it very hard to believe, miss covington learned from a conversation between the two men, when together in a box at her majesty's theater, that the lad was in charge of a bargeman living near the little village of pitsea, in essex. from that place, my lord, he was brought last week, and miss covington will produce him in court, if your lordship wishes to see him. thus, then, it is immaterial to us whether your lordship pronounces for the first or second will. "but, my lord, i have not finished my story. under neither of the wills does that man take a farthing. the money was left to john simcoe; and john simcoe was drowned over twenty years ago. the man standing over there is one william sanderson, a sergeant on the paymaster's staff at benares when the real john simcoe was there. there happened to be a resemblance between this man and him, so strong that it was generally remarked upon by his comrades. this man sanderson deserted soon after simcoe was drowned, taking with him three hundred pounds of the paymaster's money. there was a sharp hue and cry after him, but he managed to make his escape. all this is a certainty, but we may assume without much difficulty that the man changed his name as soon as he got to calcutta, and nothing was more likely than that he should take the name of john simcoe, whom he had been told that he so strongly resembled. "for twenty years we hear nothing further of william sanderson, nor do we hear when he returned to london. probably he, in some way or other, came across the name of general mathieson, and remembering what john simcoe had done for the general, he, on the strength of his personal likeness, and the fact that he had, for twenty years, gone by that name, determined to introduce himself to him, with the result you know. he was clever enough to know that he must answer questions as to his history before he left england, and it was desirable to obtain witnesses who would, if necessary, certify to him. but he knew nothing of simcoe's birthplace or history; so he inserted advertisements in a great number of london and provincial newspapers, saying that the relations of the john simcoe who was supposed to have been drowned in the bay of bengal in the year would hear of something to their advantage at the address given. a maiden aunt, living at stowmarket, did reply. he went down there at once, rushed into her arms and called her aunt, and told her that it was his intention to make her comfortable for life by allowing her fifty pounds per annum. he stayed with her for three days, and during that time obtained from her gossip full details of his boyhood and youth, his friends and their occupation, and he then went out and called upon john simcoe's old companions, all of whom took him on his own word and his knowledge of the past and his recognition by his aunt. "so things might have remained. this man, after undergoing what punishment might be awarded to him for his abduction of walter rivington, could have claimed the ten thousand pounds left him by general mathieson, had it not been that, by what i cannot but consider a dispensation of providence, an old comrade of his, staff-sergeant nichol, was attracted to the hall this morning by seeing the name of simcoe and that of general mathieson coupled in the cause list. this man was in the hall talking to his professional advisers, and nichol, walking close to him, to see if he could recognize the man whom he had last seen carried wounded into benares, at once recognized in the supposed john simcoe the deserter and thief, sergeant sanderson. he passed him two or three times, to assure himself that he was not mistaken. happily the deserter had a mark that was ineffaceable; he had, as a recruit, let off his rifle, and the ball had passed through the fleshy part of the forearm, leaving there, as sergeant nichol has informed me, an ineffaceable scar, blackened by powder. if this man is not sergeant sanderson, and is the long-lost john simcoe, he has but to pull up the sleeve of his left arm and show that it is without scar." the man did not move; he was half stunned by the sudden and terrible exposure of the whole of his plans. as he did not rise the counsel said: "my lord, i must ask that you give an order for the arrest of this man, william sanderson, as a deserter and a thief; also upon the charge of conspiring, with others, the abduction of walter rivington." "certainly, brother herbert," the judge said, as he saw that the accused made no motion to answer the challenge of the counsel. "tipstaff, take that man into custody on the charge of aiding in the abduction of walter rivington. as to the other charge, i shall communicate with the authorities of the india office, and leave it to them to prosecute if they choose to do so. after this lapse of years they may not think it worth while to do so, especially as the man is in custody on a still graver charge." the tipstaff moved toward the man, who roused himself with a great effort, snatched a small glass ball from a pocket inside his waistcoat, thrust it between his teeth, and bit it into fragments, and, as the officer laid his hand upon him, fell down in a fit. dr. leeds, who had come in just as the trial began, rose to his feet. "i am a doctor, my lord. my name is leeds, and the opinion i held of the cause of general mathieson's death is now proved to be correct. the symptoms of this fit are precisely similar to those of general mathieson's seizure, and this man has taken some of the very poison with which he murdered the general." for a minute sanderson struggled in violent convulsions, then, as dr. leeds bent over him, his head fell back suddenly. dr. leeds felt his pulse and then rose to his feet. "my lord," he said, "the case is finally closed. he has gone to a higher judgment seat." chapter xxvi. a letter from abroad. three days later, when hilda returned from a drive, she found that dr. leeds was in the drawing room with miss purcell and netta, whose face at once told what had happened. "i have asked the question at last, miss covington," dr. leeds said, coming forward to shake hands, "and netta has consented to be my wife." "i am heartily glad. that you would ask her i knew from what you told me; and although i knew nothing of her thoughts in the matter, i felt sure that she would hardly say no. netta, darling, i am glad. long ago i thought and hoped that this would come about. it seemed to me that it would be such a happy thing." "auntie said just the same thing," netta said, smiling through her tears, as hilda embraced her. "as you both knew, you ought to have given me some little hint; then i should not have been taken quite by surprise. i might have pretended that i did not quite know my own mind, and ask for time to think it over, instead of surrendering at once." "but you did make a condition, netta," dr. leeds laughed. "not a condition--a request, if you like, but certainly not a condition." "netta said that her heart was greatly set on the work she had always looked forward to, and she hoped that i should let her do something in that way still. of course i have heard you both talk over that institute a score of times, and i was as much impressed as yourselves with the enormous boon that it would be. i should be sorry indeed that the plan should be given up. i need hardly say that in the half hour we have had together we did not go deeply into it, but we will have a general council about it, as soon as we can get down to plain matter of fact. netta can talk it over with you, and i can talk it over with her; and then we can hold a meeting, with miss purcell as president of the committee." but matters were not finally settled until the ladies were established at holmwood with walter, and dr. leeds came down for a short holiday of two or three days. then the arrangements were made to the satisfaction of all parties. a large house, standing in grounds of considerable extent, was to be taken in the suburbs of london, netta was to be lady superintendent, her aunt assisting in the domestic arrangements. miss purcell insisted that her savings should be used for furnishing the house. hilda was to put in as a loan, for the others would receive it in no other way, five thousand pounds for working capital. she determined to take a house near the institute, so that she could run in and out and assist netta in teaching. dr. leeds was to drive up every morning to harley street, where his work was over by two o'clock, except when he had to attend consultations. no arrangements would be necessary about the house, as this was the residence of his partner, and he only had his own set of rooms there. he was steadily making his way, and to his surprise already found that the report in the papers of his successful diagnosis of the cause of general mathieson's death had resulted in a considerable addition to his practice, as a number of people consulted him on obscure, and in many cases fanciful, maladies, in which they had come to entertain the idea that they were suffering from the effects of poison. now that she was going to assist at the institution and had no intention of entering society again in london, hilda had no longer any objection to the power she had acquired being known, and, when questioned on the subject of the trial, made no secret of the manner in which she had made the discovery at the opera, and mentioned that she was going to assist in an institution that was about to be established for teaching the system by which she had benefited to deaf children. the matter excited considerable interest in medical circles, and by the time that the institution was ready the number of applicants was greater than could be entertained. by this time dr. leeds and netta were married. the engagement was a short one, and the wedding took place within two months of their going down into the country with hilda. being anxious that as many as possible should participate in the benefits of the system, the doors of the institute were at once opened to outdoor pupils, who were boarded in the neighborhood. six of netta's pupils in hanover were brought over as teachers, and a few weeks from its being opened the institution was in full swing. as dr. leeds wished that no profit whatever be made by the undertaking, in which desire he was cordially joined by his wife and hilda, the charges were extremely low, except in the case of children of wealthy parents, the surplus in their case being devoted to taking in, free of payment, children of the poor. before netta's marriage the interest in the mathieson case was revived by the appearance of a letter in the principal london papers. all search for the man who had assisted sanderson in the abduction of the child had been fruitless. he had probably taken steps to receive information of how matters were going on in court, and long before an officer arrived at rose cottage with a warrant for his arrest he had left, and the police had failed to find any trace of his subsequent movements. the letter bore the simple heading, "united states," and ran as follows: "to the editor. "sir: i scarcely know why i write this letter, but i suppose even an habitual criminal does not care to remain under an unjust suspicion. i acknowledge that i come under that category, and that my life has been spent in crime, although never once has suspicion attached to me, until i became mixed up in the simcoe-mathieson affair. i wish to state solemnly that i was absolutely ignorant that the name john simcoe was an assumed one. that was the name he gave me when i first knew him, and i believed that he was, as he represented, the man who had saved general mathieson's life from a tiger. that he had subsequently lived a rough life in the south seas i was aware, for he came to me with a message sent by a brother of mine when at the point of death. the man had been a chum of his out there and had gallantly carried him off when he had received the wound from which he subsequently died, in a fight with a large body of natives. i have absolute assurance that this was true, for my brother would never have sent anyone to me except under altogether extraordinary circumstances. the man called on me when he first returned to england, but i saw little of him for the first two years, and then he came to me and said that he had looked up general mathieson, and that the general had taken to him, and put him down in his will for ten thousand pounds. he said that general mathieson was worth a hundred thousand, and that he had planned to get the whole. not being in any way squeamish, i agreed at once to help him in any way in my power. "his plan briefly was that he should obtain a fresh will, appointing him sole heir to the general's estate in the event of a boy of six or seven years old dying before he came of age. he had somehow obtained a copy of the general's will, and had notes in the general's handwriting. there were two things to be done, first that he should get instructions for the draft of the will drawn up in precise imitation of the general's handwriting, containing all the provisions of the former will, except that he was made heir in place of miss covington in the event of his grandson's death. there are a dozen men in london who can imitate handwriting so as to defy detection, and i introduced him to one of them, who drew up the instructions. then i introduced him to a man who is the cleverest i know--and i know most of them--at getting up disguises. "he had already ascertained that the general had on one occasion been for a minute or two in the offices of messrs. halstead & james. they would, therefore, have a vague, and only a vague, remembrance of him. he had obtained a photograph of the general, who was about his own height and figure, and although there was no facial resemblance, the man, by the aid of this photograph, converted him into a likeness of the general that would pass with anyone who had seen him but once casually. so disguised, he went to the offices of these solicitors, told a plausible story, and gave them the written instructions. in the meantime he had been practicing the general's signature, and being a good penman had got to imitate it so accurately that i doubt if any expert would have suspected the forgery. the lawyers were completely deceived, and he had only to go there again three days later, in the same disguise, and sign the will. "so much for that. then came the general's seizure. i most solemnly declare that i had no shadow of suspicion that it was not a natural fit, and that if i had had such a suspicion i should have chucked the whole thing over at once, for though, as i have said, an habitual criminal, that is to say, one who plans and directs what may be called sensational robberies, i have always insisted that the men who have worked under me should go unprovided with arms of any kind, and in no case in which i have been concerned has a drop of blood been shed. as to the carrying off of the boy, it was entirely managed by me. i had agents, men on whom i could rely, as a word of mine would have sent them to penal servitude for life. we knew that suspicion would fall upon simcoe, and that it was important that he should be able to account for every hour of his time. therefore, on the day the child was carried away he went down to stowmarket, while i managed the affair and took the child down to the place where he was hidden in the essex marshes. it was i also who made the arrangements by which the body of the child about the same age, who had died in the workhouse, was placed in the canal in some of the clothes the missing heir had worn when taken away. i owe it to myself to say that in all this there was no question of payment between this man and myself. i am well off, and i acted simply to oblige a man who had stood by the side of my brother to death. whether his name was simcoe or sanderson mattered nothing to me; i should have aided him just the same. but i did believe that it was simcoe, and that, having risked his life to save that of general mathieson, he had as good a right as another to his inheritance. he never hinted to me that it would be a good thing if the child was got rid of altogether. he knew well enough that if he had done so i would not only have had nothing to do with it, but that i would have taken steps to have put a stop to his game altogether. now i have only to add that, having fairly stated the part that i bore in this affair, i have nothing more to say, except that i have now retired from business altogether, and that this is the last that the world will hear of william sanderson's accomplice." for four or five years hilda covington devoted much of her time to assisting netta leeds in her work, but at the end of that time she married. her husband was a widower, whose wife had died in her first confinement. his name was desmond. he sold out of the army, and hilda never had reason to regret that she had played the part of a gypsy woman at lady moulton's fête. walter grew up strong and healthy, and is one of the most popular men of his county. his early love for the water developed, and he served his time as a midshipman in one of her majesty's ships, and passed as a lieutenant. he then retired from the service and bought a fine yacht, which he himself commanded. his friends were never able to understand why he allowed his nominal skipper, william nibson, to take his wife on board, and gave up two cabins for their accommodation. the barge _walter_ passed into the hands of joshua, who, for many years, sailed her most successfully. he is now an elderly man, and his four sons are skippers of as many fine barges, all his own property. the end. [illustration] the famous henty books the boys' own library mo, cloth g. a. henty has long held the field as the most popular boys' author. age after age of heroic deeds has been the subject of his pen, and the knights of old seem very real in his pages. always wholesome and manly, always heroic and of high ideals, his books are more than popular wherever the english language is spoken. each volume is printed on excellent paper from new large-type plates, bound in cloth, assorted colors, with an attractive ink and gold stamp. price cents. a final reckoning a tale of bush life in australia among the malay pirates by england's aid the freeing of the netherlands by right of conquest a tale of cortez in mexico bravest of the brave a tale of peterborough in spain by pike and dyke the rise of the dutch republic by sheer pluck a tale of the ashantee war bonnie prince charlie a tale of fontenoy and culloden captain bayley's heir a tale of the gold fields of california cat of bubastes a story of ancient egypt colonel thorndyke's secret cornet of horse a tale of marlborough's wars facing death a tale of the coal mines friends, though divided a tale of the civil war in england for name and fame a tale of afghan warfare for the temple a tale of the fall of jerusalem in freedom's cause a story of wallace and bruce in the reign of terror the adventures of a westminster boy in times of peril a tale of india jack archer a tale of the crimea lion of st. mark a tale of venice in the xiv. century lion of the north a tale of gustavus adolphus maori and settler a tale of the new zealand war orange and green a tale of the boyne and limerick one of the th a tale of waterloo out on the pampas a tale of south america rujub the juggler st. george for england a tale of crécy and poictiers sturdy and strong true to the old flag a tale of the revolution the golden cañon the lost heir the young colonists a tale of the zulu and boer wars the young midshipman the dragon and the raven a tale of king alfred the boy knight a tale of the crusades through the fray a story of the luddite riots under drake's flag a tale of the spanish main with wolfe in canada the tale of winning a continent with clive in india the beginning of an empire with lee in virginia a story of the american civil war young carthaginian a story of the times of hannibal young buglers a tale of the peninsular war young franc-tireurs a tale of the franco-prussian war flag of freedom series by captain ralph bonehill volumes illustrated, bound in cloth, with a very attractive cover, price $ . per volume, or set of five in box for $ . boys of the fort; or, a young captain's pluck captain bonehill is at his best when relating a tale of military adventure, and this story of stirring doings at one of our well-known forts in the wild west is of more than ordinary interest. the young captain had a difficult task to accomplish, but he had been drilled to do his duty, and he did it thoroughly. gives a good insight into army life of to-day. the young bandmaster; or, concert stage and battlefield in this tale captain bonehill touches upon a new field. the hero is a youth with a passion for music, who, compelled to make his own way in the world, becomes a cornetist in an orchestra, and works his way up, first, to the position of a soloist, and then to that of leader of a brass band. he is carried off to sea and falls in with a secret-service cutter bound for cuba, and while in that island joins a military band which accompanies our soldiers in the never-to-be-forgotten attack on santiago. a mystery connected with the hero's inheritance adds to the interest of the tale. off for hawaii; or, the mystery of a great volcano here we have fact and romance cleverly interwoven. several boys start on a tour of the hawaiian islands. they have heard that there is a treasure located in the vicinity of kilauea, the largest active volcano in the world, and go in search of it. their numerous adventures will be followed with much interest. a sailor boy with dewey; or, afloat in the philippines the story of dewey's victory in manila bay will never grow old, but here we have it told in a new form--not as those in command witnessed the contest, but as it appeared to a real, live american youth who was in the navy at the time. many adventures in manila and in the interior follow, giving true-to-life scenes from this remote portion of the globe. a book that should be in every boy's library. when santiago fell; or, the war adventures of two chums captain bonehill has never penned a better tale than this stirring story of adventures in cuba. two boys, an american and his cuban chum, leave new york to join their parents in the interior of cuba. the war between spain and the cubans is on, and the boys are detained at santiago de cuba, but escape by crossing the bay at night. many adventures between the lines follow, and a good pen-picture of general garcia is given. the american lad, with others, is captured and cast into a dungeon in santiago; and then follows the never-to-be-forgotten campaign in cuba under general shafter. how the hero finally escapes makes reading no wide-awake boy will want to miss. press opinions of captain bonehill's books for boys "captain bonehill's stories will always be popular with our boys, for the reason that they are thoroughly up-to-date and true to life. as a writer of outdoor tales he has no rival."--_bright days._ "the story is by captain ralph bonehill, and that is all that need be said about it, for all of our readers know that the captain is one of america's best story-tellers, so far as stories for young people go."--_young people of america._ "we understand that captain bonehill will soon be turning from sporting stories to tales of the war. this field is one in which he should feel thoroughly at home. we are certain that the boys will look eagerly for the bonehill war tales."--_weekly messenger._ [illustration] mrs. l. t. meade's famous books for girls mo, cloth, price $ . there are few more favorite authors with american girls than mrs. l. t. meade, whose copyright works can only be had from us. essentially a writer for the home, with the loftiest aims and purest sentiments, mrs. meade's books possess the merit of utility as well as the means of amusement. they are girls' books--written for girls, and fitted for every home. here will be found no maudlin nonsense as to the affections. there are no counts in disguise nor castles in spain. it is pure and wholesome literature of a high order with a lofty ideal. the volumes are all copyright, excellently printed with clear, open type, uniformly bound in best cloth, with ink and gold stamp. the following are the titles the children of wilton chase bashful fifteen betty: a schoolgirl four on an island girls new and old out of the fashion the palace beautiful polly, a new-fashioned girl red rose and tiger lily temptation of olive latimer a ring of rubies a sweet girl graduate a world of girls good luck a girl in ten thousand a young mutineer wild kitty the children's pilgrimage the girls of st. wode's light o' the morning bad little hannah rebellion of lill carrington a little mother to the others merry girls of england the mershon company fifth ave., new york rahway, n. j. leerie ruth sawyer [illustration: leerie] leerie by ruth sawyer author of seven miles to arden, etc. illustrated by clinton balmer "_and o! before you hurry by with ladder and with light, o leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night!_" grosset & dunlap new york publishers made in the united states of america leerie copyright , by harper & brothers printed in the united states of america _to lamplighters--the world over_ contents chap. page foreword ix i. the man who feared sleep ii. old king cole iii. the changeling iv. for the honor of the san v. the last of the surgical vi. monsieur satan vii. the lad who outsang the stars viii. into her own afterword illustrations leerie _frontispiece_ holding him high for peter to admire _facing p._ "the first look i had told me she had gone quite mad" " "he will require more care, better dressing" " foreword i like to write stories. best of all i like to write stories about people who help the world to go round with a little more cheer and good will than is usual. you know--and i know--there are a few who put into life something more than the bare ingredients. they add a plum here--extra spice there. they bake it well--and then they trim it up like an all-the-year-round birthday cake with white frosting, angelica, and red cherries. last of all they add the candles and light them so that it glows warmly and invitingly for all; fine to see, sweet to taste. of course, there are not so many people with the art or the will to do this, and, having done it, they have not always the bigness of heart to pass it round for the others to share. but i like to make it my business to find as many as i can; and when i am lucky enough to find one i pop him--or her--into a book, to have and to hold always as long as books last and memory keeps green. not long ago i was ill--ridiculously ill--and my doctor popped me into a sanitarium. "here's the place," i said, "where people are needed to make the world go round cheerfully, if they are needed anywhere." and so i set about to get well and find one. she came--before i had half finished. the first thing i noticed was the inner light in her--a light as from many candles. it shone all over her face and made the room brighter for a long time after she had left. the next thing i noticed was the way everybody watched for her to come round--everybody turning child again with nose pressed hard against the window-pane. it made me remember stevenson's _lamplighter_; and for many days there rang in my ears one of his bits of human understanding: and oh! before you hurry by with ladder and with light, o leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night. before i knew it i had all the makings of a story. i trailed it through the mud of gossip and scandal; i followed it to the highroad of adventure and on to the hills of inspiration and sacrifice. it was all there--ripe for the plucking; and with the good assistance of hennessy i plucked it. before the story was half written i was well--so much for the healing grace of a story and the right person to put in it. this much i have told that you may know that _leerie_ is as true as all the best and finest things in the world are true. i am only the passer-on of life as she has made it--spiced, trimmed, and lighted with many candles. so if the taste pleases, help yourself bountifully; there is enough for all. and if you must thank any one--thank _leerie_. ruth sawyer. [illustration] leerie chapter i the man who feared sleep peter brooks felt himself for a man given up. he had felt his physical unfitness for some time in the silent, condemning judgment masked under the too sympathetic gaze of his fellow-men; he had felt it in the over-solicitous inquiries after his health made by the staff; and there was his chief, who had fallen into the comfortable week-end habit of telling him he looked first-rate, and in the same breath begging him to take the next week off. for months past he had been conscious of the sidelong glances cast by his brother alumni at the college club when he appeared, and the way they had of dropping into a contradictory lot of topics whenever he joined a group unexpectedly showed only too plainly that he had been the real subject under discussion. yes, he felt that the world at large had turned its thumb down as far as he was concerned, but it had caused him surprisingly little worry until that last visit to doctor dempsy. there it was as if peter's sensibilities concerning himself had suddenly become acute. the doctor sounded too reassuring even for a combined friend and physician; he protested too much that he had found nothing at all the matter with him--nothing at all. when a doctor seems so superlatively anxious to set a man right with himself, it is time to look out; therefore the casual, just-happened-to-mention-it way that he finally broached the question of a sanitarium came within an inch of knocking the last prop from under peter's resolve not to lose his grip. for the first time he fully realized how it felt to be given up, and, characteristically, he thanked the almighty that there was no one to whom it would really matter. for a year he had been slowly going to pieces; for a year he had been dropping in for dempsy to patch him up. there had been a host of miserable puny ailments which in themselves meant nothing, but combined and in a young man meant a great deal. of late his memory had failed him outrageously; he had had frequent attacks of vertigo, and these of themselves had rendered him unreliable and unfit for newspaper work. irresponsible! unfit! peter snorted the words out honestly to himself. under these conditions, and with no one to care, he could see no plausible reason for trying to coax a mere existence out of life. to those who knew him best--to doctor dempsy most of all--his condition seemed unexplainable. here was a man who never drank, who never overfed, who smoked in moderation, whose life stood out conspicuously decent and clean against the possibilities of his environment. what lay back of this going to pieces? doctor dempsy had tried for a year to find out and had failed. to peter, it was not unexplainable at all--he knew. possessed of a constitution above the average, he had forced it to do the work of a mind far above the average, while he had denied it one of the three necessities of life and sanity. his will and reason had been powerless to help him--and now? because he had hated himself for hiding this knowledge from the man who had tried to do so much for him and wanted to make amends in some way--and because it was the easiest thing, after all, to agree--he let doctor dempsy pick out a sanitarium, make all arrangements, buy his ticket, and see him off. he drew the line at being personally conducted, however. whether he went to a sanitarium or not did not matter; what mattered was how long would he stay and where would he go afterward. or would there be an afterward? these were the questions that mulled through peter's mind on the train, and, coupled with the memory of the worried kindliness on doctor dempsy's face, they were the only traveling companions peter had. it was not to be wondered, therefore, that as he left the car and boarded the sanitarium omnibus he felt indescribably old, weary, and finished with things. at first he thought he was the only passenger, but as the driver leisurely gathered up his reins and gave a cluck to the horses a girl's voice rang out from the station, "flanders--flanders! why, i believe you're forgetting me." and the next instant the girl herself appeared, suitcase in hand. the driver grinned down a sheepish apology and peter turned to hold the door open. she stood framed in the doorway for a moment while she lifted in her case, and for that moment peter had conflicting impressions. he was conscious of a modest, nun-like appearance of clothes; the traveling-suit was gray, and the small gray hat had an encircling breast of white feathers. the lips had a quiet, demure curve; but the chin was determined, almost aggressive, while the gray eyes positively emitted sparks. the girl was not beautiful, she was luminous--and all the gray clothing in the world could not quench her. peter found himself instantly wondering how anything so vitally alive and fresh to look at could be headed for a sanitarium with broken-down hulks like himself. she caught peter's eye upon her and smiled. "if flanders will hurry we'll be there in time to see hennessy feeding the swans," she announced. there was no response. peter had suddenly lost the knack of it, along with other things. he could only look bewildered and a trifle more tired. but the girl must have understood it was only a temporary lack, for she did not draw in like a snail and dismiss peter from her conscious horizon. she smiled again. "i see. newcomer?" and, nodding an affirmative to herself, she went sociably on: "hennessy and the swans are symbolical. couldn't tell you why--not in a thousand years--but you'll feel it for yourself after you've been here long enough. hennessy hasn't changed in fifteen years--maybe longer for those who can reckon longer. same old blue jumper, same old tawny corduroys; if he ever had a new pair he's kept them to himself. and the swans have changed less than hennessy. if anything gets on your nerves here--treatment, doctors, nurses, anything--go and watch hennessy. he's the one sure, universal cure." the bus swung round the corner and brought the ivy-covered building into sight. the girl's face grew lighter and lighter; in the shadow of the bus it seemed to peter actually to shine. "dear old san," she said under her breath. "heigh-ho! it's good to get back!" before peter could fathom any reason for this unaccountable rejoicing, the bus had stopped and the girl and suitcase had vanished. wearily he came back to his own reason for being there, and docilely he allowed the porter to shoulder his luggage and conduct him within. three days passed--three days in which peter thought little and felt much. he had been passed about among the staff of doctors very much like a delectable dish, and sampled by all. half a dozen had taken him in hand. he had been apportioned a treatment, a diet, a bath hour, and a nurse. looking back on those three days--and looking forward to a continuous protraction of the same--he could see less reason than ever for coaxing an existence out of life. life meant to him work--efficient, telling work--and companionship--sharing with a congenial soul recreation, opinions, and meals--and some day, love. well--what of these was left him? it was then that he remembered the gray girl's advice in the omnibus and went out to find hennessy and the swans. his nurse was at supper, so he was mercifully free; moreover it was the emptiest time of day for out-of-doors. a few straggling patients were knocking prescribed golf-balls about the links, and a scattering of nurses were hurrying in with their wheel-chairs. half-way between the links and the last building was the pond, shaded by pines and flanked by a miniature rustic rest-house, and thither peter went. on a willow stump emerging from the pond he found hennessy, as wrinkled as a butternut, with a thatch of gray hair, a mouth shirred into a small, open ellipse, and eyes full of irrepressible twinkles. he was seated tailor fashion on the stump, a tin platter of bread across his knees and the swans circling about him. he looked every whit as irish as his name, and he was scolding and blarneying the birds by turn. "go-wan, there, ye feathered heathen! can't ye be lettin' them that has good manners get a morsel once in a while? faith, ye'll be havin' old doc willum afther ye with his stomach cure if ye don't watch out." he looked over his shoulder and caught peter's gaze. "sure, birds or humans, they all have to be coaxed or scolded into keepin' healthy, i'm thinkin', and hennessy's head nurse to the swans," he ended, with a chuckle. but there was something quite different on peter's mind. "has one of the patients--a young person in gray--been here lately? i mean have you seen her about any time?" hennessy shook a puzzled head. "a young gray patient, ye say? sure there might be a hundred--that's not over-distinguishin'. i leave it to ye, sir, just a gray patient is not over-distinguishin'." peter reflected. "it was a quiet, cloister kind of gray, but her eyes were not--cloistered. they were the shiningest--" a chuckle from hennessy brought him to an abrupt finish. "eyes? gray? patient? ha, ha! did ye hear that, brian boru?" and he flicked his cap at a gray swan. "sure, misther, that's no patient. 'tis leerie--herself." "leerie?" the name sounded absurd to peter, and slightly reminiscent of something, he could not tell what. "aye, leerie. real name, sheila o'leary--as good a name as hennessy. but they named her leerie her probation year. in course she's irish an' not scotch, an' i never heard tell of a lass afore that went 'round a-lightin' street lamps, but for all that the name fits. ye mind grown-ups an' childher alike watch for her to come 'round." "a nurse," repeated peter, dully. "aye. an' she come back three days since, heaven be praised! afther bein' gone three years." "three years," repeated peter again. "why was she gone three years?" hennessy eyed him narrowly for a moment. "a lot of blitherin' fools sent her away, that's what, an' she not much more than graduated. suspension, they called it." "suspension for what?" the shirring in hennessy's lips tightened, and he drew his breath in and out in a sort of asthmatic whistle. this was the only sign of emotion ever betrayed by hennessy. when he spoke again he fairly whistled his words. "if ye want to know what for--ye can ask some one else. good night." and with a bang to the platter hennessy was away before peter could stop him. alone with the swans, peter lingered a moment to consider. a nurse. the gray person a nurse! and sent away for some--some--peter's mind groped inadequately for a reason. pshaw! he could smile at the absurdity of his interest. what did it matter--or she matter--or anything matter? for a man who has been given up, who has been sent away to a sanitarium to finish with life as speedily and decently as he can, to stand on one leg by a pond, for all the world like a swan himself, and wonder about a girl he had seen but once, in a sanitarium omnibus, was absurd. and the name leerie? of course they had taken it from stevenson, but it suited. yes, hennessy was right, it certainly suited. a rustle of white skirts coming down the path attracted his attention. it was his nurse, through supper, coming like a commandant to take him in charge. thirty-seven, in a sanitarium, with a nurse attendant! peter groaned inwardly. it was monstrous, a cowardly, blackguard attack of an unthinking creator on a human being--a decent human being--who might be--who wanted to be--of some use in the world. for a breath he wanted to roar forth blasphemy after blasphemy against the universe and its maker, but in the next breath he suddenly realized how little he cared. with a smile almost tragically senile, he let the nurse lead him away. and all the while a girl was leaning over the sill of the little rest-house, watching him. it was a girl with a demure mouth, a determined chin, and eyes that shone, who answered impartially to the names of sheila, miss o'leary, or leerie. the gray was changed for the white uniform and cap of a graduate nurse, and the change was becoming. she had recognized him at first with casual amusement as she watched him fill her prescription of hennessy and the swans, but after hennessy had gone she watched him with all the intuitive sympathy of her womanhood and the understanding of her profession. not one of the emotions that swept peter's face but registered full on the girl's sensibilities: the illuminating interest in something, bewilderment, hopelessness, despair, agony, and a final weary surrender to the inevitable--they were all there. but it was the strange, haunting look in the deep-set eyes that made the girl sit up, alert and curious. "'phobia," she said, softly, under her breath. "not over-fed liver or alcoholic heart, but 'phobia, i'll wager, poor childman! wonder how the doctors have diagnosed him!" she learned how a few days later when miss maxwell, the superintendent of nurses, stopped her in the second-floor corridor. "my dear, i should like to change you from madam courot to another case for a few days. miss jacobs is on now and--" "coppy?" sheila o'leary broke in abruptly, a smile of amusement breaking the demureness of her lips. "needn't explain, miss max. i see. young male patient, unattached. frequent pulse-takings and cerebral massage, with late evening strolls in the pine woods. business office takes notice and a change of nurse recommended. poor coppy--ripping nurse! if only she wouldn't grow flabby every time a pair of masculine eyes are focused her way!" "but it wasn't the business office this time." miss maxwell herself smiled as she made the statement. "it was the patient himself. he asked for a change." "a man that's a man for all he's a patient. god bless his soul!" and a look of sudden radiant delight swept the girl's face. "what's he here for? jilting chorus-girl--fatty degeneration of his check-book?" the superintendent shook her head. "he doesn't happen to be that kind. he's a newspaper-man--a personal friend of doctor dempsy's. overwork, he thinks, and for a year he's been trying to put him back on his feet. it's a case of nerves, with nothing discoverable back of it so far as he can see, but he wants us to try. doctor nichols has analyzed him; teeth have been x-rayed; eyes, nose, and throat gone over. there's nothing radically wrong with stomach or kidneys; heart shows nervous affection, nothing more. he ought to be fit physically and he isn't. miss jacobs reports a maximum of an hour's sleep in twenty-four. doctor dempsy writes it's a case for a nurse, not a doctor, and the most tactful, intuitive nurse we have in the sanitarium. please take it, leerie." the girl stiffened under the two hands placed on her shoulders, while something indescribably baffling and impenetrable took possession of her whole being. her voice became almost curt. "sorry, can't. bargain, you know. wouldn't have come back at all if you hadn't promised i should not be asked to take those cases." "i'll not ask you to take another, but you know how i feel about any patient doctor dempsy sends to us. anything i can do means paying back a little on the great debt i owe him, the debt of a wonderful training. that's why i ask--this once." a look almost fanatical came into the face of the superintendent. the girl smiled wistfully up at her. "wish i could! honest i do, miss max! i'd fight for the life of any patient under the old san roof--man, woman, or child; but i'll not baby-tend unhealthy-minded young men. you know as well as i how it's always been: they lose their heads and i my temper--results, the same. i end by telling them just what i think; they pay their bills and leave the same day. the san loses a perfectly good annual patient, and the business office feels sore at me. no, i'm no good at frequent pulses and cerebral massage; leave that to coppy." there was no stinging sarcasm in the girl's voice. she reached out an impulsive hand and slipped it into one of the older woman's, leaving it there long enough to give it a quick, firm grip. "remember, it's only three years--and it takes so little to set tongues wagging again. so let's stick fast to the bargain, dear; only nervous old ladies or the bad surgical cases." "very well. only--if you could change your mind, let me know. in the mean time i'll put miss saunders on," and the superintendent turned away, troubled and unsatisfied. an hour later sheila o'leary came upon miss saunders with her new patient, and the patient was the man of the omnibus--the man with the haunting, deep-set eyes. unnoticed, she watched them sitting on a bench by the pond, the nurse droning aloud from a book, the man sagging listlessly, plainly hearing nothing and seeing nothing. the picture set sheila o'leary shuddering. if it was a case of 'phobia, god help the poor man with saunders coupled to his nerves! cumbersome, big-hearted, and hopelessly dull, saunders was incapable of nursing with tactful insight a nerve-racked man. in the whole wide realm of disease there seemed nothing more tragic to sheila than a victim of 'phobia. it turned normal men and women into pitiful children, afraid of the dark, groping out for the hand to reassure them, to put heart and courage back in them again--the hand that nine cases out of ten never reaches them in time. with an impulsive toss of her head, sheila o'leary swung about in her tracks. she would break her own bargain for this once. she would go to miss max and ask to be put on the case. here was a soul sick unto death with a fear of something, and saunders was nursing it! what did it matter if it was a man or a dog, as long as she could get into the dark after him and show him the way out! her resolve held to the point of branching paths, and there she stopped to consider again. peter's eyes were on the swans; there was nothing to the general droop of the shoulders, the thrust-forward bend of the neck, the hollowing of the smooth-shaven cheeks, and the graying of the hair above the temples to write him other than an average overworked or habitually harassed business man here for rest and treatment. if sheila was mistaken--if there was no abnormal mental condition back of it all, no legitimate reason for not holding fast to the compact she had made three years before with herself to leave men--young, old, or middle-aged--out of her profession, what a fool she would feel! she balanced the paths and her judgment for a second, then decided in favor of the bargain. so peter was left to the ministrations of saunders. that night the unexpected happened, unexpected as far as the sanitarium, the superintendent of nurses, and sheila o'leary were concerned. how unexpected it was to peter depends largely on whether it was the result of a decision on his part to stop coaxing existence--or a desire to escape permanently from saunders--or merely an accident. however, sheila o'leary was called in the middle of the night, when she was sleeping so soundly that it took the combined efforts of the superintendent and the head night nurse to shake her awake. as she hurried into her uniform they gave her the bare details. somehow the doors of the sun-parlor had not been fastened as usual, and a patient had stayed up there after lights were out. he had tried to find his way to the lift, had slipped the fastenings of the door in his effort to locate the bell, and had fallen four stories, to the top of the lift itself. the whole accident was unbelievable, unprecedented. they might find some plausible explanation in the morning--but in the mean time the patient was in the operating-room and sheila o'leary was to report at once for night duty. as the girl pinned on her cap the superintendent whispered the last instructions: "you'll find him in number three, surgical. it's one of your fighting cases, leerie, and it's doctor dempsy's patient. remember, your best work this time, girl, for all our sakes!" and it was a fighting case. innumerable nights followed, all alike. the temperature rose and fell a little, only to rise again; the pulse strengthened and weakened by turns; delirium continued unbroken. as night after night wore on and no fresh sign of internal injury developed, the girl found herself forgetting the immediate condition of the patient and going back to the thing that had brought him here. if she was right and he was possessed by a fixed idea, the dread of some concrete thing or experience, his delirium showed no evidence. it seemed more the delirium of exhaustion than fever, and there was no raving. consciousness, however, might reveal what delirium hid, so, as the nights slipped monotonously by, the girl found herself waiting with a growing eagerness for the man to come back to himself. the waiting seemed interminable, but a time came at last when sheila slipped through the door of no. and found a pair of deep-set, haunting eyes turned full upon her. "it's--it's leerie." the words came with some difficulty, but there was an untold relief in peter's voice. for a moment the girl was taken aback, but only for a moment. she laughed him a friendly little laugh while she put her hand down to the hand that was still too weak to reach out in greeting. "yes. oh yes, it's leerie. been getting pretty well acquainted with you these weeks, but rather a surprise to find it so--so mutual." "i got acquainted with you--beforehand," announced peter. "i see--omnibus, hennessy, and the swans." she laughed again softly. "you've been away a long time; hope you're glad to get back." peter reflected. "i'm afraid i'm not. but i'll not say it if it sounds too much like a quitter." "no, say it and get it out of your system. getting well always seems a terrible undertaking; and the stronger you've been the harder it seems." sheila turned to her chart and preparations for the night. lights out, she sat down by the open window to wait for peter to sleep. an hour passed, two hours, and sleep did not come. she fed him hot milk and he still lay open-eyed, almost rigid, staring straight at the ceiling. at midnight she stole out for her own supper in the diet-kitchen and found him still awake when she returned, the haunting eyes looking more child's than man's in the dimness of the night lamp. had she been free to follow her most vagrant impulse, she would have climbed on the head of the bed, taken the bandaged head on her lap, and plunged into the most enthralling tale of boy adventure her imagination could compass. but she hounded off the impulse, after the fashion of treating all vagrants, and went back to the window to wait and wonder. peter was still awake when the gray of the morning crept down the corridors of the surgical. sheila questioned tyler, the day nurse, as she came off duty the next evening, "number three sleep any to boast of?" "why, no! didn't he sleep well last night?" she gave a non-committal shrug and passed into the room. he was watching for her coming, and a ghost of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. she couldn't remember having seen even so much of a smile before. "it's--it's leerie." he said it just as he had the night before. but there was a strange, wistful appeal in the voice which set sheila wondering afresh. "gorgeous night, full of stars, and air like wine. smell the verbena and thyme from the san gardens?" sheila threw back her head and sniffed the air like a wild thing. "took me a month to trail that smell--be sure of it. you only get it at night after a light rain. take some long breaths of it and you'll be asleep before lights are out." but he was not. he lay rigid as the night before, his eyes staring straight before him. sheila remembered a description she had read once of a mountain guide who had been caught on the edge of a landslide and hung for hours over the abyss, clutching a half-felled tree and trying to keep awake until help came. the man she was nursing might almost be living through such an agony of mind and body, afraid to yield up his consciousness lest he should go plunging off into some horrible abyss. what did he fear? was it sleep? was somnophobia what lay behind the wrecking of this fine, clean manhood? the thing seemed incredible, and yet--and yet-- before dawn crept again into the surgical, the mind of sheila o'leary was made up. peter was suddenly aware that the nurse was close at his bedside, chafing the clenched fingers free. it was that mysterious hour that hangs between the going night and coming day, the most non-resisting time for body and mind, when the human will gives up the struggle if it gives it up at all. and sheila o'leary, being well aware of this, rubbed the tense nerves into a comfortable state of relaxation and talked. first she talked of the city, and found he was not city-born. then she talked of the country--of south, east, and west--and located his birthplace in a small new england village. she talked of the outdoor freedom of a country boy, of the wholesome work and fun on a farm with a large family and good old-fashioned parents, and she found that he had been an only child, motherless, with a family consisting of a misanthropic, grief-stricken father and a hired girl. his voice sounded toneless and more tired than ever as he spoke of his childhood. "lonely?" queried sheila. "perhaps." "neglected and--frightened?" "what do you mean?" the girl leaned over the bed and looked straight into the eyes that seemed to be daring her to find the way into his darkness and at the same time barring fast the door against her coming. she smiled gently. "tell me--can you remember when you first began to fear sleep?" there was no denial, no protest. peter sighed as a little worn-out boy might have sighed with the irksome concealment of some forbidden act. "i don't know," he said at last. "i can't think back to a time when i wasn't afraid--afraid of the dropping out, into the dark. god!" he turned his head away, and for the first time in two weary, wakeful nights sheila saw him close his eyes. off duty, instead of going to breakfast and bed, sheila o'leary went to the office of the superintendent of nurses. in her usual fashion she came straight to her point. "put saunders back on number three and give me a couple of days off. please, miss max." her abruptness shook the almost unshakable calm of miss maxwell. she gazed at the girl in frank amazement. "may i ask why?" there was a kindly irony in the question. "sounds queer, i know, but i've simply got to go. lots depends on it, and no time now to explain. want to catch that eight-thirty-five; flanders is holding the bus. tell you when i get back--please, miss max?" and taking consent for granted, sheila started for the door. there was an odd look on the face of the superintendent as she watched her go--a look of amused, loving pride. she might hide it from their little world, but she could not deny it to herself, that of all the girls she had helped to train, none had come so close to her heart as this girl with her wonderful insight, her honesty, her plain speaking, and her heart of gold. a hundred times she had defied the rules of the sanitarium, had swept the superintendent's dignity to the four winds. and she would continue to do so, and they would continue to overlook it. such petty offenses are forgiven the leeries the world over. and now, watching the gray, alive figure climbing into the omnibus, miss maxwell had no mind to resent her breach of discipline. she knew the girl had asked nothing for herself; she had gone to do something for somebody who needed it, and she would report for duty again when that was accomplished. and two days later, accordingly, she came, a luminous, ecstatic figure that flew into the office with arms outstretched to swing the superintendent almost off her feet in joyful triumph. "it _was_ just what i thought! found the girl--only she is an old woman now--got the whole miserable story from her, and--and--i think--i think--good heart alive! i think i can pull him out of the beastly old hole!" "meaning--? remember, my dear, i haven't the grain of an idea why you went, or where you went, or what the miserable story is about. please shine your lantern this way and light up my intelligence." miss maxwell was beaming. sheila o'leary laughed. "i began by jumping at conclusions--same as i always do--jumped at 'phobia in number three. almost came and asked to be put on the case after you told me. but he isn't number three any more--he's a little boy named peter--a little boy, almost a baby, frightened night after night for years and years into lying still in the dark under the eaves in a little attic room, deliberately frightened by a hired girl who wanted to be free to go off gadding with her young man. i got the place and her name from peter--coaxed it out of him--and i made her tell me the story. the father paid her extra wages to stay at night so the little boy wouldn't be lonely and miss his mother too much, and she didn't want him to find out she had gone. so she'd put peter to bed and tell him that if he stirred or cried out the walls would close in on him--or the floor would swallow him up--or the ghosts would come out of the corners and eat him up or carry him off. can't you see him there, a little quivering heap of a boy, awake in the dark, afraid to move? can't you feel how he would lie and listen to all the sounds about him--the squealing mice, the creaking rafters, the wind moaning in the eaves--too terrified to go to sleep? and when he did sleep--worn out--can't you imagine what his dreams would be like? oh, women like that--women who could frighten little sensitive children--ought to be burned as they burned the witches!" the girl's eyes blazed and she shook a pair of clenched fists into the air. "and can you see the rest of it? how the fear grew and grew even as the memory of the tales faded, grew into a nameless, unexplainable fear of sleep? and because he was a boy he hid it; and because he was a man he fought it; but the thing nailed him at last. he fought sleep until he lost the habit of sleep. he couldn't get along without it, and here he is!" "well, what are you going to do?" the superintendent eyed her narrowly; her cheeks were as flushed as the girl's. a little enigmatical smile curved up the corners of the usually demure mouth. "going to play leerie--going to play it harder than i ever did in my life before." and that night as peter turned his head wearily toward the door to greet the kindly, cumbersome saunders, he found, to his surprise, the owner of the shining eyes come back. he felt so ridiculously glad about it that he couldn't even trust himself to tell her so. instead he repeated foolishly the same old thing, "why, it's--it's leerie!" when everything was ready for the night, sheila turned the night-light out and lowered the curtain until it was quite dark. then she drew her chair close to the bed and slipped her hand into the lean, clenched one on the coverlid. "don't think of me as a girl--a nurse--a person--at all, to-night," she said, softly. "i'm just a piece of stevenson's poem come to life--a lamplighter for a little boy going to sleep all alone in a farm-house attic. it's very dark. you can hear the mice squeal and the rafters creak, if you listen, and the window's so small the stars can't creep in. in the daytime the attic doesn't seem far away or very strange, but at night it's miles--miles away from the rest of the house, and it's full of things that may happen. that's why i'm here with my lamp." sheila stopped a moment. she could hear the man's breath coming quick, with a catch in it--a child breathes that way when it is fighting down a cry or a sob. then she went on: "of course it's a magical lamp i carry, and with the first sputter and spark it lights up and turns the attic inside out--and there we are, the little boy and i, hand in hand, running straight for the brook back of the house. the lamp burns as bright as the sun now, so it seems like day--a spring day. it isn't the mice squealing at all that you hear, but the birds singing and the brook running. there are cowslips down by the brook, and 'jacks.' here by the big stone is a chance to build a bully good dam and sailboats made out of the shingles blown off from the barn roof. want to stop and build it now?" "all right." there was almost a suppressed laugh in the voice; it certainly sounded glad. and the hand on the coverlid was as relaxed as that of a child being led somewhere it wants to go. sheila smiled happily in the dark: "you must get stones, then--lots and lots of them--and we'll pile them together. there's one stone--and two stones--and three stones. another stone here--another here--another here--a big one there where the current runs swiftest, and little stones for the chinks." according to sheila o'leary's best reckoning the dam was only half built when the little boy fell fast asleep over his work. and when the gray of the morning stole down the corridors of the surgical, no. was sleeping, with one arm thrown over his head as little boys sleep, and the other holding fast to the nurse on night duty. but it takes a long while to break down an old habit and build up a new one, as it takes a long while to build a dam. no less than tons of stones must have gone to the building of peter's before the time came when he could drop asleep alone and unguided. in all that time neither he nor the girl ever spoke of what lay between the putting out of the night lamp and the waking fresh and rested to a welcomed day. with sleep came speedy recovery, and peter was the most popular convalescent in the surgical. his laugh had suddenly grown contagious, his humor irresistible, his outlook on life so optimistically bubbling that less cheery patients turned their wheel-chairs to no. for revitalizing. the chief came up with doctor dempsy from town, and both went away wearing the look of men who have seen miracles. life in its fullness had come to peter, the life he had dreamed of, as a lost crosser of the desert dreams of water. efficient work was to be his again, and companionship, and--yes, for the first time he hoped for the third and best of life's ingredients--he hoped for love. and then, just as everything looked best and brightest, he was told that he no longer needed a night nurse. sheila o'leary was put on the case of an old lady with chronic dyspepsia. she told him herself, as she went off duty in the surgical for the last time. "you've had the best sleep of all." she smiled at his efforts to pull himself awake. "i'll drop in when i'm passing, to see how you're getting on, but otherwise this is good-by and good luck." she held out her hand. "why--but--hang it all! i can't get along without a night nurse. and if i don't need one, why can't you take miss tyler's place in the day?" "orders." sheila announced it as an unshakable fact. "i'll see miss maxwell." "no use. she wouldn't listen." "guess if i'm paying for it i can have--" sheila o'leary's chin squared and her body stiffened. "there are some things no one can pay for, mr. brooks." peter colored crimson. he reached quickly for the hand sheila had pulled away. "what an ungrateful cur you must think i am! and i've never said a word--never thanked you." "there was nothing to thank for. i was only undoing what another woman had done long ago. that's one of the glad things about nursing; we so often have a chance at just that sort of thing--the chance to make up for some of the blind mistakes in life. good-by. i'm late now." "but--but--" peter held frantically to the hand. "'pon my soul, i can't let you go until--until--" he broke off, crimsoning again. "promise a time when you will come back--just a minute i can count on and look forward to. please!" "all right--i'll be back at four--just for a minute." it happened, however, that miss jacobs--pink-cheeked, auburn-haired, green-eyed little miss jacobs, the first nurse on peter's case, blew into no. a few minutes before four. she had developed the habit of blowing in at least once in the day and telling peter how perfectly splendid it was to see him getting along so well. but as he did not happen to look quite so well this time, she condoled and wormed the reason out of peter. "leerie off duty! don't you think it's rather remarkable they let her stay so long? of course the management, as a rule, doesn't let her have cases of--of this kind. a girl who's been sent away on account of--of--questionable conduct isn't exactly safe to trust. don't you think so? and the san can't afford to risk its reputation." for an instant the green eyes shimmered and glistened balefully, while she tossed her auburn curls coyly at peter. "it's really too bad, for she's a wonderful surgical nurse. all the best surgeons want her on their cases. that's why they put her on with you; that's really why they let her come back at all." a look in peter's eyes stopped her and made her look back over her shoulder. sheila o'leary stood in the open doorway. for an instant the perpetual assurance of miss jacobs was shaken, but only for an instant. she smiled tolerantly. "hello, leerie! i've been telling mr. brooks what a wonderful surgical nurse you are." the gray eyes of the girl in the doorway looked steadily into the green eyes of the girl by the bed. "thank you, coppy, i heard you." and she stepped aside to let the other pass out. "well?" she asked when the two were alone. "well!" answered peter, emphatically. "everything is very, very well. do you know," and he smiled up at her like a happy small boy--"do you know that all the while you were building that dam i was building something else?" "were you?" "i was building my life over again--building it fresh, with the fear gone and everything sound and strong and fine. and into the chinks where all the miserable empty places had been--the places where loneliness and heartache eternally leaked through--i was fitting love, the love i never dared dream of." "yes?" the girl's lips looked strangely hard--almost bitter, peter thought; and this time he reached out both arms to her. "hang it all! it's tough on a man who's never dared dream of love to have it take him, bandaged and tied to his bed. leerie--leerie! you wouldn't have the heart to blow out the lamp now, would you?" the lips softened, she gave a sad little shake of her head. "no, but you've got to keep it burning yourself. you're a man; you can do it. sorry--can't help it. and please don't say anything more. don't spoil it all, and make me say things i wish i hadn't and send you off to pay your bill and leave the san to-night." she smiled wistfully. "dear, grown-up boy! don't you know that it's the customary thing for a man to think he's fallen in love with his nurse when he's convalescing? just get well and forget it--as all the others do." she turned toward the door. "i'm not going to pay my bill to-night, and i'm not going to forget it. i guess all those chinks haven't been filled up yet. i'm going to stay until they are. good plan, don't you think?" and peter brooks smiled like a man who had never been given up--nor ever intended giving up, now that life had given him back the things for which he had a right to fight. chapter ii old king cole hennessy was feeding the swans. sheila o'leary leaned over the sill of the diminutive rustic rest-house and watched him with a tired contentment. she had just come off a neurasthenic case--a week of twenty-four-hour duty--and she wanted to stretch her cramped sensibilities in the quiet peace of the little house and invite her soul with a glimpse of hennessy and the swans. all about her the grounds of the sanitarium were astir with its customary crowd of early-summer-afternoon patients. how those first warm days called the sick folks out-of-doors and held them there until the last beam of sunshine had disappeared behind the foremost hill! the tennis-courts were full; the golf-links were dotted about with spots of color like a cubist picture; pairs of probationers, arm in arm, were strolling about, enjoying a comparative leisure; old madam courot was at her customary place under the juniper, watching the sun go down. three years! nothing seemed changed in all that time but the patients--and not all of these, as madame courot silently testified. the pines shook themselves above the rest-house in the same lazy, vagabond fashion, the sun purpled the far hills and spun the same yellow haze over the links, the wind brought its habitual afternoon accompaniment of cow-bells from the sanitarium farm, and hennessy threw the last crumb of bread to brian boru, the gray swan, as he had done for the fifteen years sheila could remember. she folded her arms across the sill and rested her chin on them. how good it was to be back at the old san, to settle down to its kindly, comfortable ways and the peace of its setting after the feverish restlessness of city hospitals! she remembered what kipling had said, that the hill people who came down to the plains were always hungering to get back to the hills again. that was the way she had felt about it--always a hunger to come back. for months and months she had thought that she might forever have to stay in those hospitals, have to make up her mind to the eternal plains--and then had come her reprieve--she had been called back to the san and the work she loved best. had the place been any other than the sanitarium, and the person any other than sheila o'leary, this would never have happened. for she had left under a cloud, and in similar cases a cloud, once gathered, grows until it envelops, suffocates, and finally annihilates the person. as a graduate nurse she would have ceased to exist. but in spite of the most blighting circumstances, those who counted most believed in her and trusted her. they had only waited for time to forget and tongues to stop wagging, and then they had called her back. perhaps the strangest thing about it was that sheila did not look like a person who could have had even the smallest, fleeciest of clouds brushing her most distant horizon. in fact, so vital, warm, and glowing was her personality, so radiant her nature, that she seemed instead a permanent dispeller of clouds. from across the pond hennessy watched her with adoring eyes as he gave his habitual, final bang to the bread-platter and the hitch to his corduroys preparatory to leaving. to his way of thinking, there was no nurse enrolled on the books of the old san who could compare with her. in the beginning he had prophesied great things of her to flanders, the bus-driver. "ye mind what i'm tellin' ye," he had said. "afore she's finished her trainin' she'll have more lads a-dandtherin' round her than if she'd been the king of ireland's only daughter. ye can take my word for it, when she leaves here, 'twill be a grand home of her own she'll be goin' to an' no dirty hospital." that had been three years ago, and hennessy sighed now over the utter futility of his words. "sure, who could have been seein' that one o' the lads would have turned blackguard? hennessy knows. just give the lass time for that hurt to heal, an' she'll be winnin' a home of her own, after all." this he muttered to himself as he took the path leading toward the rest-house. sheila saw him coming, his lips shirred to the closeness of some emotional strain. "hello, hennessy! what's troubling?" she called down the path. "faith, it's mr. peter brooks that's troublin'. 'tis a week, now, that ye've been off that case--an' he's near cured. another week now--" "in another week he'll be going back to his work--and i'll be very glad." hennessy eyed the girl narrowly. "will ye, then? why did ye cure him up so fast for, miss leerie? why didn't ye give the poor man a chance?" no one but hennessy would have had sufficient temerity for such a question, but had any one dared to ask it, upon their heads would have fallen the combined anger and bitterness of sheila's tongue. for having had occasion once for bitterness, it was not over-hard to waken it when men served as topics. but at hennessy she smiled tolerantly. "didn't i give him a chance to get well? that was all he needed or wanted. and, now he's well, he'll go about his business." "faith," and hennessy closed a suggestive eye, "that depends on what he takes to be his business. in my young days the choosin' an' courtin' of a wife was the big part of a man's business. now if he comes round askin' my opinion--" "tell him, hennessy"--and sheila fixed him firmly with a glance--"that the sanitarium does not encourage its cured patients to hang about bothering its nurses. it is apt to make trouble for the nurses. understand?" again hennessy closed one eye; then he laughed. "when ye talk of devils ye're sure to smell brimstone. there comes mr. brooks now, an' he has his head back like a dog trailin' the wind." the girl turned and followed hennessy's jerking thumb with her eyes. across the pine grove, coming toward them, was a young man above medium height, square-shouldered and erect. there was nothing startlingly handsome nor remarkable about his appearance; he was just nice, strong, clean-looking. he waved to the two by the rest-house. "and do ye mind his looks when he came!" hennessy's tone denoted wonder and admiration. "a human wreck--haunted at that." there was a good deal more than mere professional interest in sheila's tone; there was pride and something else. it was past hennessy's perceptive powers to define what, but he noticed it, nevertheless, and looked sharply up at the girl. "for the love o' mike, miss leerie! why can't ye stop ticketin' each man as a case an' begin thinkin' about them human-like? ye might begin practisin' wi' mr. brooks." the line of sheila's lips became fixed; the chin that could look so demure, the eyes that could look so soft and gentle, both backed up the lips in an expression of inscrutable hardness. "in the name of your patron saint, hennessy, what have you said to miss leerie to turn her into that sphinx again?" the voice of peter brooks was as nice as his appearance. hennessy looked foolish. "i was tellin' her, then," he moistened his lips to allow a safer emigration of words--"i was tellin' her--that the gray swan had the rheumatism in his left leg, an' i was askin' her, did she think doctor willum would prescribe a thermo bath for him. i'd best be askin' him meself, maybe," and with a sudden pull at his forelock hennessy backed away down the path. peter brooks watched him depart with an admiration equal to that with which hennessy had welcomed him. "that man has a wonderful insight into human nature. now i was just wishing i could have you all alone for about--" sheila interrupted him. "i hope you weren't counting on too many minutes. i can see miss maxwell coming down the san steps, and i have a substantial feeling that she's looking for me to put me on another case." "couldn't we escape? couldn't we skip round by the farm to the garage and get my car? you look fagged out. a couple of hours' ride would do wonders for you, and--good lord! the san can run that long without your services. what do you say? shall we beat it?" with a telltale, pent-up eagerness he noticed the girl's indecision and flung himself with all his persuasive powers to turn the balance in his favor. "do come. you can work better and harder for a little time off now and then. all the other nurses take it. why under the heavens can't a man ever persuade you to have a little pleasure?" something in sheila's face stopped him and prompted the one argument that could have persuaded her. "if you'll only come, leerie, i'll promise to keep dumb--absolutely dumb. i'll promise not to spoil the ride for you." sheila flung him a radiant smile; it almost unbalanced him and murdered his resolve. "then i'll come. you're the first man i ever knew who could keep his word--that way. hurry! we'll have to run for it." and taking the lead, she ducked through the little door of the rest-house and ran, straight as the crow flies, to the hiding shelter of the farm. but her premonition was correct. when she returned two hours later in the cool of a summer's twilight, with eyes that sparkled like iridescent pools and lips that smiled generously her gratitude to the man who could keep his word, she found the superintendent of nurses watching from the san steps for their car. "all right, miss maxwell," she nodded in response to the question that was plainly stamped on the superintendent's face. "we've had supper--don't even have to change my uniform." then to peter, "thank you." the words were meager enough, but peter brooks had already received his compensation in the girl's glowing face. "it's 'off again, on again, gone again,' in your profession, too. well, here's looking forward to the next escape." his laugh rang with health and good spirits. sheila stopped on her way up the steps, turned and looked back at him. the wonder of his recovery often surprised even herself. it seemed incredible that this pulsing, vitalized portion of humanity could have once been a veritable husk, hounded by a haunting fear into a state of hopelessness and loathing of existence. life certainly tingled in peter now, and every time sheila felt it, man or no man, she could not help rejoice with all her heart at the thing she had helped to do. peter's smile met hers half-way in the dusk. "it may be another week before i see you again. in case--i'd like to tell you that i'm staying on indefinitely. the chief has pushed me out of my sunday section and has sent me a lot of special articles to do up here. he thinks i had better not come back until i'm all fit." "you're perfectly fit now." there was a brutal frankness in the girl's words. peter had grown used to these moments. they no longer troubled or hurt him. he had begun to understand. "maybe i am; i feel so, but you can never tell. then there's always the danger of one's heart going back on one. that's why i've decided to stay on and coddle mine. rather good plan?" sheila o'leary vouchsafed no answer. she disappeared through the entrance of the sanitarium, leaving peter brooks still smiling. neither his expression nor position had changed a few seconds later when miss jacobs touched him on the arm. "oh, mr. brooks! were you the guilty party--running away with leerie? for the last two hours we've been combing the san grounds for her." the green eyes of the flirtatious nurse gleamed peculiarly catlike in the dusk. "of course i don't suppose my opinion counts so very much with you," there was a honeyed, self-deprecatory quality in the girl's tone, "but if i were you, i wouldn't go about so awfully much with leerie. she's a dear girl--i don't suppose it's really her fault--but she had such a record. and you know it's my creed that girls of that kind can compromise poor men far oftener than men compromise girls. oh, i do hope you understand what i mean!" peter still wore a smile, but it was a different smile. it was as much like the old one as a search-light is like sunshine. he focused it full on miss jacobs's face. "i'm a shark at understanding. and don't worry about me. i'm more of a shark in deep water with--with sirens." he chuckled inwardly at the look of blank incomprehension on the nurse's face. "by the way, just what did you want miss leary for? not another accident?" the girl gave her head a disgusted toss. "oh, they want her to help an old man die. he came up here a week ago. i saw him then, and he looked ready to burst. doctor macbyrn said he weighed over three hundred and had a blood pressure of two hundred and ten. they can't bring it down, and his heart is about done for. leerie always gets those dying cases. ugh!" the girl shuddered. "guess they wouldn't put me on any of those sure-dead cases; it's bad enough when you happen on them." peter shot her a pitying glance and walked back to his car. he was just climbing in when the girl's voice chirped back to him. "just the night for a ride, isn't it? i couldn't think of letting you go all alone and be lonesome. isn't it lucky i'm off duty till ten!" "lucky for the patient!" peter mumbled under his breath; then aloud: "sorry, but i'm unlucky. only enough gasoline to get her back to the garage. good night." he swung the car free of the curb, leaving little red-headed, green-eyed miss jacobs in the process of gathering up her skirts and mounting into thin air. meanwhile sheila had followed the superintendent to her office. "it's a case of cerebral hemorrhages. the man is no fool; he knows his condition, and he's been getting increasingly hard to take care of every minute since he found out. maybe you've heard of him. he's brandle, the coal magnate. quite alone in the world; no children, and his wife died some few years ago. he's very peculiar, and no one seems to know what to say to him or do for him. i'm a little afraid--" and the superintendent paused to consider her words before committing herself. "i think perhaps there have been too many offers of prayers and scriptural readings for his taste." "probably he'd prefer the last _town topics_ or the latest detective story." sheila shook her head violently. "why can't a man be allowed to die the way he chooses--instead of your way, or my way, or the reverend mr. grumble's way?" "miss barry is on the case now, and i'm afraid he's shocked her into--" "perpetual devotion." sheila grinned sympathetically as she completed the sentence. they had called her prayer-book barry her probation year because of her unswerving religious point of view, and her years of training had only served to increase it. the picture of anything as sensitively pious as prayer-book barry helping a coal magnate to depart this temporal world in his own chosen fashion was too much for sheila's sense of the grotesque. she threw back her head and laughed. peal after peal rang out and over the transom of the superintendent's office just as miss jacobs passed. it took no great powers of penetration to identify the laugh; a look of satisfaction crept into the green eyes. "quite dramatic and brutally unfeeling i call it," she murmured. "but it will make an entertaining story to tell mr. brooks. he thinks leerie is such a little tinseled saint." ten minutes later sheila o'leary followed miss maxwell into the large tower room of the sanitarium to relieve miss barry from duty. as she took her first look from the doorway she almost forgot herself and laughed again. the room might have been a scene set for a farce or a comic opera. propped up in bed, with multitudinous pillows about him, was a very mammoth of a man in heliotrope-silk pajamas. his face was as round and full and bucolic as a poster advertising some specific brew of beer. surmounting the face was a sparse fringe of white hair standing erect, while an isolated lock mounted guard over a receding forehead. it was evident that the natural expression of the face was good-natured, indulgent, easygoing, but at the moment of sheila's entrance it was contorted into something that might have served for a cartoon of a choleric full moon. the eyes were rolling frantically in every direction but that from which the presumable infliction came, for seated at the bedside, with a booklet of evening prayer open on her lap, was miss barry, reading aloud in a sweet, gentle voice. miss barry did not stop until she had finished her paragraph. the cessation of her voice brought the roving eyes to a standstill; then they flew straight to miss maxwell in abject appeal. "take it away, ma'am. don't hurt it--but take it away!" the articulation was thick, but it did not mask the wail in the voice, and a gigantic thumb jerked indicatively toward the patient, asserting figure of miss barry. "all right, mr. brandle." miss maxwell's tone showed neither conciliation nor pity; it was plainly matter-of-fact. "as it happens, i've brought you a new nurse. suppose you try miss o'leary for the next day or two." the wail broke out afresh: "how can i tell if i can stand her? they all look alike--all of 'em. you're the fourth, ain't you?" he turned to the nurse at his bedside for corroboration. "then i'm the fifth," announced sheila, "and there's luck in odd numbers." "five's my number." the mammoth man looked a fraction less distracted as he stated this important fact. "born fifth day of the fifth month, struck it rich when i was twenty-five, married in 'seventy-five, formed the american coal trust december fifth, eighteen ninety-five. how's that for a number?" "and i'm twenty-five, and this is june fifth." sheila smiled. "say, honest?" a glimmer of cheerfulness filtered through. the man beckoned the superintendent of nurses closer and whispered in a perfectly audible voice: "can't you take it away now? i'd like to ask the other some questions before you leave her for keeps." miss maxwell nodded a dismissal to the nurse who had been, and called sheila to the bedside. "look her over well, mr. brandle. miss o'leary isn't a bit sensitive." "o'leary? that's not a bad name. had a shaft boss up at my first anthracite-mine by that name--got on with him first-class. say"--this direct to sheila--"can you pray?" "not unless i have to." "not a bad answer. now what--er--form of--literatoore do you prefer?" "things with pep--punch--go!" "say, shake." the mammoth man smiled as he held out a giant fist. sheila had the feeling she was shaking hands with some prehistoric animal. it was almost repellent, and she had to summon all her sympathy and control to be able to return the shake with any degree of cordiality. "all right, ma'am. you can leave us now to thrash it out man to man. you'd better get back to managing your little white angels," and he swept a dismissing hand toward miss maxwell and the door. oddly enough, there was nothing rude nor affronting in the man's words. there was too much of underlying good nature to permit it. with the closing of the door behind the superintendent he turned to sheila. "now, boss, we might as well understand each other--it'll save strikes or hurt feelings. eh?" sheila nodded. "all right. i'm dying, and i know it. may burst like a paper bag or go up like a penny balloon any minute. now praying won't keep me from bursting a second sooner, or send me up a foot higher, so cut it out." again sheila nodded. "that isn't all. had two nurses who agreed, kept their word, but they hadn't the nerve to keep the parson from praying, and when he was off duty they just sat--twiddled their thumbs and waited for me to quit. couldn't stand that--got on my nerves something fearful." "wanted to murder them, didn't you?" sheila laughed. "well, mr. brandle, suppose we begin with supper and the baseball news. after that we'll hunt up a thriller--biggest thriller they've got in the book-store." "you're boss," was the answer, but a look of relief--almost of contentment--spread over the rubicund face. as sheila was leaving for the supper-tray she paused. "how would you like company for supper?" "company? good lord, not the parson!" "no, me. if you are willing to sign for two, i could bring my supper up with yours." "and not eat alone! by jehoshaphat! give me that slip quick." they had not only a good supper, they had a noisy one. the coal magnate roared over sheila's descriptions of some of the bath treatments and their victims. in the midst of one particularly noisy explosion he suddenly stopped and looked accusingly at her. "why don't you stop me? don't you know doctor's orders? had 'em dinged into my head until i could say 'em backwards: no exertion, no excitement, avoid all undue movement, keep quiet. darn it all! as if i won't have to keep quiet long enough! well--why don't you repeat those fool orders and keep me quiet?" sheila looked at him with a pair of steady gray eyes. "do you know, mr. brandle, it isn't a half-bad way to go out of this world--to go laughing." the mammoth man beamed. he looked for all the world like the full moon suddenly grown beatific. "and i'd just about made up my mind that i'd never find a blamed soul who would feel that way about it. shake again, boss." after the baseball news and a fair start in the thriller, he indulged further in past grievances. "hadn't any more'n settled it for sure i was done for than the parson came and the nurse took to looking mournful. lord almighty! ain't it bad enough to be carted off in a hearse once without folks putting you in beforehand? that's not my notion of dying. i lived pleasant and cheerful, and by the lord harry, i don't see why i can't die that way! and look-a-here, boss, i don't want any of that repenting stuff. i don't need no puling parson to tell me i'm a sinner. any idiot couldn't look at me without guessing that much. say!" he leaned forward with sudden earnestness. "take a good look at me yourself. see any halo or angel trappings about me?" sheila laughed. "i'm afraid not. what you really ought to have--what i miss about you--is the pipe, and the bowl, and the fiddlers three." "what do you mean by that?" "don't you remember? it's an old nursery rhyme; probably you heard it hundreds of times when you were a little boy: "old king cole was a merry old soul and a merry old soul was he. he called for his pipe and he called for his bowl, and he called for his fiddlers three." the coal magnate threw back his head on the pillows and laughed long and loud. he laughed until he grew purple and gasped for breath, and he laughed while he choked, and sheila flew about for stimulants. for a few breathless moments sheila thought she had whipped up the hearse--to use the mammoth man's own metaphor--but after a panting half-hour the heart subsided and the breath came easier. "you nearly did for me that time, boss. but it fits; jehoshaphat, it fits me like a b. v. d.! the only difference you might put down to simplified spelling. eh?" and he cautiously chuckled at his joke. while sheila was making ready for the night he chuckled and lapsed into florid, heliotrope studies by turns. "it's straight, what i told you about being a sinner," he gave verbal expression to his thoughts at last. "that's why i don't leave a cent to charity--not a cent. ain't going to have any peaked-faced, oily-tongued jackasses saying over my coffin that i tried to buy my entrance ticket into the lord almighty's kingdom. no, sirree! i know i've lived high, eaten well, and drunk some. i've made the best of every good bargain that came within eyeshot. i treated my own handsome--and i let the rest of the world go hang. went to church easter sunday every year and put a bill in the plate; you can figure for yourself about how much i've given to charity. never had any time to think of it, anyway--probably wouldn't have given if i had. always thought mother'd live longer'n me and she'd take care of that end of it. but she didn't." for a moment sheila thought the man was going to cry; his lower lip quivered like a baby's, and his eyes grew red and watery. there was no denying it, the man was a caricature; even his grief was ludicrous. he wiped his eyes with the back of his heliotrope sleeve and finished what he had to say. "don't it beat all how the pious vultures croak over you the minute you're done for--reminding you you can't take your money away with you? didn't the parson--first time he came--sit in that chair and open up and begin about the rich man's squeezing through a needle's eye and a lot about putting away temporal stuff? i don't aim to do any squeezing into heaven, i can tell you. and i fixed him all right. ha, ha! i told him as long as the money wouldn't do me and mother any more good i'd settle it so's it couldn't benefit any one else. and that's exactly what i've done. left it all for a monument for us, fancy marble, carved statues, and the whole outfit. it'll beat that toadstool-looking tomb of that prince somewhere in asia all hollow. ha, ha!" he leaned back to enjoy to the full this humorous legacy to himself, but the expression of sheila's face checked it. "say, boss, you don't like what i've done, do you? run it out and dump it; i can stand for straight talk from you." sheila felt repelled even more than she had at first. to have a man at the point of death throw his money into a heap of marble just to keep it from doing good to any one seemed horrible. and yet the man spoke so consistently for himself. he had lived in the flesh and for the flesh all his days; it was not strange that there was no spirit to interpret now for him or to give him the courage to be generous in the face of what the world would think. "it's yours to spend as you like--only--i hate monuments. rather have the plain green grass over me. and don't you think it's queer yourself that a man who had the grit to make himself and a pile of money hasn't the grit to leave it invested after he goes, instead of burying it? supposing you can't live and use it yourself! that's no reason for not letting your money live after you. i'd want to keep my money alive." "alive? say, what do you mean?" "just what i say--alive. charity isn't the only way to dispose of it. leave it to science to discover something new with; give it to the laboratories to study up typhoid or cancer. ever think how little we know about them?" "why should i? i don't owe anything to science." "yes, you do. what developed the need of coal--what gave you the facilities for removing it from your mines? don't tell me you or anybody else doesn't owe something to science." "bosh!" and the argument ended there. the old man had a good night. he dozed as peacefully as if he had not required propping up and occasional hypodermics to keep his lungs and heart going properly, and when the house doctor made his early rounds this sad and shocking spectacle met his eye: the dying coal magnate, arrayed in a fresh and more vivid suit of heliotrope pajamas, smoking a brierwood and keeping a violent emotional pace with the hero in the thrillingest part of the thriller. even sheila's cheeks were tinged with excitement. "miss o'leary!" all the outraged sensibilities of an orthodox, conscientious young house physician were plainly manifested in those two words. out shot the brierwood like a projectile, and a giant finger wagged at the intruder. "look-a-here, young man, the boss and i are running this--er--quitting game to suit ourselves, and we don't need no suggestions from the walking delegate, or the board of directors, or the gang. see? now if you can't say something pleasant and cheerful, get out!" "good morning!" it was the best compromise the house physician could make. but ten minutes after his speedy exit doctor greer, the specialist, and miss maxwell were on the threshold, both looking unmistakably troubled. the coal magnate winked at sheila. "here comes the peace delegates--or maybe it's from the labor union. well, sir?" this was shot straight at the doctor. "mr. brandle, you're mad. i refuse to take any responsibility." "don't have to. that's what's been the matter--too much responsibility. it got on my nerves. now we want to be as--as noisy and as happy as we can, the boss and me. and if we can't do it in this little old medicated brick-pile of yours, why, we'll move. see? or i'll buy it with a few tons of my coal and give it to the boss to run." "when it's yours." the specialist was finding it hard to keep his temper. the man had worn him out in the week he had been at the sanitarium. it had been harder to manage him than a spoiled child or a lunatic. he had had to humor him, cajole him, entreat him, in a way that galled his professional dignity, and now to have the man deliberately and publicly kill himself in this fashion was almost beyond endurance. he tried hard to make his voice sound agreeable as well as determined when he launched his ultimatum. "but in the mean time miss o'leary will have to be removed from the case." "no, you don't!" with a sweep of the giant hand the bedclothes were jerked from their roots, and a pair of heliotrope legs projected floorward. it took the strength of all the three present to hold him back and replace the covering. the magnate sputtered and fumed. "first nurse you put on here after the boss goes--i'll die on her hands in ten minutes just to get even with you. that's what i'll do. and what's more--i'll come back to haunt the both of you. take away my boss--just after we get things going pleasantly. spoil a poor man's prospects of dying cheerful! haven't you any heart, man? and you, ma'am?" this to the superintendent of nurses. "by the lord harry! you're a woman--you ought to have a little sympathy!" the aggressiveness died out of the voice, and it took on the old wail sheila had first heard. "but you forget my professional responsibility in the matter--my principles as an honorable member of my profession. i cannot allow a patient of mine wilfully to endanger his life--even shorten it. you must understand that, mr. brandle." a look of amused toleration spread over the rubicund face. "bless your heart, sonny, you're not allowing me to shorten it one minute. the boss and i are prolonging it first-rate. shouldn't wonder if it would get to be so pleasant having her around i'd be working over union hours and forgetting to quit at all. i'm old enough to be your granddaddy, so take a bit of advice from me. when you can't cure a patient, let 'em die their own way. now run along, sonny. good morning, ma'am." and then to sheila: "get back to that locked door, the three bullet-holes, and the blood patch on the floor. i've got to know what's on the other side before i touch one mouthful of that finnan haddie you promised me for breakfast." after that old king cole had his way. the doctors visited him as a matter of form, and sheila improvised a chart, for he would not stand for having temperatures taken or pulses counted. "cut it out, boss, cut it all out. we're just going to have a good time, you and me." and he smiled seraphically as he drummed on the spread: "old king cole--diddy-dum-diddy-dum, was a merry old soul--diddy-dum-diddy-dum." on the second day sheila introduced peter brooks into the "keeping-on-going syndicate," as the mammoth man termed their temporary partnership. sheila had to take some hours off duty, and as the coal magnate absolutely refused to let another nurse cross his threshold, peter seemed to be the only practical solution. she knew the two men would get on admirably. peter could be counted on to understand and meet any emergency that might arise, while old king cole would be kept content. and sheila was right. "say, we hit it off first-rate--ran together as smooth as a parcel o' greased tubs," the magnate confided to sheila when she returned. "he told me a whole lot about you--what you did for him--and the nickname they'd given you--'leerie.' i like that, but i like my name for you better. eh, boss?" once admitted, peter often availed himself of his membership in the syndicate. he made a third at their games, turned an attentive ear to the thriller or added his bit to the enlightenment of the conversation. and there wasn't a topic from war to feminine-dress reform that they did not attack and thrash out among them with all the keenness and thoroughness of three alive and original minds. "puts me thinking of the days when i was switch boss at the cassie maguire mine. nothing but a shaver then, working up; nothing to do in the god-forsaken hole, after work, but talk. we just about settled the affairs of the world and gave the lord almighty advice into the bargain." the mammoth man laughed a mammoth laugh. "and when we'd talked ourselves inside out we'd have some fiddling--always a fiddle among some of the boys. never hear one of those old tunes that it don't take me back to the cassie maguire and the way a fiddle would play the heart back into a lonely, homesick shaver." he turned with a suspicious sniff to sheila. "come, boss, the chessboard. peter'n'me are going to have another verdun set-to. only this time he's german. see? and if you don't mind, you might fill up our pipes and bring us our four-forty bowl." at one time of the day only did the merriment flag--that was at dusk. "don't like it--never did like it," he confessed. "something about it that gets onto my chest and turns me gloomy. don't suppose you ever smelled the choke-damp, did you? well, that's the feeling. say, boss, wouldn't be a bad plan to shine up that old safety of yours and give us more light in the old pit. mother quit about this time o' day, and it seems like i can't forget it." the next day the coal magnate took a turn for the worse. the heart specialist and the house doctor glowered ominously at sheila as they came to make their unwelcome rounds, and sheila hurried them out of the room as speedily as she could. then it was that she thought of the fiddlers three. an out-of-town orchestra played biweekly at the sanitarium. they were young men, most of them, still apprentices at their art, and she knew they would be glad enough for extra earnings. they were due that evening, and she would engage the services of three violins for the dusk hour the old man dreaded. she did not accomplish this without a protest from the business office, warnings from the two physicians, and shocked comments from the habitual gossips of the sanitarium. but sheila held her ground and fought for her way against their combined attacks. "of course i know he's dying. don't care if the whole san faints with mortification. i'm going to see he dies the way he wants to--keep it merry till the end." to the reverend mr. grumble, who requested--nay, demanded--admittance, she turned a deaf ear while she held the door firmly closed behind her. "can't come in. sorry, he doesn't want you. if you must say a last prayer to comfort yourself, say it in some other room. it will do old king cole just as much good and keep him much happier. now, please go!" so it happened that only peter was present when the musicians arrived. sheila ushered them in with a flourish. "old king cole, your fiddlers three. now what shall they play?" lucky for the indwellers of the sanitarium that the magnate's room was in the tower and therefore little sound escaped. it is improbable if the final ending would ever have been known to any but those present, whose discretion could have been relied upon, but for the fact that miss jacobs stood with her ear to the keyhole for fully ten minutes. it was surprising how quickly everybody knew about it after that. it created almost as much scandal as sheila's own exodus had three years before. many had the temerity to take the lift to the third floor and pace with attentive ears the corridor that led to the tower. these came back to fan the flame of shocked excitement below. the doctors and mr. grumble came to miss maxwell to interfere and put an end to this ungodly and unprofessional humoring of one departing soul. but the superintendent of nurses refused. she had put the case in sheila's hands, and she had absolute faith in her. so all that was left to the busybodies and the scandalmongers was to hear what they could and give free rein to their tongues. there was, however, one mitigating fact: they could listen, and they could talk, but they could not look beyond the closed door of the tower room. that vivid, appalling picture was mercifully denied them. with a heaping bowl of egg-nog beside him, and his brierwood between his lips, the coal magnate beat time on the bedspread with a fast-failing strength, while he grinned happily at sheila. beside him peter lounged in a wheel-chair, smoking for company, while grouped about the foot of the bed in the attitude of a small celestial choir stood the fiddlers three. all the good old tunes, reminiscent of younger days of mining-camps and dance-halls, they played as fast as fingers could fly and bows could scrape. "dan tucker," "money musk," "the irish washerwoman," and "pop goes the weasel" sifted in melodic molecules through the keyhole into the curious and receptive ears outside. and after them came "captain jinks" and "the blue danube," "yankee doodle" and "dixie." "some boss!" muttered the magnate, thickly, the brierwood dropping on the floor. "just one solid streak of anthracite--clear through. now give us something else--i don't care--you choose it, boss." so leerie chose "the star-spangled banner" and "marching through georgia," and as dusk crept closer about them, "suwanee river" and "the old kentucky home." "nice, sleepy old tunes," mumbled the coal magnate. "guess i've napped over-time." he opened one eye and looked at sheila, half amused, half puzzled. "say, boss, light up that little old lamp o' yours and take me down; the shaft's growing pretty black." the fiddlers played a hymn as their own final contribution. sheila smiled wistfully across the dusk to peter. she knew it wouldn't matter now, for old king cole was passing beyond the reach of hymns, prayers, or benedictions. "it's over as far as you or i or he are concerned," she whispered, whimsically. "when i come down, by and by, would you very much mind taking me on one of those rides you promised? i want to forget that white-marble monument." it was not until a week later that sheila o'leary met with one of the big surprises of her rather eventful existence. a lawyer came down from new york and asked for her. it seemed that the coal magnate had left her a considerable number of thousands to spend for him and ease her feelings about the monument. the codicil was quaintly worded and stated that inasmuch as "mother" had gone first, he guessed she would do the next best by him. sheila took peter brooks into her immediate confidence. "half of it goes for typhoid research and half for a nurses' home here. we've needed one dreadfully. what staggers me is when did he do it?" peter grinned. "when i happened to be on duty. we fixed it up, and i was to keep the secret. he had lots of fun over it--poor old soul!" "merry old soul," corrected sheila. and when the nurses' home was built sheila flatly ignored all the suggestions of a memorial tablet with appropriate scriptural verses to grace the cornerstone or hang in the entrance-hall. "won't have it--never do in the world! just going to have his picture over the living-room fireplace." and there it hangs--a gigantic reproduction of old king cole, done by the greatest poster artist of america. chapter iii the changeling he arrived in the arms of his mother, the mulatto nurse having in some inexplicable and inconsiderate fashion acquired measles on the ship coming from their small south american republic. francisco enrique manuel machado y rodriguez--pancho, for short--and his mother were allowed to disembark only because of his appalling lack of health and her promise to take harborage in a hospital instead of a hotel. having heard of the sanitarium from her sister-in-law's brother's wife's aunt, who had been there herself, and having traveled already over a thousand miles, the additional hundred or so seemed too trivial to bother about. so the señora kept her promise to the officials by buying her ticket thitherward, and flanders, the bus-driver, arrived just in time to see three porters unload them and their luggage on the small station platform. the señora was weeping bitterly, the powder spattered and smeared all over her pretty, shallow little face; pancho was clawing and scratching the air, while he shrieked at the top of his lungs--the only part of him that gave any evidence of strength. having disposed of the luggage, flanders hurried back to the assistance of the señora, whereupon the brown atom clawed him instead of the air and fortissimoed his shrieking. flanders promptly returned him to his mother, backing away to the bus and muttering something about "letting wildcat's cubs be." "wil'cat?" repeated the señora through her sobs. "i don't know what ees wil'cat. i theenk eet ees one leetle deevil. tsa, panchito! ciera la boca." and she shook him. during the drive to the sanitarium flanders cast periodic glances within. each time he looked the atom appeared to be shrieking louder, while his mother was shaking harder and longer. by the time they had reached their destination the breath had been shaken quite out of him. he lay back panting in his mother's arms, with only strength enough for a feeble and occasional snarl. his bonnet of lace and cerise-pink ribbon had come untied and had slipped from his head, disclosing a mass of black hair curled by nature and matted by neglect. it gave the last uncanny touch to the brown atom's appearance and caused hennessy, who was sweeping the crossing, to drop his broom and stare agape at the new arrivals. "faith, is it one o' them brazilian monkeys?" he whispered, pulling flanders by the sleeve. "i've heard the women are makin' pets o' them, although i never heard they were after fixin' them up wi' lace an' ribbons like that." "it's a kid." flanders stated the fact without any degree of positiveness as he rubbed three fingers cautiously down his cheek. he was feeling for scars. "guess it's a kid all right, but it scratches like a cat, gosh durn it!" hennessy, however, shook a positive head. "that's no kid. can't ye see for yourself it's noways human? accordin' to the sunday papers it's all the style for blond dancers an' society belles to be fetchin' one o' them little apes about. they're thinkin' if they hang a bit o' live ugliness furninst, their beauty will look all the more ravishin'." "live ugliness," repeated flanders; then he laughed. "you've struck it, hennessy." meanwhile francisco enrique manuel machado y rodriguez--pancho, for short--and his mother had passed into the hands of the sanitarium porter. he had handed them on to the business office, which in turn had handed them over to the superintendent. the superintendent had shared the pleasure with the house staff, the staff had retired in favor of the baby specialist, and at half past seven o'clock that night neither he nor the superintendent of nurses had been able to coax, argue, command, or threaten a nurse into taking the case. "i'm afraid you will have to do with an undergraduate and make the best of it." miss maxwell acknowledged her helplessness with a faint smile. but doctor fuller shook his head. "won't do. it means skilled care and watching for days. a nurse without experience would be about as much good as an incubator. think if you dismissed the four who've refused, you could frighten a fifth into taking it?" this time the superintendent of nurses shook her head. "not this case. they all feel about it the same way. miss jacobs tells me she didn't take her training to nurse monkeys." the old doctor chuckled. "don't know as i blame her; thought it was a new species myself when i first clapped eyes on it. but shucks! i've seen some of our north american babies look like lincoln imps when they were down with marasmus. give me a few weeks and a good nurse and his own mother wouldn't recognize--" he interrupted himself with a pounding fist on the desk. "where's leerie?" "you can't have her--not this time." miss maxwell's lips became a fraction more firm, while her eyes sharpened into what her training girls had come to call her "forceps expression." "why not?" "the girl's just off that case for doctor fritz; she's tired out. remember she's been through three unbroken years of hospitals, and we've worked her on every hard case we've had since she came back. i'm going to see that she gets forty-eight hours of rest now." "let her have them next time." doctor fuller put all his persuasive charm into the words. "i need leerie--some one who can roll up her sleeves and pitch in. let me have her just this once." but miss maxwell was obdurate. "she's asleep now, and she's going to sleep as long as she needs to. i'll give you miss grant--she's had a month at the maternity at rochester." "a month!" scorn curled up the ends of the doctor's mustache. the next instant they were almost touching in a broad grin. "leerie likes cases like this--just eats them up. i'm going after her." and before the superintendent of nurses could hold him he was down the corridor on his way to the nurses' dormitory. ten minutes later he was back, grinning harder than ever. he had only time to thrust his head in the door and wave a triumphant arm. "she's dressing--as big a fool about babies as i am! said she'd slept a whole hour and felt fresh as a daisy. how's that for spunk?" "i call it nerve." miss maxwell smiled a hopeless smile. "what am i going to do with you doctors? you wear out all my best nurses and you won't take--" but doctor fuller had fled. in spite of his boast of her, the baby specialist saw sheila o'leary visibly cringe when she took her first look at pancho. he lay sprawling on his mother's bed in a room littered with hastily opened bags and trunks out of which had been pulled clothing of all kinds and hues. he had been relieved of the lace and pink ribbons and was swathed only in shirt and roundabout, his arms and legs projected like licorice sticks; being of the same color and very nearly the same thickness. he was dozing, tired out with the combination of much travel, screaming, shaking, and loss of breath. so wasted was he that the skin seemed drawn tight over temple and cheek-bones; the eyes were pitifully sunken, and colorless lips fell back over toothless gums. "how old is--it?" sheila whispered at last. "about nine months." sheila shuddered. "just the adorable age. ought to be all pink cheeks, dimples, and creases--and look at it!" "i know, but wait. give us time and we'll get some of those things started." doctor fuller wagged his head by way of encouragement. sheila answered with a deprecatory shake. "this time i don't believe you. that would be a miracle, and you can do about everything but miracles. honestly, it doesn't seem as if i could touch it; looks about a thousand years old and just human enough to be horrible." the old doctor eyed her askance. "not going back on me, are you?" "of course i'm not, but there's no use in making believe it will be any joy-game. i'll be hating it every minute i'm on the case." "hate it as much as you like, only stick to it. hello there, bub!" this to the brown atom, who was opening his eyes. the eyes were large and brown and as soft and appealing as a baby seal's. for a moment they looked with strange, wondering intensity at the two figures bending over it, then with sudden doubling and undoubling of fists, a frantic upheaval of brown legs, the atom opened volcanically and poured forth scream after scream. it writhed, it clawed the air, it looked every whit as horrible as sheila had claimed. "going to run?" the old doctor asked, anxiously. for answer sheila bent down lower and picked up the writhing mass. with a firm hand she braced it against her shoulder, patting it gently and swaying her body rhythmically to the patting. "some eyes and some temper!" laughed sheila. "where's the mother?" the screaming brought the corridor nurse to the door. "where's the mother?" sheila repeated. the corridor nurse pointed to the strewn luggage and gave a contemptuous shrug. "gone down to dinner looking like a bird of paradise. she said if the baby cried i was to stir up some of that milk from that can, mix it with water from that faucet, put it in that bottle, and feed it to him." words failed to convey the outraged disgust in her voice. the milk indicated was condensed milk in a half-emptied can; the bottle was the regulation kind for babies and as filthy as dirty glass could look. sheila and doctor fuller exchanged glances. "plenty of fight in the little beggar or he wouldn't be outlasting--" the doctor swallowed the remainder of the sentence, cut short by a startled look on sheila's face. the screams had stopped a minute before, and sheila believed the atom had dropped asleep. but instead of feeling the tiny body relax as a sleeping baby's will, it was growing slowly rigid. with this realization she strode to the bed and put the atom down. before their eyes the body stiffened, while the head rolled slowly from side to side and under the half-closed lids the eyeballs rolled with it. "convulsions!" announced the corridor nurse, with an anxious look toward the door. then, as a bell tinkled, she voiced her relief in a quick breath. "that's sixty-one. i'm hiking--" "no, you don't!" the doctor jerked her back; he wanted to shake her. "you'll hustle some hot water for us, and then you'll stand by to hustle some more. see?" he was shedding all unnecessary clothing as he spoke, and sheila was peeling the atom free of shirt and roundabout as fast as skilled fingers could move. it is a wonderful thing to watch the fight between human skill and death for the life of a baby. so little it takes to swing the victory either way, so close does it border on the miraculous, that few can stand and see without feeling the silent, invisible presence of the nazarene. a life thus saved seems to gather unto itself a special significance and value for those who have fought for it and those who receive it again. it creates new feelings and a clearer vision in blind, unthinking motherhood; it awakens to a vital response hitherto dormant fatherhood. and even the callous outsider becomes exalted with the wonder and closeness of that unseen presence. as the brown atom writhed from one convulsion into another, sheila and the old doctor worked with compressed lips and almost suspended breath; they worked like a single mind supplied with twice the usual amount of auxiliaries. they saw, without acknowledging it, the gorgeous, tropical figure that came and stood half-way between the door and the bed; lips carmined, throat and cheeks heavy with powder, jewels covering ears, neck, fingers, and wrists, she looked absurdly unreal beside the nurse in her uniform and the doctor in his shirt-sleeves. occasionally sheila glanced at her. if they won, would the mother care? the question came back to her consciousness again and again. in her own experience she knew how often the thing one called motherhood would come into actual existence after a struggle like this when birth itself had failed to accomplish anything but a physical obligation. believing this, sheila fought the harder. after an hour the convulsions subsided. a few more drops of brandy were poured down the tiny throat, and slowly the heart took up its regulation work. sheila wrapped the atom in a blanket, put it back on the bed, and beckoned to the mother. curiosity seemed to be the one governing emotion of the señora. she looked without any trace of grief, and, having looked, she spoke impassively: "i theenk eet dead. yes?" doctor fuller, with perspiration pouring from him, transfixed her with a stare. "no! that baby's going to get well now, and you're going to let miss o'leary teach you how to take proper care of it. understand?" then clapping his fellow-fighter on the back, he beamed down upon her. "leerie, you're one grand soldier!" the monotone of the gorgeous señora broke up any response sheila might have given. "i theenk eet die, all the same," came the impassive voice. "the _padre_ on the ship make it all ready for die--i theenk yes pret' soon." "no!" the doctor fairly thundered it forth. she stooped and pulled away a fold of the blanket with the tips of her fingers. "eet look ver' ugly--like eet die. i theenk--all the same." the doctor caught up his cast-off clothing and flung himself out of the room. sheila watched him go, a faint smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. strange! he had so evidently reached the end of his self-control, optimism, and patience, while she was just beginning to find hers. in the sweep of a second things looked wonderfully clear and hopeful. she thought she could understand what was in the mind and heart of the señora; what was more significant, she thought she could understand the reason for it. and what you can understand you can cope with. she watched the señora searching in this trunk and that; she saw her jerk forth a diminutive dress of embroidery and fluted lace; while she thought the whole thing through to the finish and smiled one of her old inscrutable smiles. "pret' dress," said the señora. "plent' lace and reebon. you put on for bury eet--i go find _padre_." "no," said sheila, emphatically, "you stay here. i'll go and find the _padre_." she left them both in the charge of the corridor nurse and flew for the telephone. it took her less than a minute to get father o'friel; it took but a trifle more for her to outline her plan and bind him to it. and father o'friel, with a comprehension to match his conscientiousness, and a sense of humor to match them both, hardly knew whether to be shocked or amused. "why not appeal to the baby's father?" "realize it takes a month for a letter to reach that little south american ant-hill? write now if you want to, but let me be trying my way while the letter is traveling." "all right. but if it doesn't work--" "it will. when my feelings about anything run all to the good this way, i'd bank anything on them. now please hurry." so it came about that instead of a burial service that night father o'friel conducted an original and unprecedented adoption ceremony. without even a witness the señora signed a paper which she showed no inclination to read and which she would hardly have understood had she attempted it. it was enough for her that she could give away francisco enrique manuel machado y rodriguez to a foolish nurse who was plainly anxious to be bothered with him. death had seemed the only release from an obligation that exhausted and frightened her, and from which neither pleasure nor personal pride could be obtained. but this was another way mercifully held out to her, and she accepted it with gratitude and absolute belief. eagerly she agreed to the conditions sheila laid down; the father was to be notified and forced to make a life settlement on the atom; in the mean time she was to remain at the sanitarium, pay all expenses, and interfere in no way with the nurse or the baby. so desirous was she to display her gratitude that she heaped the atom's wardrobe--lace, ribbons, and embroidery--upon sheila, and kissed the hem of father o'friel's cassock. "_qué gracioso--qué magnifico!_" then she yawned behind her tinted nails. "i have ver' much the sleep. i find anothaire room and make what you call--_la cama_." at the door she turned and cast a farewell look upon the blanketed bundle. "eet look ver' ugly--all the same i theenk eet die." it took barely ten minutes for word of the adoption to reach doctor fuller, and it brought him running. "good lord! leerie, are you crazy? did you think i pulled you out of bed to-night to start an orphan-asylum? what do you mean, girl?" sheila looked down at her newly acquired possession, and for the first time that night the strange, luminous look that was all her own, that had won for her her nickname of leerie, crept into her eyes; they fairly dazzled the old doctor with their shining. "honestly, don't know myself. still testing out my feelings in my think laboratory." "you can't raise that baby and keep on with your nursing. too much responsibility, anyway, for a young person. what's more, the mother shouldn't be allowed to dodge it. she can be made fit." "how are you going to do it? train her with harness and braces? or moral suasion--or the courts?" "and i thought you hated it, couldn't bear to touch it," growled the baby specialist. "did. but that's past tense. since i fought for it, it's suddenly become remarkably precious. and that's the precise feeling i'm testing up in the lab." "in the name of common sense what do you mean, leerie?" she patted his arm soothingly. "there, there. go to bed; you're tuckered out. leave me alone for two months, and i'll tell you. and suppose you write down that milk formula before you go; he's going to wake up as fighting hungry as a little tiger-cat." how the sanitarium took the news of the arrivals and the rumor of the adoption, what they thought of the gorgeous and irresponsible señora and leerie's latest exploit, does not concern the story. it is enough to say that tongues wagged abundantly; and when sheila appeared some ten days later in the pine grove wheeling a perambulator every one who was out and could manufacture the flimsiest excuse for her curiosity hurried to the carriage and thrust an inquisitive head under the hood. it seemed as if hundreds blocked the walk from the pond to the rest-house. "bad as a circus parade," thought sheila. "can't stay here, or they'll put us in a tent and ask admission." then she spied hennessy coming with his platter of bread for the swans, and called to him. somehow he managed to scatter the crowd, and sheila clung to the sleeve of his blue jumper as if it had been so much cork to a man overboard. "listen, hennessy, i want to take pancho away from the san. you and marm have a cozy place, and it's far enough away. there's only the two of you. can't you take us in?" but hennessy was likewise thrusting a head under the hood. "honest to god, miss leerie, is it human?" "hennessy, don't be an idiot!" "but i saw the face on it--an' the scratchin' it did the day it was fetched in. does it still be scratchin'?" "sometimes." sheila smiled faintly. "he hasn't had time yet to forget all those shakings. well, can we come?" hennessy eyed the perambulator fearsomely. "have to ask marm. faith, do ye think, now, if it had been human, its mother would have given it away same as if it had been a young cat or dog too many in the litter?" "mothers don't have to love their babies; there's no birth license to sign, you know, with a love-and-cherish clause in it. just come, wanted or not, and afterward--" but hennessy was deep in speculations of his own. "now if it was ireland, miss leerie, do ye know what i would be thinkin'?" "what?" he lowered his voice and looked furtively over his shoulder. "a changeling! sure as you're born, miss leerie, i'm thinkin' it's one o' them little black imps the fairies leave in place o' the real child they're after stealin'. i disremember if they have the likes o' that in south america, but that's my notion, just the same." sheila o'leary laughed inside and out. "hennessy, you're wonderful. and who but an irishman would have thought of it! a changeling--a most changeable changeling! what's the treatment?" "a good brewin' of egg-shells--goose egg-shells if ye have 'em, hens' if ye haven't. but don't ye be laughin'; 'tis a sign o' black doin's, an' laughin' might bring bad luck on ye." sheila sobered. "we'll brew egg-shells. now hurry home to marm and coax her hard, hennessy." because sheila o'leary invariably had her way among the many who loved and believed in her, and because hennessy and marm hennessy were numbered conspicuously among these, sheila and her adopted moved early the following morning into the diminutive and immaculate house of hennessy, with a vine-covered porch in front and a hen-yard in the rear. and that night there was a plentiful brew of egg-shells on the kitchen stove, done in the most approved irish fashion, with the atom near by to inhale the fumes. "maybe 'twill work, an' then again maybe 'twon't." hennessy looked anxious. "magic, like anything else, often spoils in transportatin'." "oh, it will work!" sheila spoke with conviction. "and we'll hope the señora's letter won't travel too fast." so the names of sheila o'leary and francisco enrique manuel machado y rodriguez were crossed off the books of the sanitarium, and the gossips saw them no more. only doctor fuller and peter brooks sought them out in their new quarters, the doctor to attend professionally, peter to attend to the dictates of a persistent heart. never a day went by that he did not find his feet trailing the dust on the road to the house of hennessy, and sheila dropped into the habit of watching for him from the vine-covered porch at a certain time every afternoon. the picture of the best nurse at the sanitarium sitting in a little old rocker with the brown atom kicking and crowing on her lap, and looking down the steps with eyes that seemed to grow daily more luminous, came to be an accepted reality to both peter and the doctor--as much of a reality as the reaching out of the atom's small tendril-like fingers to curl about one's thumb or to cling to one's watch-charm. "loving little cuss," muttered peter one afternoon. "can you tell me how any mother under the sun could resist those eyes or the clutch of those brown paws?" "don't forget one point," sheila spoke quietly; "he wasn't a loving little cuss then." "he'll go down on the books as my pet case," chuckled the doctor. "four pounds in four weeks! think of it, on a whole-milk formula!" hennessy wagged his head knowingly at sheila, and when they had gone he snorted forth his contempt for professional ignorance. "milk! fiddlesticks! sure a docthor don't know everything. 'twas the egg-shells that done it, an' marm an' me can bear witness he quit the scratchin' an' began the smilin' from that very hour. look at him now! can ye deny it, miss leerie?" "i'm not wanting to, hennessy." whereupon sheila proved the matter by reducing the atom to squeals of joy while she retold the old history of the pigs with the aid of five little brown toes. between peter and hennessy, sheila came into possession of many facts concerning the señora. her dresses and her jewels were the talk of the sanitarium. she applied herself diligently to all beautifying treatments and the charming of susceptible young men. presumably life to her meant only a continuous process of adorning herself and receiving admiration. so she spent her days dressing and basking in the company of a dozen different swains, and the atom cast no annoying shadow on her pathway. august came, and the atom discovered his legs. sheila disregarded the lace and ribbons with a sigh of relief and took to making rompers. they were adorable rompers with smocking and the palest of pink collars and belts. the licorice sticks had changed to a rich olive brown and had assumed sufficient rotundity to allow of pink-and-white socks and white ankle-ties. in all the busy years of her nursing sheila had never had time for anything like this; she had never had a baby for longer than a week or two at a time. just as she was beginning to feel her individual share in them they had all gone the way of properly parented offspring, and never had she sewed a single baby dress. she gloried in the lengths of dimity and poplin, in the intricacies of new stitches and embroidery. and peter, watching from a step on the porch, gloried in the picture she made. when a romper was finished it had to be tried on that very minute. she would whisk up the atom from the hammock where he lay kicking, and slip him into it, holding him high for peter to admire. "he's a cherub done in bronze," said peter, one day. "here, give him to me." and later, as he perched him on his shoulder and tickled his ribs until he squirmed with glee he announced, "if i wasn't a homeless bachelor i'd take him off your hands in about two minutes." "what's that?" shouted doctor fuller, coming down the street. "did you say anything about re-adoption? well, you might as well know now that mrs. fuller and i intend taking pancho off leerie's hands as soon as she's ready to go back to work again. aren't you getting lazy, leerie?" for once sheila failed to respond in kind to the doctor's chaffing. all the shine faded out of her eyes. "can't believe two months have gone--a month for a letter to go, a month for an answer to come. i'm afraid none of us will keep him very much longer." "don't worry, they won't want him back. besides, they've forfeited their right to him," the old doctor snorted, indignantly. [illustration: holding him high for peter to admire] "not legally. when the letter comes, you'll see." there was none of the anticipated delight in sheila's voice that had been there on that first night when she had laid her plans and sworn father o'friel into backing her up. her voice was as colorless as her eyes were dull; for some miraculous reason the life and inner light that seemed such an inseparable part of her had suddenly gone out. she reached up and removed the atom from peter's shoulder. hennessy, who had joined the group, was the last to speak. "sure it's mortial good of both ye gentlemen to lift the throuble o' raisin' the wee one off miss leerie, but if any one lifts it, it's marm an' me. we had that settled the next morning after we fetched him over an' knew 'twas the real one we'd got, after all." "the real one? what do you mean by that?" the doctor looked puzzled. hennessy winked his only answer. through the first days of september sheila waited with feverish anxiety. the hours spent on the vine-covered porch with the atom, asleep or awake, for steady company, and peter for occasional, passed all too quickly. for the first time in her life sheila wished days back; she would have put a checking hand on time had she had the power. then just as she was making up her mind that her fear was for nothing, that her plans had gloriously failed and pancho was to be hers for all time, the wretched news came. peter brought it, hurrying hatless down the street, and sheila, knowing in her heart what had happened, went down the steps to meet him. "is it a letter--or a wire--or what? and where's the señora?" "having hysterics in front of the business office." peter stopped to get his breath. "the husband wired from new york--he'll be down on the morning train. it seems the señora wired him when she first got here that pancho was dying, so she didn't see any need of changing it in her letter. she said she wanted the money for a monument and masses--and he could send it in a draft. guess he thought more of the boy than the mother did, for he's come up to bring the body home and put up the monument down there. now she doesn't know what to tell him. can you beat that for straight fiction?" sheila picked up the atom and disappeared inside without a word. when she reappeared a few minutes later, the atom was arrayed in his most becoming romper, his black curls were brushed into an encircling halo, his hands clapping over some consciousness of pleasurable excitement. sheila tucked him into his carriage and faced peter with a grim look of command. "you're to play policeman, understand! walk back of me all the way. if i show any sign of turning back or running away, arrest me on the spot." "what are you going to do?" "what two months ago i thought would be the easiest thing in the world--and what i wouldn't be doing now for a million dollars if i hadn't given my word to father o'friel and the law wasn't against me." as peter had rightfully reported, the señora was having hysterics in front of the business office, with the business and hospital staff trying their best to quench her, and as many patients as the lobby would hold watching in varying degrees of curiosity. only one of latin blood could have achieved a scene of such melodramatic abandon and stamped it as genuine, but no one present doubted the grief and despair of the señora as she paced the floor wringing her hands and wailing in her native tongue. sheila entered by way of the basement and the lift, and she wheeled the atom's carriage into the inner circle of the crowd, with peter still in attendance. for the moment the interest swerved from the weeping figure to the cooing occupant of the carriage. the atom was still clapping his hands, and a pink flush of excitement tinged the olive of the cheeks. "look at that cunning baby!"... "isn't he a darling?"... "why, isn't that the south american baby?"... "sh-h-h--deformed or something."... "of course, it can't be." sentences, whole and in fragments, came to sheila as she pushed her way through the crowd. something of this new interest must have penetrated the señora's consciousness, for her wailing ceased; she cocked her head on one side like a listening parrakeet. "who say babee? i theenk--i theenk--" then she saw sheila. a look of immediate recognition swept over her face, but it was gone the instant she looked at the atom. "who that babee?" she demanded. "mine." sheila pinned her with steady eyes, while her mouth looked as if it could never grow gentle and demure again. incredulity, suspicion, amazement, were all registered on the pretty, shallow face. "your babee? how you get babee?" sheila made no answer. the señora looked again at the atom; she held out a timorous finger to him. he responded cordially by curling a small fist promptly about it. "_madre de dios, qué bonito! qué chico y hermoso!_" then, to sheila: "i give you seeck babee--eet no die? you make thees babee out of seeck babee, yes?" sheila still remained silent. the señora turned to the atom for the confirmation she desired. "_nene, como te llamas?_" it was intensely entertaining to the atom. he wagged the señora's finger frantically, tossed back his head, and gave forth a low, gurgling laugh. "_jesu!_ that ees hees papa. he look like that when he laugh. _tu nombre, nene--tu nombre?_" with a fresh outburst she sank down beside the carriage and buried her face in the brown legs and pink socks. but the atom did not approve of this. his lower lip dropped and quivered; he reached out his arm to sheila. "ma-ma-ma-ma," he coaxed. "you no ma-ma, i ma-ma." the señora was on her feet, shaking an angry fist at sheila. but in an instant her anger was gone; she was down on her knees again, clasping sheila's skirt, while her voice wailed forth in supplication. "you no keep leetle babee? you ver' good, ver' kind, señorita--you _muy simpatica_, yes? you give leetle babee. i ma-ma. yes?" but sheila o'leary stood grim and unyielding. "no. he is mine. when he was sick, dying, you didn't want him. you did not like to look at him because he was ugly; you did not like to hear him cry--so you abused him. now, he's all well; he's a pretty baby; he does not cry; he does not scratch. i never shake him; he loves me very, very much. now i keep him!" thus sheila delivered her ultimatum. but the señora still clung. "i no shake babee now. i love babee now. please--please--his pa-pa come. you give heem back?" sheila unclasped the señora's hands, turned the atom's carriage about, and deliberately wheeled him away. out of the lobby to the sidewalk she was pursued by pleading cries, expostulating reproofs, as well as actual particles of the crowd itself, the reverend mr. grumble, the wife of one of the trustees, a handful of protesting patients, following to urge the rights of the prostrated mother. but sheila refused to be held back or argued with; stoically she kept on her way. when she reached the little vine-covered porch only peter, father o'friel, and doctor fuller remained as escort. "you can't keep him, leerie. you've got to give him up." the old doctor spoke sorrowfully but firmly. "it was only a mock adoption, and you promised if she ever wanted him back she should have him," father o'friel reminded her. "she's his mother, after all," peter put in, lamely. at that sheila exploded. "you men make me tired! 'she's his mother, after all.' after all what? cruelty, neglect, heartlessness, hoping he would die--glad to be rid of him! that's about all the sense of justice you have. let a woman weep and call for her baby, and every man within earshot would hand him over without considering for a moment what kind of care she would give him. oh, you--make--me--sick!" sheila buried her face in the nape of pancho's neck. doctor fuller, who had always known her, who had stood by her in her disgrace when she had been sent away from the sanitarium three years before and had believed in her implicitly in spite of all damning evidence, who had fought for her a dozen times when she had called down upon her head the wrath of the business office, looked now upon her silent, shaking figure with open-mouthed astonishment. in all those years he had never seen leerie cry, and he couldn't quite stand it. "there, there, child! we understand--we're not quite the duffers you make us out. of course, by all rights, human and moral, the little shaver belongs to you, but you can't keep him, just the same." "know it! needn't rub it in! wasn't going to!" sheila raised a wet face, with red-rimmed eyes and lips that trembled outrageously. she couldn't steady them to save her, and so she let them tremble while she stuttered forth her last protest. "didn't think for a moment i wouldn't give him back, d-d-did you? that was my plan--my way. i wanted father o'friel to let me try--t-t-t-thought all along he'd grow into such an ad-d-d-dorable mite his m-m-m-mother'd be wanting him back. what i didn't count on was my wanting to k-k-keep him." sheila swallowed hard. she wanted to get rid of that everlasting choke in her throat. when she spoke again her voice was steadier. "but i tell you one thing. she doesn't get him without fighting for him. she's going to fight for him as i fought that night in the sanitarium, and you're going to help me keep her fighting. understand? then perhaps when she gets him she'll have some faint notion of how precious a baby can be." with a more grim expression than any of the three had ever seen on her usually luminous face, sheila o'leary shouldered the atom and disappeared within the house. the three men stood by her while hennessy guarded the house. for the rest of the day the señora, backed by the business office and a procession of interested sympathizers, stormed the parish house and demanded to see the paper that she had signed. they stormed doctor fuller's office and demanded his co-operation, or at least what information he had to give. they consulted the one lawyer in the town and three others within car distance, but their advice availed little, inasmuch as father o'friel had refused to give up the paper until the baby's father arrived, and they could get no intelligent idea from the señora of how legal the adoption had been made. by keeping perfectly dumb the three were able to hold the crowd in abeyance, and the señora, looking anything but a bird of paradise, came back to them again and again to weep, to plead, to bribe. the excitement held until midnight, an unprecedented occurrence for the sanitarium. it was still dark the next morning when hennessy was roused from the haircloth sofa in the hall, where he was still keeping guard, by the fumbling of a hand on the door-knob. "who's there?" roared hennessy. "please--eet ees me--the señora machado y rodriguez." "go 'way! shoo-oo!" hennessy banged the door with his fist as he always banged the bread-platter to scatter the swans. "i go when i see babee," came the feeble response to his racket. "let her in, hennessy," came the voice of sheila from up-stairs. hennessy unbarred the door, and a shaken, pathetic little figure crept in. all the coy prettiness was gone for the moment; the swollen eyes had circles about them, the cheeks were sallow and free of powder as the lips were free of carmine. the mouth quivered like a grief-stricken child's. "please--please--i see babee?" came the wail again. "yes. come up softly," sheila called from the head of the stairs. the little figure crept up eagerly. sheila put out an arm and led her into a room where a single candle burned beside the bed. there lay the atom, rosy and dimpling in his sleep. it is to be doubted if the señora had ever dreamed of such a possession after the appalling reality of the original francisco enrique manuel machado y rodriguez. in her ignorance and youth she had accepted ugliness, sickness, and peevish crying as the normal attributes of babyhood, and because of this she had loathed it. therefore to be suddenly confronted with her awful mistake, to find that she had thrown away something that was beautiful and enchanting, to know she had forfeited what might have been hers, to feel in a small degree the first longing of motherhood and be denied it--all this was born into the slowly awakening consciousness of the señora. it almost transformed her face into homely holiness as she made her one supreme prayer and sacrifice. "you give me my babee--now--you give heem and not keep--and i give you all these. see?" she held out her hands that had been clasped under the heavy mantilla that covered her head and shoulders. opening them, she thrust them close, that sheila might look. they were filled with jewels--the jewels she adored, that had contributed a large part to the joy of her existence. pins, rings, necklaces, bracelets--the señora had not kept back a single ornament. "you--you and the blessed maria will give heem back to me?" "get down and pray to the maria," commanded sheila. "promise her that if she will give your baby back to you you will take care of him for ever and ever. never neglect him, never shake nor slap him, never give him bad milk to make him sick. promise you'll always love him and keep him laughing and pretty. and remember--break your promise, let anything happen to pancho again, and maria will not give him back to you another time." the sanitarium never learned in detail how señor machado became reconciled to a live son, not being present when the news was conveyed to him. they saw him arrive, however, looking very much shaken with his bereavement, and they saw him depart with his son perched high upon his shoulder, wearing the expression of one who has come unexpectedly into a great possession, while the señora clung to them both. the sanitarium waved them off with gladness and satisfaction--all but four unsmiling outsiders. so great a hole can a departing atom sometimes leave behind that those four who had given him temporary care and guardianship went about for days with sorrow written plainly upon them. hennessy fed the swans in bitter silence; peter moped, with a laugh for no one; doctor fuller groaned whenever south america was mentioned; while all three knew they could not even fathom the deepness or the bigness of that hole for sheila. peter took her for a twilight ride in his car the first empty night. "go on and cry it out--i sha'n't mind," he urged as he speeded the car along a country road. sheila smiled faintly. "thank you--can't. just feel bruised and banged all over--feel as if i needed a plunge in that old pool of bethesda." they spun on in silence for a few miles more before sheila spoke again. "i learned one wonderful thing from pancho--something i never felt sure of before." "what was that?" "sorry--can't tell. it's the sort of thing you tell only the man you marry, after you've discovered he's the only man you ever could have married." peter speeded the car ahead and smiled quietly into the gathering darkness. fortunately he was not an impatient man. there is one point concerning the atom that hennessy and doctor fuller still wrangle over, neither of them having the slightest conception of the other's point of view. "that was a case of good nursing and milk," the old doctor persists. while hennessy beats the air with his fists and shouts: "nothing of the sort! 'twas egg-shells that done it." chapter iv for the honor of the san peter brooks paced the sanitarium grounds like a man possessed. hands thrust deep into pockets, teeth hard clenched, head bare, the raw october wind ruffling his heavy crop of hair like a cock's comb. so suggestive was the resemblance that hennessy, watching him from the willow stump by the pond, was forced to remark to brian boru, the gray swan, that mr. peter looked like a young rooster, after growing his spurs, looking for his first fight. "aye, an' for one i'm wishin' he'd be findin' it," continued hennessy. "he's bided peaceful an' patient till there is no virtue left in him. ye can make believe women be civilized if ye like, but i'm knowin' that a woman's sure to go to the man that fights the hardest to get her, same as it was in the savage day o' the world. an' there's nothing that sets a man right quicker with himself than a good fight, tongues or fists." at that moment peter would have gladly chosen either or both if fate could only have furnished him with a legitimate combatant. but a man cannot fight gossipy old ladies or jealous, petty-minded nurses, or a doctor whom he has never met and whose transgressions he cannot swear to. and yet peter wanted to double up his fists and pitch into the whole community; he felt himself all brute and yearned for wholesale slaughter. peter had come to the sanitarium in the beginning to be cured of a temporal malady, only to rise from his bed stricken with an eternal one. he had fallen desperately in love with sheila o'leary as only a man of peter's sort can fall in love, once and for all time. moreover, he believed in her as a man believes in the best and purest that is likely to come into his life. on the day of his convalescing, when she had been transferred from his case to another, he had sworn that he would not stir foot from the old san until he had won her. he had kept his word for four months. he would have been content to keep it for four more--or for four years, for that matter--had everything not turned suddenly topsy-turvy and sent his world of hopes crashing down about him. for four months he had shared as much of sheila's life and work as she would allow. he had let himself drift into the rôle of a comfortable and sympathetic companion whenever her hours for recreation gave him a chance. his love had grown as his admiration and understanding of her had grown, until she had come to seem as necessary a part of his life as the air he breathed. then he had been able to smile whimsically at those gossipy tales. what if she had been suspended and sent away from the sanitarium? what if she had broken through some of the tight-laced rules with which all institutions of this kind hedge in their nurses? sheila's proclivity for breaking rules was a byword among the many who loved her, and the head of the institution, the superintendent of nurses, the entire staff of doctors, down to hennessy, the keeper of the walks and swans, only smiled and closed their eyes to all of sheila's backsliding. for hadn't they all believed in her? and hadn't they sent for her to come back to them again? and which one of them had ever allowed a word of scandal to pass his lips? so peter smiled, too. in those months he had come to read sheila--so he thought--like an open book. he had learned by heart all her moods, the good and the bad, the sweet and the bitter. he knew she could be as divinely tender and compassionate as a celestial mother; he also knew that she could be as barren of sympathy and as relentless as fate itself. she could pour forth her whole throbbing soul, impulsive, warm, and radiant, as a true celt, yet she could be as impersonal, terse, and cryptic as a marconigram. he loved these very extremes in her, her unmitigated hatred for the things she hated, and her unfailing love for the things she loved. she made no pretense or boast for herself; she was what she was for all the world to see. and peter had found her the stanchest, sweetest, most vital--albeit the most stubborn--piece of womanhood he had ever known. her very nickname of "leerie" was her open letter of introduction to every one; her smile and the wonder-light in her eyes were her best credentials. small wonder it was that her patients watched for her to come and that peter felt he could snap his fingers at the scandalmongers. but peter wasn't snapping them now--or smiling. his fists were doubled tight in his pockets, and he clenched his teeth harder as he paced the walk from pond to rest-house. how the accursed tongues of the gossips rang in his head! "rather odd the sanitarium should have sent for him, wasn't it? don't you know he was the young surgeon who was mixed up in that affair with that popular nurse?"... "oh yes, they hushed it up and sent them both away."... "nothing definite was ever explained, but they were always together, just as they are now, and you can't get smoke without some burning."... "yes, doctor brainard and miss o'leary. didn't you ever hear about what happened three years ago?" peter's stride seemed to measure forth the length of each offending tongue, and when he reached the end of his beaten track he swung about as if to meet and silence them all, for all time. but instead he came face to face with the two who had caused them to wag. so absorbed were the surgeon and nurse in what they had to say to each other that they brushed by peter without seeing him. he might have been one of the rustic posts of the rest-house or the pine-tree growing close by. as they passed, peter scanned narrowly the half-averted face of the girl he loved and found it pitifully changed in those few days. the luminous light had gone from her eyes; her lips no longer curved to the gracious, demure smile peter had always called "cloistered." they were set to grim determination, as if the girl had gripped fast to a purpose and no amount of shaking or persuasion would induce her to let go. her eyes were circled and anxious. peter groaned unconsciously at his glimpse of her, while hennessy from his vantage-point on the stump shook a vengeful fist at the retreating back of the surgeon. "a million curses on him!" muttered hennessy, his lips tight shirred. "sure, the lass has the look of a soul possessed." the next instant his fist was descending not over-mercifully on peter's back. "first i'm cursin' him an' then i'm cursin' ye. for the love o' saint patrick, are ye goin' to stand round like a blitherin' fool an' see that rascal of a docthor do harm again to our lass? i'll come mortial close to wringin' your neck if ye do." peter glared at his erstwhile friend and fellow-philosopher. "you're the fool, hennessy. what under heaven can i do? what could any man do in my place?" "fight for her. can't you see the man has her possessed? what an' how hennessy hasn't the wits to make out, but ye have. search out her throuble same as she searched out yours, an' make her whole an' sweet an' shinin' again." hennessy laid two gnarled, brown hands on peter's shoulder while he peered up at him with eyes full of appeal. "ye've heard naught to shake your faith in the lass? ye believe in her--aye?" "good god! man, of course i believe in her! i'd believe in her if all the tongues in the world wagged till doomsday. but what else can i do? hang around this old hotbed of gossip and listen and listen, powerless to cram the truth down their throats because i don't know it?" peter shot out a sudden hand and gripped hennessy's. "for the love of your blessed saint patrick, stand up like a man there, hennessy, and tell me what was the truth?" for a moment hennessy's eyes shifted; he whistled his breath in and out in staccato jerks; then his gaze came back to peter and he eyed him steadily. "son, i'm knowin' no more than when i first saw ye." "you believe in her?" hennessy pulled his hand free and shook his fist in peter's face. "bad scran to ye for thinkin' aught else. 'tis god's truth i'm tellin' ye, mr. peter. i'm knowin' no more than them blitherin' tongues say, but i'd pray our lass into heaven wi' my dyin' breath if i could." peter smiled. "you'd be doing better to pray her out of this miserable little purgatory right here. if she belonged to me, hennessy--" "i wish to god she did, sir! but that's what ye can fight for--make her belong." "easier said than done. since doctor brainard came i can't get her to see me. read that!" peter pulled out of his pocket a tiny folded note and handed it to the swan-keeper. it was deciphered with much labor and read with troubled seriousness. dear mr. brooks: thank you for the flowers, and the candy, and the many offers of the car, but i haven't time to enjoy any of these things just now. so please don't send me any more, or write, or try to see me. i think it would be better for every one, and far happier in the end for you, if you would go back to your work as soon as possible. faithfully yours, sheila o'leary. hennessy snorted. "so that's what she thinks, is it? well, don't ye do it. 'twas betther advice i gave ye myself; hold fast here an' fight for her. mind that!" and with a farewell pull of his forelock hennessy left him. peter watched him for an instant, then with a new purpose full-born in his mind he turned and walked swiftly back to the sanitarium. he knew why the management had sent for brainard to come back to the san. the head surgeon had been taken with typhoid; the wards were full of his special operative cases, and brainard, who had trained under him, was the most skilful man available to take his place. but why had they put sheila o'leary on as his surgical nurse? why had they done this thing that was bound to revive the old scandal and set tongues wagging anew? peter knew that upon the answer to this depended his decision. would he take sheila's advice and go, or hennessy's advice and fight? he went directly to the office of the superintendent of nurses, and, finding the door well ajar, he entered without knocking. miss maxwell was seated at her desk. across the desk, with clasped hands, cheeks aflame, and lips compressed into a look of even greater determination than peter had seen there a few minutes before, leaned sheila o'leary. peter colored at his unintentional intrusion. "excuse me," he stammered. "not hearing voices, i thought you were alone. i'll come again later, miss maxwell," and he turned toward the door. leerie's voice called him back. "don't go--want you. something i was trying to get miss max to promise." this time miss maxwell colored. "it's against rules, leerie, to talk over hospital matters before patients, even as discreet a one as mr. brooks." "i know--can't help it--need him. besides, he's his best friend." she turned to peter with a strained eagerness. "this will be news to you. doctor dempsy is due here in the morning--taken suddenly--major operation--nurse just wired. i want you and miss max to take him on to the dentons if he can stand the trip. awfully delicate operation, and it's doctor john's crack piece of work. will you do it?" the unexpectedness of the news and the request overwhelmed peter's usually agile intelligence. he stared blankly at the girl before him. "i don't think i understand. if dempsy is coming here for an operation, why should we take him somewhere else? why shouldn't he be operated on here if he wants to be?" "he thinks doctor jefferson is still operating. he doesn't know--" the superintendent of nurses interrupted her. "leerie, you're overstepping even your privileges. doctor brainard was called here to take charge because the management had absolute confidence in his skill and knew he was trustworthy and conscientious. i think there is nothing further that needs to be said. doctor dempsy will do what every other patient has done, put himself unreservedly into doctor brainard's hands." "but he mustn't." the crimson had died out of sheila's cheeks, and she stood now pale to the very lips, her face working convulsively. "you don't seem to understand, and it's hard--hard to put it into words. doctor brainard is young--very young for his position and all the responsibility that has been heaped upon him. his work ever since he came has been terrific--eight and ten majors a day, sundays, too. it's been a fearful strain, and now to make him responsible for a case like doctor dempsy, a case that takes great delicacy and nerve, one that is bound to attack his sympathy and his reputation at the same time, why--why, it isn't fair. can't you see that if he should fail, no matter how blameless he might be, it would stick to him for the rest of his life, a blot on his work and the san?" sheila's hands went out in a last appeal. "send him to the dentons; they've had five years of experience for every year of doctor brainard's. please, please! oh, don't you see?" "why should you care so much?" the words were off peter's tongue before he knew it. he would have given a good deal if he could have got them back. the girl looked from him to miss maxwell. the question apparently bewildered her. then a hint of her old-time dignity and assurance returned, coupled with her cryptic mood. "plenty of reasons: he was miss max's chief--she always worshiped him--your best friend, a most loved and honored man in the profession. isn't he? well, this isn't the time or the place for a risk." the superintendent rose and looked down at the girl. when she spoke there was a touch of annoyance in the tone as well as sadness. "and that's as much--and as little--as you expect to tell us?" sheila nodded. miss maxwell threw up her hands in a little gesture of helplessness. "leerie, leerie, what are we going to do with you? it was this way even three years ago." in a flash the girl's arms were about the superintendent's neck, her face buried on her shoulder; the words were barely audible to peter, "love me and believe in me--as you did three years ago." and then a choking, wet-eyed, and rather disheveled figure flew past him, out of the room. miss maxwell sank back heavily into her chair; her face showed plainly her battling between love for the girl, her sense of outraged discipline, and her anxiety over the decision she must make. peter watched her with a sort of impersonal sympathy; the major part of his being had been plunged into what seemed a veritable chasm of hopelessness. he tried to pull himself together and realize that there was dempsy to think about. "what are you going to do?" he asked, at last. "do? you mean--about--?" peter nodded. an almost pathetic smile crept into the superintendent's face. "as long as you were here, anyway, it's rather a relief to be able to confess that i don't know what to do. you see, superintendents are always supposed to have infallible judgment on all matters," she sighed. "i have never but once known leerie to break a rule or ask for a special dispensation without a reason--a good reason. but i don't understand what lies behind all this." "i do." peter fairly roared it forth. "she loves that man, and she's afraid this might ruin his career if--if anything happened. why, it's as plain as these four walls and the ceiling above us. no woman pleads for a man that way unless she loves him better than anything else on god's earth." "i think you're wrong." "why?" peter strode over to the superintendent's desk like a man after his reprieve. "i'm not just curious. i've the biggest excuse in the world for wanting to know why she has asked this. i love sheila o'leary. i love her well enough to leave her to-night with the man she loves, provided he loves her. but if he doesn't--if he's just playing with her, accepting her as a sop to his vanity, as a lot of near-famous men will with a woman--then, by thunder! i'm going to stay and fight him for her! understand?" and peter's fist pounded the desk. the superintendent smiled again. this time there was no pathos in it. "i understand--and i'd stay. you ought to know leerie well enough by this time to know that she can fight for the right of anything, whether she cares personally or not, and more than that, even if she has to suffer for it herself. she's the only woman i have ever known who had that particular kind of heroism. if she felt doctor brainard needed some one to stand up for him, i believe she could plead better if she didn't care. and i've another, a better reason for thinking she doesn't love him. she refused at first to be his surgical nurse. she didn't consent until she knew that he had made that one of the conditions of his coming here; he stipulated that he must be allowed to bring his own anesthetist, operate without an assistant, and choose his own operating nurse." "and he choose her?" "she is the best we have. not using an assistant throws a tremendous responsibility and strain on the nurse, and doctor brainard naturally wanted the most expert one he could get." "then there was nothing personal--" "i don't think so. doctor brainard has a strong influence over leerie, but i believe it is only what any surgeon with distinction and power would have. if she really cared for doctor brainard, she wouldn't have said what she did when i asked her to take the appointment." "what did she say?" peter leaned forward eagerly and gripped the edge of the desk. "she said she would rather be suspended for three more years than do it, but if there was no one else, she guessed she could manage it for the honor of the san." "what did she mean?" "oh, that's just a by-phrase among those of us who have worked here a long while and feel a certain loyalty and responsibility for the ideals of this institution. we have tried to stand for honest, humane work as against mere moneygrubbing and popularity." "i see. that's why dempsy sent me here; that's why he's coming himself. thank you, miss maxwell. i hope you're right." peter straightened himself and moved toward the door. "wait a minute, mr. brooks. how much do you know of what happened three years ago?" "just what has dripped from the wagging tongues." peter smiled ironically. "suppose i tell you the truth of it. it might help you to fight this thing through. it certainly couldn't hurt your love for leerie if you really love her." "nothing could," said peter, simply. "doctor brainard and leerie were the very best of friends during the years she was training and he was working under doctor jefferson. then i thought it was love; they were always together, and there seemed to be a strong, deep sympathy between the two. just about the time she graduated things began to go awry. doctor brainard was on the verge of a nervous breakdown and leerie seemed to be laboring under some bad mental strain. then the nurses began to hint that leerie had been going to his room. one night, when she was head night nurse in the surgical and miss jacobs was fourth corridor nurse, miss jacobs called me up at two in the morning and told me leerie had been in doctor brainard's room for an hour. i came at once and found her there. she made no explanation, offered no excuses. she even acknowledged that she had been there twice before at the same time." "what did brainard say?" peter asked it through clenched teeth. "nothing then. but later, when he was called before the board, he laughed and asked what a man could say when a nurse chose to come to his room at two in the morning." "the cad!" and peter swore under his breath. "i should have believed in leerie, anyway, but it was that laugh of doctor brainard's that made me determined to fight for her. what motive doctor brainard had for not defending her i don't know, but he acted like a scoundrel." "but why?" peter beat the air. "oh, the girl must have known she couldn't run amuck with convention that way and not have it hurt her! why did she do it?" the superintendent of nurses looked long and thoughtfully at him. "do you know, mr. brooks, if i happened to be the man who loved sheila o'leary, i think i'd find that out as soon as i could. the answer might prove valuable; it might solve the riddle why sheila doesn't want doctor dempsy operated on here." "well, is he going to be?" "no, we'll take him on to the dentons if he can be moved again after he gets here." but fate willed otherwise. when doctor dempsy arrived on the early train there were no conflicting opinions as to his condition; it was critical, and there would have to be an operation within twenty-four hours. miss maxwell brought the news to peter along with the doctor's wish that his friend should be with him as long as the powers allowed. "does leerie know?" asked peter. "she was present at the consultation." "what did she say?" "nothing. but she looked very white and drawn. i'm afraid she hasn't slept much." "good lord! you don't believe she really thinks brainard will bungle!" but miss maxwell cut him short. "this is no time to bother with futile suppositions. please, mr. brooks! remember that for all our sakes--doctor dempsy's most of all--this is the time to keep our nerve and think only one way." with a grave shake of the head she left him at the door of doctor dempsy's room. to peter the day crept on at a snail's pace; to sheila it galloped. peter saw her just once, when, at doctor dempsy's urgent wish, she came in for a moment between operations, muffled to the eyes in her gown and mask. "come here, child." the old doctor held out a commanding hand and drew the nurse close to the bed. "i've had something on my mind ever since i saw your face this morning. might as well say it now before i forget it." he smiled up gently at the great, deep-gray eyes looking down wistfully at him. "i imagine that you two youngsters may be fretting some over to-morrow--seven a.m. hey? mean trick to saddle you with the responsibility of an old, worn-out hulk like mine, with the chances fifty-fifty on patching it up. what i wanted to say was that you mustn't take it too hard if i don't patch. 'pon my soul i sha'n't mind for myself." a voice called from the corridor outside, "miss o'leary, doctor brainard's waiting." doctor dempsy gave the hand inside the rubber glove a tight squeeze. "remember, leerie, i know you'll keep the little old lantern burning for me as long as you can, and here's good luck, whatever happens." she went without a word. peter had become vastly absorbed at the window in watching hennessy sweeping a gathering of leaves from the curb. when he finally came back to his chair by the bedside he flattered himself that his expression was beatifically cheerful and his voice perfectly steady. as the day waned a storm gathered, and by nightfall the sanitarium and the surrounding country were in the grip of a full-fledged equinoctial. doctor dempsy was put to bed early, and peter went back to his room in the main building to write himself into a state of temporary forgetfulness, if he could. he had tinkered with his pen, sharpened half a dozen pencils, and mussed up as many sheets of paper when a knock brought him to his feet. sheila o'leary stood at the door. her lips were bravely trying to smile away the haggard lines of the face. unconsciously peter's arms went out to her as he repeated that old cry of his in the days when he was a sufferer in the surgical, "why--why, it's leerie!" and his love seemed to pound through every syllable. for the flash of a second the eyes of the girl leaped to his in answer, but in another flash they seemed to have traveled miles away, looking back at him with the sadness of a lost angel. "yes, it's leerie again--come for help," she announced, tersely. "all right." peter tried to sound matter-of-fact. "don't ask questions; just do it. will you?" peter nodded. "you said once if you had to, you could drive through any storm, snow, hail, or rain, that you had ever seen. yes? then get your car and take doctor brainard out to-night. take him anywhere, and keep him going till he's so tired he's ready to drop. talk to him, tell him stories, don't let him talk about himself--or to-morrow. and bring him home when you think he can sleep." "yes. what are you going to do?" "sleep, i hope." she turned to go, but came back again and laid a cold hand in peter's. "thank you. don't think i don't appreciate it." "wait a minute. as it happens, i haven't met doctor brainard, and there's a perfectly good chance he may not care about joy-riding in a young hurricane--even in my company," peter ended ironically. leerie gave a little hollow laugh. "oh, he'll go--don't worry. i'll bring him down and introduce him. ready in ten minutes?" and this time she was gone. peter knew if he lived to the ripe old age of solomon himself he should never forget the smallest detail of that night--doctor brainard's curt, almost surly greeting, the plunge into the car, and the start. after that peter felt like a mythological being piloting the elements. he headed for a state road, and for miles, neither of them speaking, the car streaked over what might have been the surface of the river of lethe, or the strata of mist lying above niflheim, for all the feeling of reality and substance it gave. he had the eery sensation that he might be forced to keep on and on till the end of the world, like the flying dutchman. he wondered what sin of his own or some one's else he might be expiating. they passed no living or mechanical thing; they had the road, the night, the storm to themselves. they might have gone ten miles or thirty before doctor brainard broke the silence. "gad! but you can drive!" "thank you. like it?" "not exactly. but it's better than thinking." "works the other way with me; this sets me thinking." a sudden, heavier gust sent the car skidding across the road, and peter's attention went to his wheel. righting it, he went on, "this is the second time in my life i've felt something controlling me that was stronger than my own will." "nasty feeling. lucky man if you've only felt it twice. what was it the first time?" "fear. that's what brought me here." peter felt the eyes of the doctor studying him in the dark. "i heard about your case. it was leerie brought you through, too, wasn't it?" quick as a flash peter turned. for the instant he forgot they were speeding at a forbidden rate down slippery macadam in a tempest, with his hand as the only controlling force. he almost dropped his wheel. "why '_too_'? is she pulling you through something?" he could hear a heavy intake of breath beside him. unconsciously he knew that his companion was no longer sitting limp with relaxed muscles. he seemed to feel every nerve and fiber in the body of the surgeon growing tense, which made his careless, inconsequential tone sound the more strange when he finally spoke: "that's an odd question to put to a doctor. i was referring to leerie's cases. she's pulled through hundreds of patients, you know; she's famous for it." "yes, i know," answered peter. his voice sounded just as careless, but the hands that gripped the wheel were as taut as steel. they swept on for another half-hour, the silence broken by an occasional yawn from the surgeon. at last peter slowed down and looked at his watch. "eleven-thirty. if we turn now we'll make the san about one. how's that for bedtime?" "gad! i'm ready now," and the doctor yawned again. peter timed it to a nicety. it was five minutes past one as he dropped doctor brainard at the surgical, where he roomed. he was just driving off when miss jacobs hurried out of the entrance. "oh, mr. brooks, wait a minute, please. doctor dempsy isn't resting very well, and miss maxwell left word that if he called for you, you could sit with him. we can't get him to sleep, and he does want you." "all right. i'll leave the car and come back." as peter took his chair again by his friend's bedside his face was set to as strong a purpose as sheila o'leary's had shown that day in the sanitarium grounds. "want me to talk, old man?" he asked, quietly. "maybe i can yarn you into forty winks. shall i try?" "wish you would. it's funny how a man can go through this with a thousand or so patients and it seems like an every-day affair, but when it's himself--well, there's the rub." and the doctor smiled a bit sheepishly at his own ungovernable nerves. peter gripped his hand understandingly. "i know. it's the difference between fiction and autobiography as far as it touches your own sense of reality. well, to-night shall we try fiction? ever since they pulled me through here, i've had my mind on a yarn with a sanitarium or hospital for a background and a doctor for a hero. all this atmosphere gets into your blood. it keeps you guessing until you have to spin a yarn and use up the material." "anything for copy, hey?" the doctor chuckled. "that's about it. well, my yarn runs about this way." with the skill of an artist and the sympathy of a humanist--and the suppressed excitement of one who has something at stake--peter drew his two principal characters, the conscientious, sensitive doctor possessed with the constant fear of that hypothetical case he might lose some day, and the smooth, scheming man a few years his senior who wanted to get his fellow-practitioner out of the way and marry the girl they both loved. peter made the girl as adorable as a man in love might picture her. "for a sixpence i'd wager you had fallen in love yourself." doctor dempsy chuckled again. "i never before knew you to be so keen over feminine charms." "just more copy," and peter went on with the tale. "well, the young chap's horror and fear kept growing with each new case, and the other chap kept sneering and suggesting that his nerves weren't fit, and his hand wasn't steady, and he worked too slowly. he kept it up until he got what he wanted; the young chap bungled his operation and lost his case." "poor devil! i know just what kind of torment he lived through." doctor dempsy raised himself on an elbow and shook his head at peter. "a case like that may be fiction to you, but it's fact to us in the profession. you have no idea how often a youngster's nerves fail him." "guess i'm getting the idea. but i need your help to finish the yarn. of course the hospital couldn't bounce him for losing one case. they would have to prove first that he wasn't fit, wouldn't they?" "they would have to make him out incompetent." peter nodded. had there been more light in the room doctor dempsy might have been startled at the unprecedented expression of cunning that had crept into his friend's face. "i'm not up enough in medical matters to know what i could prove against the young chap to put him out. you'll have to help me. just how could his rival oust him?" "accuse him of drugs," came the unhesitating answer. "that's the most plausible, and it's what plays havoc with young surgeons quicker than anything else. they feel their nerves going, and they take a hypodermic; it steadies them until--it gets them. if you can make your villain convince the staff that drugs are back of the lost case, you can get your poor devil of a surgeon permanently disposed of." peter let out a long-drawn breath. "thank you, doc. you've helped me out--considerably." it does not in the least matter how peter finished the tale. before the inevitable conclusion doctor dempsy dropped off to sleep, and no one but peter himself heard the final, "and they married and lived happy ever after. by jupiter they did!" he slipped softly out of the room and stood a moment in the corridor, wondering what he would do next. sleep seemed unnecessary just then, as well as undesirable. and as he stood there, innocent of all intention of eavesdropping, he had that rare experience of hearing history repeat itself. from around the bend of the corridor, out of sight, came the low but distinct whisper of the night nurse's voice at the house 'phone. "miss maxwell, miss maxwell, can you hear me? this is miss jacobs. leerie went to doctor brainard's room a half-hour ago. she's still there.... all right." and then the soft click of the receiver dropping into place. peter stiffened; his hands clenched. his first impulse was to creep 'round and quietly choke the tattle-tale breath out of miss jacobs. he knew how the little green-eyed nurse was gloating over this second incrimination of leerie. but there was something more compelling to do first, something that could not wait. he slipped 'round through the supply-room and down the back stairs. he reached the first floor of the surgical just as the superintendent of nurses appeared in the entrance. "you!" demanded miss maxwell. "no one else," agreed peter. "suppose we go up together." peter could have almost laughed at the look of dumfounded amazement on the superintendent's face. "you mean--why, that's impossible! it isn't your place--" peter cut her short. "oh yes, it is. remember the advice you gave me a few hours ago. i'm here to find out what's back of it all, and no one is going to stop me." his jaws snapped with an ominous finality. doctor brainard opened to their knock, but he held the door so that barely a corner of the room was visible, and he blocked the entrance. "open it wider!" commanded peter. "we've come to stay a few minutes and ask miss o'leary a few questions," and he thrust the surgeon quickly aside and flung wide the door. sheila was sitting by a reading-lamp, an open book on her lap. she looked as peter had seen her in the early evening, only back of the tiredness and pallor was a strange look of peace. to peter she seemed a crucified saint who had suddenly discovered that nail wounds were harmless. she smiled faintly at them both. "i'm sorry it's happened again, miss maxwell. if you'll just go away and try to forget about it until after the morning, i'll send in my resignation and leave as soon as you can fill my place. and can't we do it this time without any board meeting? i'll promise never to come back." "then there are going to be no explanations this time--either?" there was pleading in the superintendent's voice, as well as infinite sadness. the girl shook her head. "there's nothing to explain. i'm just here." she folded her hands quietly on her lap. "won't you please go?" "no, we won't!" peter thundered it forth. then he turned to the surgeon, and there was no pleading in his voice. "you cur! you cad! what have you got to say?" doctor brainard jumped as if peter had struck him; for the instant he seemed to find speech difficult. "why--why, what do you mean? how dare you--" "i dare you," and peter shot out each word with the directness of a hand-grenade, "i dare you to stand up like a man and tell why miss o'leary came here to-night. you sneaked behind her silence three years ago; don't be a cursed coward and do it again." the surgeon laughed a dry, unpleasant laugh. "it's easy to call another man names--but it doesn't mean anything. and what right have you to ask me to betray miss o'leary's silence?" "betray!" peter fairly howled back the word at him. "take off your coat. take it off, or i'll rip it off. now roll up your sleeves--no, your left. there, by jupiter! look, miss maxwell!" peter's demand was unnecessary. the eyes of the superintendent were already fixed on the manifold tiny blue discolorations in the surgeon's bare arm. "cocaine." she almost whispered it under her breath, and then louder, "how long?" "four years, about." the surgeon's voice was quite toneless; he seemed to shrink and grow old while they watched him. miss maxwell looked across at the girl, who was leaning forward, her face in her hands, crying softly. her eyes were bitterly accusing, and there was abundant scorn in her voice when she spoke again to the surgeon. "so leerie has been shielding you all along and helping you to fight it. how did she know?" "i told her. i thought if some one with a courage and trust like hers knew about it it might pull me together. god! i wish i'd killed myself three years ago." "pity you didn't!" there was no mercy in peter's voice. "but i suppose she wouldn't let you; i suppose she held you together then as she's trying to now. she's trying to save you for to-morrow--seven a.m.--and all the to-morrows coming after. i--i think i'm beginning to understand." his arms dropped dejectedly to his sides. for peter there could be but one meaning to sheila's sacrifice and struggle. but miss maxwell was holding fast to her cross-examination. "and i suppose you promised leerie three years ago if she'd keep silent you would fight it through and break the habit. and that's why you've let no one but leerie and miss jacobs in the operating-room, so no one else would guess. did miss jacobs find out three years ago?" doctor brainard nodded. words failed the superintendent, but her expression boded ill for the little green-eyed nurse. "well," she said, at length, "there's only one thing that matters right now--are you or are you not going to be in a fit condition to operate to-morrow?" it was leerie who answered. she was out of her chair at a bound and beside the surgeon, her hand on his arm. "he's going to operate; he's got to. there isn't another skilled hand like his nearer than the dentons, so he's got to bring doctor dempsy through. please, miss maxwell, leave him to me. i can manage. he's got four hours to sleep, and then i'll let him have enough cocaine to steady him. won't you trust me?" "it's about the only way now." peter left unnoticed. he realized, as he had realized in the sanitarium grounds that afternoon, that he counted about as much in this crisis as a part of the inanimate surroundings. miss maxwell joined him a moment later, looking outrageously relieved. she flashed peter an apologetic smile. "i know it's shameless of me to look glad when you look so miserable. but i can't help feeling that we are going to win. leerie deserves it after what she's suffered for him. that man couldn't fail her, and her trust is bound to make good. don't you see?" peter's shoulders gave an unconvincing shrug. "i hope so. he ought to--if he's half-way a man." he looked at his watch. "almost morning now. guess i'll pack my things and be ready to start as soon as i know dempsy's all right." miss maxwell held him back for an instant. "i know you're thinking that all's wrong with the world, but i know all's right. go and pack if you must, but please stay in your room until i send you word. promise?" and not caring, peter promised. from seven o'clock on peter paced the room among his packed luggage and counted the minutes. he wondered how long his patience would last and when his misery would stop growing. the burden of both had become unbearable. at eight-thirty a sharp knock sounded and he sprang to the door. on the threshold stood a nurse in surgical wrappings, with eyes that shone like a whole firmament of stars and a mouth that curved to the gentle demureness of a nun. peter stood and stared at this unexpected apparition of the old leerie. "well," said the apparition, smiling radiantly as of old, "i'm a messenger of glad tidings. won't you ask me to come in?" peter flushed and drew her to a chair. "oh, it was a wonderful operation. it seemed almost like performing a miracle, and that blessed old doctor is coming out of the ether like a baby." "maybe it was a miracle--the miracle of a woman's trust." a look of rare tenderness swept into the girl's face. "thank you. i wonder if you know how often you say the kindest and most comforting thing." then she sobered. "he's made a brave fight, and it wasn't easy to pull himself together, in the face of what he knew you were all thinking of him, and do such a tremendous piece of work. i want you to understand. he's a brilliant surgeon; it didn't seem right that he should be lost to himself and the profession. and the best of it is, he isn't going to be. the san is going to stand by him; every doctor on the staff is willing to help him. as soon as doctor jefferson is back, doctor brainard is to stop work until--until he's fit again. isn't that splendid! oh, i could sing! i keep saying over those great hebrew words of comfort, 'weeping may tarry through the night, but joy cometh in the morning.'" "yes," said peter, dully. "i'm glad joy has come for you. may i wish you and doctor brainard all success and happiness?" sheila's eyes looked into peter's with a sudden intensity. "you may--but not together. have you actually been thinking that i loved doctor brainard?" a hint of the old bitterness crept into her voice. "i can pity a man like that, but love him--love weakness and selfishness--and the willingness to betray a woman's honor--no! three years ago he killed whatever personal feeling i might have had for him, and he made me hate all men." "and you're still hating them?" peter held fast to his rising hopes while he hung eagerly on her answer. "no. ever since a fine, strong, unselfish man came into my life it has set me loving all mankind so scandalously that i'm afraid the only way to make me respectable is--for some man to marry me." leerie's arms went out to peter in complete surrender. "oh, peter--peter--it's morning!" but it was almost noon before peter began to think intelligently again, and then he remembered something, something that ought to be done. "i think," he said, "i think we ought to go out and tell hennessy and the swans; we sort of owe it to them." and it all ended even as peter had prophesied in his yarn by doctor dempsy's bedside. chapter v the last of the surgical things have a way of beginning casually, so casually that you think they are bound to spin themselves out into airy nothings. the first inkling you have to the contrary is that headlong plunge into one of the big moments of your life, perhaps the biggest. but you never cease to wonder at the innocent, inconsequential way it began. these are the moments when you can picture fate, sitting like an omnipotent operator before some giant switchboard, playing with signals and the like. i dare say he grins like a mischievous little boy who delights in turning things topsy-turvy whenever he has a chance. fate had been busy at this for some time when the sanitarium, quite oblivious of any signal connection, set itself to the glorious business of getting sheila o'leary married. grief, despair, disappointment came often to the san, death not infrequently, but happiness rarely, and there had never before been such a joyous, personal happiness as this one. small wonder that the san should gather it close to its heart and gloat over it! was not sheila one of its very own, born under its portals, trained in its school, placed above all its nurses, and loved beyond all else? and peter brooks. had not the san given him his life and sheila? it certainly was a time for rejoicing. as hennessy had voiced it: "sure, half the weddin's ye go to ye sit miserable, thinkin' the man isn't good enough for the lass, or the lass is no mate for the man. but, glory be to pether! here's a weddin' at last that god almighty might be cryin' the banns for." they were to be married within the month. every one was agreed to this, from the superintendent down to flanders, the bus-driver--yes, and even the lovers themselves. the san forgot its aches and sorrows in the excitement of planning an early summer wedding. "we'll make the chapel look lovely," chirped the reverend mrs. grumble, clasping and unclasping her hands in a fidget of anticipation. "there'll be enough roses and madonna lilies in the gardens to bank every pew and make an arch over the chancel." "well, if leerie's married in the chapel, half of us can't get in." and madam courot shook her head in emphatic disapproval. "she'd better take the congregational church. that's the only place large enough to hold everybody who will want to come." a mutinous murmur rose and circled the patients on the veranda. not married at the san! it was unthinkable. so this point and the final date sheila settled for them. "we'll have the wedding in the gardens, save all the fuss and waste of picking the flowers, be ever so much prettier, and everybody and his neighbor can come." when hennessy heard of it he shirred his mouth into a pucker and whistled ecstatically. "'tis like her, just! married out-o'-doors wi' the growin' things to stand up wi' her and the blessed sun on her head. faith, hennessy will have to be scrubbin' up the swans an' puttin' white satin bows round their necks." sheila chose the hour before sunset on an early day of june, and the san speedily set itself to the task of praying off the rain and arranging the delightful details of attendants, refreshments, music, and all the other non-essentials of a successful wedding. miss maxwell, the superintendent of nurses, took the trousseau in hand and portioned out piles of napery and underwear to the eager hands of the nurses to embroider. the whole sanitarium was suddenly metamorphosed into a dorcas society; patients forgot to be querulous, and refused extra rubbings and all unnecessary tending, that more stitches might be taken in the twenty-four hours of the hospital day. a great rivalry sprang up between the day and night nurses as to which group would finish the most, and old mr. crotchets, the cynical bachelor with liver complaint and a supposedly atrophied heart, offered to the winning shift the biggest box of candy new york could put up. through the first days of her happiness sheila walked like a lambent being of another world, whose radiance was almost blinding. those who had known her best, who had felt her warmth and beauty in spite of that bitterness which had been her shield against the hurt she had battled with so long, looked upon her now with unfathomable wonder. and peter, who had worshiped her from the moment she had taken his hand and led him back to the ways of health, watched her as the men of olden times must have watched the goddesses that occasionally graced their earth. "beloved, you're almost too wonderful for an every-day, sunday-edition newspaper-man like me," peter whispered to her in the hush of one twilight, as they sat together in the rest-house, watching hennessy feed the swans. "every woman is, when the miracle of her life has been wrought for her. man of mine," and sheila reached out to peter's ever waiting arms, "wouldn't god be niggardly not to let me seem beautiful to you now?" peter laughed softly. "if you're beautiful now, what will you be when--" sheila hushed him. "listen, peter, our happiness frightens me, it's so tremendous for just two people--almost more than our share of life. i know i seem foolish, but long ago i made up my mind i should have to do without love and all that goes with it, and now that it has come--sorrow, death, never frightened me, but this does." "glad i have the courage for two, then. look here, leerie, the more happiness we have the more we can spill over into other lives and the brighter you can burn your lamp for the ones in the dark. this old world needs all the happiness it can get now. so?" sheila smiled, satisfied. "you always understand. if i ever write out a prescription for love, i shall make understanding one-third of the dose. let's go into partnership, brooks and o'leary, distillers and dispensers of happiness." "all right, but the firm's wrong. it's going to be brooks and brooks," and peter kissed her. "there is one thing," and sheila gently disentangled herself. "there are days and days before the wedding, and if everybody thinks i am going to do nothing until then, everybody is very much mistaken. i'm going in this minute to sign up for my last case in the surgical." it must have been just at this moment that fate turned on an arbitrary signal-light and changed a switch. i should like to think that back of his grin lurked a tiny shadow of contrition. "and what am i going to do?" peter called dolefully after her. "oh, i don't know. you might write an article on the dangers and uncertainties of marrying any woman in a profession." and she blew him a farewell kiss. the train from the city, that night, brought a handful of patients, and one of these wore the uniform and insignia of a lieutenant of the engineers. his mother came with him. she had been an old patient, and because of extraordinary circumstances--i use the government term--she had obtained his discharge from a military hospital and had brought him to the san to mend. "the wounds are slow in closing, and there's some nervous trouble," miss maxwell explained to sheila. "the boy's face is rather tragic. will you take the case?" she accepted with her usual curt nod and a hasty departure for her uniform. a half-hour later she was back in the surgical, her fear as well as her happiness forgotten in the call of another human being in distress. the superintendent of nurses was right: the boy's face was tragic, and a frail little mother hovered over him as if she would breathe into his lungs the last breath from her own. she looked up wistfully, a little fearsomely, as sheila entered; then a smile of thanksgiving swept her face like a flash of sunlight. "oh, i'm so glad! i remember you well. i hoped--but it hardly seemed possible--i didn't dare really to expect it. when i was here before, you were always so needed, and my boy--of course there is nothing serious--only--" and the shaking voice ended as incoherently as it had begun. the nurse took the withered hands held out to her in her young, warm ones. in an instant she saw all that the little mother had been through--the renunciation months before when she had given her boy up to his country; the long, weary weeks of learning to do without him; the schooling it had taken to grow patient, waiting for the letters that came sparingly or not at all; and at last the news that he was at the front, under fire, when the papers published all the news there was to be told. sheila saw it all, even to her blind, frantic groping for the god she had only half known and into whose hands she had never wholly given the keeping of her loved ones. and after that the cable and the waiting for what was left of her boy to come home to her. as she looked down at her, sheila had the strange feeling that this frail little mother was dividing the care of her boy between god and herself, and she smiled unconsciously at this new partnership. gently she laid her hand on the lean, brown one resting on the coverlet; the boy opened his eyes. "it's going to be fine to have a soldier for a patient; i expect you know how to obey orders. you are our first, and we're going to make your getting well just the happiest time in all your life, the little mother and i." the boy made no response. he looked at his mother as if he understood, and then with a groan of utter misery he turned away his head and closed his eyes again. "ah-h-h!" thought sheila, and a little later she drew the mother into the corridor beyond earshot. "there's something ailing him besides wounds. what is it?" "clarisse." the promptness of the answer brought considerable relief to the nurse. it was easy to deal with the things one knew; it was the hidden things, tucked away in the corners of the subconscious mind or the super-sensitive soul, that never saw the light of open confession, that were the baffling obstacles to nursing. sheila never dreaded what she knew. "well, what's the matter with clarisse?" she asked, cheerfully. the little mother hesitated. evidently it was hard to put it into words. "they're engaged, she and phil, and phil doesn't want to see her, shrinks from the very thought of it. that's what's keeping him from getting better, i think. she's very young and oh, so pretty. they were both young when phil went away--but phil--" she stopped and passed a fluttering hand across her forehead; her lips quivered the barest bit. "phil has come back so old. that's what war does for our boys; in just a few months it turns them into old men, the serious ones--and their eyes are older than any living person's i ever saw." "and clarisse is still young. i think i understand." "that's why i brought him here. in the city there would have been no reason for her not coming to the hospital, but she couldn't come here unless we sent for her--could she?" again the fluttering hand groped as if to untangle the complexity of thoughts and feelings in the poor confused head. "i write her letters. i make them just as pleasant as i can. i don't want to hurt her; she's so young." sheila nodded. "does he love her?" that was the most important, for to sheila love was the key that could spring the lock of every barrier. "he did, and i think she loves him--i think--" sheila went back to her patient and began the welding of a comradeship that only such a woman can weld when her heart is full with love for another man. day by day she made him talk more. he told her of his soldiering; apparently everything that had happened before held little or no place in his scheme of life, and he told it as simply and directly as if he had been a child. he made her see the months of training in camp, when he grew to know his company and feel for the first time what the brotherhood of arms meant. he told of the excitement of departure, the spiritual thrill of marching forth to war with the heart of a crusader in every boy's breast. his eyes shone when he spoke of their renunciation, of the glory of putting behind them home and love until the world should be made clean again and fit for happiness. sheila winced at this, but the boy did not notice; he was too absorbed in the things he had to tell. he told of the days of waiting in france, with the battle-front before them like a mammoth drop-curtain, screening the biggest drama their lives would ever know. "there we were, marking time with the big guns, wondering if our turn would come next. that was a glorious feeling, worth all that came afterward--when the curtain went up for us." he raised himself on an elbow and looked into sheila's cool, gray eyes with eyes that burned of battle. "god! i can't tell you about it. there have been millions of war books written by men who have seen more than i have and who have the trick of words--and you've probably read them; you know. only reading isn't seeing it; it isn't _living it_." he turned quickly, shooting out a hand and gripping hers hard. "tell me; you've seen all sorts of operations--horrible ones, where they take out great pieces of malignant stuff that is eating the life out of a man. you've seen that?" the nurse nodded. "did you forget it afterward, when the body was clean and whole again? could you forget the thing that had been there? for that's war. that's what we're fighting, the thing that's eating into the heart of a decent, sound world, and since i've seen the horror of it i can't forget. i can't see the healing--yet." "you will. not at first, perhaps, but when you're stronger. that is one of god's blessed plans: he made beauty to be immortal and ugliness to die and be forgotten. and even the scars where ugliness was time whitens and obliterates. give time its chance." it was the next day that the boy spoke of clarisse. "will time make them all right, too? leerie," he had picked up the nickname from the other nurses and appropriated it with all the ardent affection of worshiping youth, "we're miles--ages--apart. can anything under god's canopy bring us together, i wonder?" "perhaps." sheila smiled her old inscrutable smile. "tell me more." and so he told her of the girl who was so young, and oh, so pretty. it had all seemed right before he had gone to camp; it was the great love for him, something that had made his going seem the worthier. but at camp the distance between them had begun to widen, her letters had failed to bridge it, and through those letters he had discovered a new angle of her, an angle so acute that it had cut straight to the heart and destroyed all the love that had been there. at least that was what he thought. "i knew she was young, of course, not much more than a child, and i knew she loved fun and good times, and all that, but--why, she'd write about week-end parties, and how becoming her bathing-suit was, and what tommy flint said about her fox-trotting. lord!" he writhed under the coverlet and ground his nails into his palms. "we marched through places where there wasn't a shred of anything left for anybody. we saw old women hanging on to broken platters and empty bird-cages because it was all they had left--home, children, everything gone. and on top of that would come a letter telling how much she'd spent on an evening gown, and how bob wylie took them out to riverdale and blew in a hundred and twenty dollars on the day's trip. a hundred and twenty dollars! that would have bought a young ocean of milk over there for the refugee kids i saw starving." he jerked himself up suddenly and sat huddled over, his eyes kindling with a vision of purging the world. sheila knew it was useless to stop him, so she propped him up with pillows and let him go on. "and that wasn't all. between the lulls in the fighting they moved us along to a quiet sector, to freshen up, where we were so close to the german side that we could look into one of their captured villages. there we could see the french girls they'd carried off going out to work, saw them corralled at night like--" he broke off, hesitated, then went doggedly on. "with field-glasses we could see them plainly, the loads they had to lift and carry, the beatings they got, the look in their faces. their shoulders were crooked, their backs bent from the long slaving. they were wraiths, most of them--and some with babies at their breasts. after i got back from seeing that, i found another letter from clarisse. she said the girls just couldn't buckle down to much red cross work; it was so hard to do anything much in summer. they'd no sooner get started than some one would say tennis or a swim. _and i saw women dying over there--and bearing boche babies!_" all the agony of soul that youth can compass was poured forth in those last words. the boy leaned back on his pillows, weary unto death with the hopelessness of it all. so sheila let him lie for a while before she answered him. "do the boys want their girls to know the full horror of it all? i thought that was one of the things you were fighting for, to keep as much of it away from them as you could." the boy raised a hand in protest, but sheila silenced him. "wait a minute; it's my turn to talk now. i know what's in your mind. you think that clarisse--and the girls like her--are showing unforgivable callousness and flippancy in the face of this world tragedy. instead of becoming women as you have become men, they stay silly, unthinking, irresponsible creatures who dance and play and laugh while you fight and die. the contrast is too colossal; it all seems past remedy. isn't that so? well, there's another side, a side you haven't thought of. the girls are giving you up. the little they know of life, as it is now, looks very overwhelming to them. perhaps it frightens them. and what do frightened children do in the dark?" the boy did not try to answer; he waited, tensely eager. "why, they sing; they laugh little short-breathed laughs; they tell stories to themselves of nonsensical things to reassure them. all the time they are trying not to think of what terrors the dark may hold; they are trying not to cry out for some one to come and sit with them. some of our girls are doing a tremendous work. they meet trains at all hours of the day or night and feed the boys before they sail; they wait all day in the canteens until they're ready to drop; they put in a lot more time, making comfort-kits, knitting, and rolling bandages, than they ever own to. and suppose they don't grow dreadfully serious; isn't it better that way? the girls are doing their bit as fast as they are learning how. it isn't fair of the boys to judge them too soon. it isn't fair of you to judge your clarisse without giving her a chance." "you didn't read those letters." "letters! most of us, when we write, keep back the things that really matter and skim off the surface of our lives to tell about. there may not be the sixteenth part of your girl in those letters." the boy's lips tightened stubbornly. "it wasn't just one--it was all of them. anyhow, i haven't the nerve or the heart to find out." again sheila let the silence fall between them. when she spoke, her voice was very tender. "tell me, boy, what made you love her?" he smiled sheepishly. "oh, i don't know. she was always a good sport, never got grumpy over things that happened, never got cold feet, either. she had a way of teasing you to do what she wanted, would do anything to get her way; and then she'd turn about so quickly and give you your way, after all--just make you take it. and she'd be so awfully sweet about it, too. and she'd always play fair, and she had a way of making you feel the best ever. oh, i don't know--" the boy looked about him helplessly. "they sound awfully foolish reasons for loving a girl." sheila's face had become suddenly radiant; her eyes sparkled like rushlights in a wind. they actually startled the boy so that he straightened up in bed again and gripped her hand. "i say, leerie, what is it? i never saw you look like this before. you're--are you in love?" "with one of the finest men god ever made. he's so fine that he trusted me through a terrible bungle--believed in the real woman in me when i would have denied it. that's what a man's love can do for a woman sometimes, keep her true to the best in her." that night, after many fluttering protests, the little mother wrote a letter to clarisse. it was dictated by sheila and posted by her, and it contained little information except what might have been extracted from a non-committal railroad guide. it did mention at the last, however, that phil was slowly gaining. with this off her mind, sheila went to find peter. she had characteristically neglected him since she had been on the case, and as characteristically he made no protest. instead he met her with that quick understanding that she had claimed as one of love's ingredients. he looked her over well and proudly, then tapped his head significantly. "i see, there's more to this soldier-boy case than just wounds. want me to run you down the boulevard while you work it out?" "thank god for a man!" breathed sheila, and then aloud: "no, it's worked out. but you might run me down, just the same." "feels almost like frost to-night," said peter as he put the car into first. "do you think it will hold pleasant enough for--" "for what?" sheila's tone sounded blank. peter chuckled. "for the gardens and the old ladies, of course. have you by any chance forgotten that there's going to be a wedding in four days?" "saturday, sunday, monday, tuesday--" counted sheila. "why, so it is!" then she echoed peter's chuckle, "oh yes, there's going to be a wedding, a beautiful wedding in four days." a strange little twinge took peter's heart there in the dark at the queer, impersonal note in what she had said. what did it mean? sheila gave the girl twenty-four hours to reach the san after receiving the letter; she came in eighteen, and the nurse rejoiced at this good omen. she had delegated peter to meet all trains that day, take the girl to her room, send for her at once, and tell nobody. peter obeyed, and early in the afternoon sheila looked up from her reading to the boy to see peter standing in the doorway, the message on his lips. "baggage delivered," was peter's announcement. "thank you. i'll come in a minute and see if my key fits." she hunted up the little mother, left her in charge, and hurried over to the nurses' home. there in the big living-hall, perched in a wicker chair under the poster of old king cole, sheila found the girl, who was young and oh, so pretty. she looked about as capable of taking a plunge into the grim depths of life and coming out safely as a toy pom of weathering the waters of the devil's hole. "how shall i ever push her in?" thought sheila as she held out her hand in greeting. clarisse took it with all the hectic impulsiveness of youth. "you're his nurse. isn't it great his coming back this way? all our set is engaged--or about to be--but i'm the only one that's got her man back with battle scars all over him. makes me feel like a story-book heroine." sheila o'leary didn't know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. she ended by doing what probably surprised her more than it did the girl. she sat down in the wicker chair herself and gathered the girl into her lap. "oh, you blessed, blessed baby!" she crooned softly. the girl pouted adorably. it was very evident that she liked to be petted, coaxed, and spoiled. if there was a woman slumbering under all this dimpling, infantile charm, she was quite indiscernible to the woman who held her. slowly she bent over the girl and let her face show all the delight she could feel in her prettiness and baby ways. there must be sympathy between them or her task would be hopeless. "there, let me untie that bewitching bonnet of yours and take off your gloves. we have a lot to tell each other before you see your soldier." "but phil--won't he be waiting, wondering why i don't come? oh, i'm just crazy to see him!" "he doesn't know you're here yet." "oh!" the smooth, white forehead did its utmost to manage a frown. "why, didn't he send for me?" "no." "who did? his mother wrote." "i sent." the round, childish eyes filled with apprehension; she wrenched herself free of sheila's arms. "he isn't going to--the letter said--?" "he's better. sit down, dear. that's what we have to talk over. his body is mending fast, but his mind--well, his mind has been taken prisoner." clarisse tossed an adorable crown of golden curls. "i don't understand." "didn't expect you to, at first. it's this way. he's been through some very big, very terrible experiences, and he can't forget them. he isn't the boy you used to play with, the boy who was happy just having a good time. he's grown very serious. that's what experience is likely to do for us all in time, but with him it's come all in a heap. when that happens you can't go back and be happy in the old way. do you see?" "go on." "he's bound fast and walled about with the memories of what he has been through--killing human beings, watching his comrades die, seeing what the germans have done. for the moment it has made him forget that the sun shines and birds sing and the world is a place to be glad in. the bright colors have faded out of life for him; everything looks gray and somber." "gee! and how he used to like a good cabaret with a jazz band!" the girl whispered it, and there was awe in her voice. "and colors! i had to wear the gayest things i had, to please him." "yes, i know. and he'll like them best again, some day. just be patient, dear. and the waiting won't be hard, you'll have so much to do for him. you'll have to be bringing the sunshine back, making him listen to the bird-songs, teaching him how to be glad, to love doing all the happy, foolish boy-things he used to like." "i see--i can." the girl's voice was breathless. "i'm sure you can." sheila tried to put conviction into her words. "at first you may find it a little hard. it means--" "yes?" "it means creeping into his prison with him, so gently, so lovingly, and staying close beside him while you cut the memory-cords one by one. could you do that?" the girl sprang past sheila toward the door. "come! what are we waiting for?" "but he doesn't know you are here yet," parried the nurse. "let's go and tell him, then. he always adored surprises." the dimples in her cheeks danced in anticipation while she took sheila's hand and tried to drag her nearer the door. but at the threshold something in the woman's face stopped her. she hesitated. "maybe--maybe he doesn't like surprises any more." again the impulsive hands were thrust into the nurse's. "tell me, tell me honestly--you said you sent for me. was it--didn't he want me--to come?" and sheila, remembering what the boy had loved about her, gave her back the truth: "no, he has grown afraid of you. that's another thing you will have to bring back to him with the songs and the sunlight--his love for you." her hand was flung aside and the girl flew past her, back to the wicker chair under old king cole. burying her head in her arms, she burst into uncontrollable sobs, while sheila stood motionless in the doorway and waited. she must have waited an hour before the girl raised her eyes, wet as her own. for sheila knew that a woman's soul was being born into the world, and none understood better than she what the agony of travail meant to the child who was giving it birth. "come," said sheila, gently. the girl rose uncertainly; all the divine assurance of youth was gone. "i think i see," she began unsteadily. "i think i can." "i know you can." and this time there was no doubt in sheila's heart. she saw to it that the little mother had been called away before they reached the surgical, so that the room was empty except for the occupant of the cot. "hello, boy!" she called, triumphantly, from the doorway. "i have brought you the best present a soldier ever had," and she pushed clarisse into the room and closed the door. for a moment those two young creatures looked at each other, overcome with confusion and the self-consciousness of their own great change. the boy spoke first. "clare!" "phil!" it came in a breathless little cry, like a bird's answer to its mate. then the girl followed. across the room she flew, to the bed, and down on her knees, hiding her face deep in the folds of coverlet and hospital shirt. words came forth chokingly at last, like bubbles of air rising slowly to the surface. "those letters--those awful letters! just foolish things that didn't matter. one of the boys at the canteen--i used to wait on the table and make believe every soldier i served was mine, and i always wore my prettiest clothes--he said--the boy--that over there they didn't want anything but light stuff--those were his words--said a chap couldn't stand hearing that his girl was lonely.... he said to cut out all the blue funks and the worries; the light stuff helped to steady a chap's nerve. so i--" and then the boy lied like a soldier. "don't, clare darling. i knew all along you were playing off like a good sport. and it helped a lot. gee! how it helped!" when sheila looked in, hours later, the girl was still by the bed, her cheek on the pillow beside the boy's. it was a strangely illusive leerie that met peter that night in the rest-house after the ailing part of the san had been put safely to bed. her eyes seemed to transcend the stars, and her face might have served for a young neophyte. as peter saw, for the first time he glimpsed the signal fate had been playing with so many days. "what's happened? anything wrong with those cubs?" "nothing. they're as right as right can be." then with the old directness sheila plunged headlong into the thing she knew must be done. "man of mine, i'm going to hurt you. can you forgive and still understand?" "i can try." peter did his best to keep his voice from sounding too heavy, for a fear was gripping at his heart, and his eyes sought sheila's face, pleading as he would never have let his lips plead. sheila covered her eyes. she didn't want to see. it was too reminiscent of the little boy lying awake in a dark attic, afraid of sleep. "we have both done without happiness so long, don't you think we can do without it a little longer?" "i suppose so--if we must." peter's voice was very dull. "but why? i've always had an idea that happiness was something like opportunity; it had to be snatched and held fast when it came your way, or you might never have another chance at it." had sheila brought him to the gates of paradise only to bar them against his entering? he wondered. the woman who loved him understood and laid her hand on his breast as if she would stay the hurt there if she could. "it may make it easier if you know that the giving up is going to be hard for me, too. i've thought about that home of ours so long that i've begun to see it and all that goes with it. i even stumble upon it in my dreams. it's always at the end of a long, tired road, going uphill. if i thought i should have to give it up, i wouldn't have the courage to do what i'm going to now." she sat down on the bench, laid her arms over the sill of the rustic window, and looked toward the pond. the night was very still; the blurred outlines of the swans, huddled against the bank, were the only signs of life. when she spoke it was almost to herself. "when they sent me away from the san three years ago i thought i could never bear it--to go away alone, that way, disgraced, to begin work over again in a strange place, among strange people. but i had to do it, just as i have to do this." she straightened and faced peter. her voice changed; it belonged to the curt, determined sheila. "i'm going across, to nurse the boys over there. the boy over in the surgical pointed the way for me. there's a big thing going on in the world--something almost as big as the war--it's the business of getting the boys ready for life after their share in the war is over, and i don't mean just nursing their bodies back to health. everything is changed for them; they've got new standards, new interests, new hearts, new souls, and we women have got to keep pace with them. and we mustn't fail them--don't you see that? oh, i know i have no place of my own in the war: you are safe, and i have no brothers. but i'm a woman--a nurse, thank god! and i'm free to go for the mothers and sweethearts who can't. don't you understand?" and peter answered from an overwhelmingly full and troubled heart, "oh yes, i understand." "i knew you would." sheila raised starry eyes to the man who had never failed her. "those boys will need all the sympathy, all the wholesome tenderness we can send across to them, and they'll need our hands at their backs until they get their foothold again. i've served my apprenticeship at that so long i can do it." peter gathered her close in his arms. "god and i know how well." it was not until they were leaving the gardens that peter asked the question that had been in his mind all through the evening. "what about the wedding? i suppose you're not going to marry me, now." "can't. haven't the courage. man of mine, don't you know that after i once belonged to you i couldn't leave you? i've only had sips of happiness so far. if i once drained the cup, only god's hand could take it from me." "and the wedding? the old san's just set its heart on that wedding." the radiant smile crept back to sheila's lips. even in the dark peter could tell that the old luminous leerie was beside him once more. "why, that's one of the nicest parts of it all. we're going to pass our wedding on to those children--make them a sort of wedding-present of it. won't that be splendid?" "oh yes," said peter, without enthusiasm. "does it suit them?" "they don't know yet. guess i'd better go and tell them." it is doubtful if anybody but sheila o'leary could have managed such an affair and left every one reasonably happy over it--two of them unreasonably so. she accepted the wedding collation bestowed by the wealthy old ladies of the sanitarium and passed it over to the boy and his betrothed as if it had been as trivial a gift as an ice-cream cone. in a like manner she passed on the trousseau, kissed all the nurses rapturously for their work, and piled it all into clarisse's arms with the remark that it was lucky they were so nearly of a size. when she brought the wedding-dress she kissed her, too, and said that she was going to make the prettiest picture in it that the san or the soldier had seen in years. she placated the management; she wheedled miss maxwell into a good humor; she even coaxed doctor fuller into giving away the bride. only hennessy refused to be propitiated. "are ye thinkin' of givin' mr. brooks away with everythin' else?" he asked, scornfully; and then, his indignation rising to a white wrath, he shouted, "i'll not put bows on the swans, an' i'll not come to any second-hand weddin'." but he did come, and held with flanders the satin ribbons they had promised to hold for sheila. and the wedding became one of the greenest of all the memories that had gone down on the san books. as the sun clipped the far-away hills the boy was wheeled down the paths to where the gold and white of early roses were massed in summer splendor. then came the girl with sheila at her side; the girl had begged too hard to be refused. but sheila's face was as white as it had been the day they operated on doctor dempsy, and only peter guessed what it cost her to stand with the bride. to peter's care had been intrusted the little mother, and he let her weep continually on his shoulder in between the laughs he kept bringing to her lips. and it all ended merrily. sheila saw to that. but perhaps the thing that gave her the keenest pleasure was wheedling out of mr. crotchets his bungalow that stood on the slopes beyond the golf-links for a honeymoon. "they'll have all the quiet they want and the care he still needs," she told peter when they were alone. "and nobody but the nurse in charge knows about it--yet." then seeing the great longing in peter's eyes, she drew him away from the crowd. "listen, man of mine! i have the feeling that when we are married there will be no wedding, just you and i and the preacher. and in my heart i like it better that way." "so do i," agreed peter. "i'm leaving--train to-night," sheila hurried on. "no use putting it off; better sail as soon as the passport's ready. there's just one thing more i want to say before i leave you." then peter chuckled for the first time that day. "you can say it, of course, but if you think you're going to leave me behind, you're mistaken. i wired the chief the day you told me. they need another correspondent over there. when it comes to passports there is some advantage in not being a husband, after all. well--are you glad?" when hennessy came upon them, a few minutes later, they looked so supremely happy and oblivious of the rest of the world that he was forced to stop. "sure, ye might be the bride an' groom, afther all, by the looks of ye. what's come over ye all of a sudden?" and when peter told him, and they both put their hands in hennessy's in final parting, he shirred his lips and whistled forth evidence of a satisfied emotion to which he added a word of warning to peter: "i'm not envyin' ye, just the same, mr. brooks. afore ye get her home again ye'll find the irish say right, 'a woman's more throuble to look afther than a thorn in the foot or a goat fetched back from the fair!'" chapter vi monsieur satan there had been nothing, perhaps, more radically changed by the rigors of war than atlantic transportation. the thrills of pleasure and romance that attended the tourist in the days before the war had deepened to thrills of another timbre, while romance had become more epic than idyllic. the happy phrase of "going abroad" had given place to "going over" or "going across"; such a trifling difference in words, but the accompaniment comes in quite another key. it was no longer shouted in a care-free, happy-go-lucky fashion; it may have had a ring of suppressed exultation; but it was sure to be whispered with a quick intake of breath, and so often it came through teeth that were clenched. the piers had changed their gala attire. the departure from this country for another was no longer a matter of mere rejoicing and congratulatory leave-taking. the gangways no longer swarmed with friends shouting, "bon voyage!" there was no free voicing of anticipation, no effervescing of good humor. the spirit of adventure was there, but he had changed his costume and his make-up. so had the good ships. their black paint and white trimmings were gone; gone were the gay red funnels; and in their stead were massed the grays and blues, the greens and blacks of camouflage. the piers were deserted. a thin stream of travelers sifted in; there were a few officials and deckhands; and far outside, beyond hail of ship or sea or traveler, in a barbed-wire inclosure, guarded by military police, stood a few scattered, silent figures. they were the remnants war had left of the once-upon-a-time jocose band of waving, shouting friends. all this sheila o'leary felt as she stood on the upper deck of a french liner with peter brooks and watched their fellow-passengers board the ship. she was tingling from head to foot with almost as many emotions as there are ganglia in the nervous system. it was as if she had suddenly claimed the world for a patient and had laid fingers to its pulse for the first time. eagerly, impatiently, she was waiting to count each successive beat until she should be able to read into the throbbing rhythm of it all a meaning for herself. as sheila thought in terms of her work, so peter thought in terms of his. it was all copy to him. each group that followed another up the gangway carried the promise of a story to peter. there were red cross nurses, canteen workers, a college unit for reconstruction work, a hospital unit, scores of detached american officers going over for the first time, scores of french and british returning, a few foreigners getting back to their respective countries, and hosts of non-descripts whose civilian clothes gave no hint of their missions. last of all came a sudden, swift influx of celestial blue. peter smiled at them with anticipation, "look, leerie, the blue devils of france! there ought to be the making of a good yarn." but sheila barely heard. the mass had captured her imagination on the instant with a dramatic intensity too overpowering to be denied. unconsciously she smiled. they were going back to fight again--to be wounded. who knew--in a month she might be nursing some of them. the blue devils had reached the gangway; they were just below them when one looked up. black eyes as unfathomable as forest pools looked into sheila's quiet gray ones. for a moment there was almost a greeting flashed between them; as if they recognized something common to them both that lay in the past or the future. it was one of those gossamer threads of fate that a few glimpse rarely in their lives. peter saw, and was on the point of giving tongue to his astonishment when a voice from behind interrupted them: "the ship sails at ten; it lacks thirty seconds of that. there is the typical instance of the way these devils obey their orders. is it not so?" the voice savored of france. sheila and peter turned together to find a little man, with a small, pleasant face, topped with shaggy brown hair, and dabs of mustache and beard placed like a colon under his nose. his shrug was the conclusive evidence of his nationality. "well, thirty seconds is enough," laughed sheila. "time is as precious as food, gold, or gunpowder these days. why waste it?" "and men," supplemented the little man. "perhaps, mad'moiselle already knows bertrand fauchet, the young captain who passed below?" sheila shook her head. the little man rubbed his hands together in keen enjoyment. "ah, there is a man; but they are all men. the boches have named them well. they fight like demons, then they rest and play like children until their turn comes to fight again. and fauchet--he is a devil of a devil, possessed of a thousand lives. mad'moiselle would adore him." sheila's demure chin tilted mutinously, "but i don't like devils, even blue ones." "ah, you do not understand. c'est la guerre. we must lock away in our hearts all the pity, all the tenderness, as we hide our jewels and our treasures and mask our cathedrals. if we did not they would all be destroyed and we would go quite mad." he smiled whimsically at sheila, as one smiles at a child who fails to comprehend. "wait--wait till mad'moiselle sees france. then--" he finished with a shrug and left them. they were in midstream when they saw the little man again. he came hurrying toward them with both hands outstretched to peter. "it is mr. brooks. i did not know when i was speaking with you and mad'moiselle before. they told me at the office of your paper that you would be sailing to-day. may i present jacques marchand of the _figaro_, a fellow-journalist?" and he made a profound bow which included sheila. peter introduced the girl beside him and the little man looked at her with whetted interest and a twinkle of suppressed humor. "you women of america, you come like battalions of good angels to nurse our devils. eh bien, before the sun goes down you shall meet your first one. au 'voir till then." they were in the stern, watching the last of the sun in their wake as it turned myriads of whirring wings to iridescent gold, when the little man found them again. this time he was not alone. close upon his heels came the captain of the blue devils; and again the black eyes met sheila's when they were still a man's length apart. "mad'moiselle," said jacques marchand, "i have brought, as i promised--monsieur satan--mad'moiselle o'leary. look him well over; you will see he has not the horns or cloven feet, nevertheless--mais, voilà." the captain was blushing like a very bashful little boy; he was smiling as naïvely as an infant. sheila guessed at his age and placed it not far from twenty. who had ever conceived of a boy-mephistopheles? it was absurd. a genuine diabolical personage had no right to a pre-middle age; for him all years prior to forty should not exist. and here was undeniably a boy, whose very bashfulness and naïveté bore witness that he had not entirely grown up. so sheila smiled back upon him with the frankness and abandon one feels so safe in bestowing upon youth. "this paper-man, he likes to be what you call funny. it pays him well, and he must keep, what you say, his feet in. but i do not like always his little jokes. i will make a new introduce so. bertrand fauchet, capitaine chasseurs alpins, very much at your service, ma'am'selle." the soldier bowed with solemnity. it was evident he felt his dignity had been trampled on and resented it. the little man of the _figaro_ wagged a forefinger at him. "ah, tata, garçon. remember, i am your godfather in the battalion. it is i that give you the name. three years ago in the café des alcazar i call you monsieur satan, and it stick. you cannot rub it off; you cannot make france forget it; and when you come back so fierce--so terrific from the fighting at troyes where you get the croix de guerre it is not for capitaine fauchet the men shout--non. it is for monsieur satan they shout, for the devil of a blue devil. eh, mon ami?" and he laid a loving arm across the other's shoulder. during the crossing the four met often; the journalist always kindly and loquacious, monsieur satan always shy. sometimes he joined sheila alone for an after-dinner promenade. it was always at that hour when the day was fading into a luminous twilight that told of stars to come, and they tramped the decks in a strange, companionable silence. it was plain that monsieur satan did not wish to talk, and sheila gave him freely the silence he craved. once he stopped and looked over the railing, hard at the sea horizon. "did you ever think, ma'am'selle," he said, softly, "how the great ocean shows nothing of the war? the underneath may be choked with sunken ships, the murdered ships, but the ocean has no scars. it is not like our sorrowful france--all scars. so--i find it good to look at this and forget. perhaps, some day, a peace like this will come to the heart of bertrand fauchet. qui savez?" and another time, when he was wishing her good night, he added: "dormez bien--sans songes, ma'am'selle. the dreams, they are bad." but generally he left her with just a pressure of the hand and an "_au 'voir_." and yet there was always in his voice a suppressed gratitude as for a gift. when peter was alone with him he tried to draw him out and got nothing for his pains. the story he had scented on their day of embarkation had undoubtedly left no trail. when he aired his disappointment good-naturedly to sheila she only laughed at him. "if you want a story go to some of the other devils; we'll never know more of monsieur satan till fate turns interlocutor." "well, he's certainly the most slumbering devil i ever saw. if that's the worst french soil can propagate, it's hard to believe the germans they tackle get much of an inferno." in spite of his skepticism, however, peter had an unexpected glimpse into that inferno the day before they landed. for thirty-six hours they had been running through the danger zone with life-boats loose on their davits, life-belts ready for adjustment, and nerves tense. then the tension had suddenly relaxed, everybody talked with everybody else, displaying a lack of restraint that bordered on intimacy. peter and sheila were strolling an almost deserted deck toward a group amidships. as they neared it they saw it was dominated by two principal figures--one a professional philanthropist with more sentiment than judgment, and the other monsieur satan. the philanthropist was talking in what peter termed an "open-throttle voice." "but you don't mean you would ever harm a defenseless prisoner, captain fauchet? of course you would never allow your men to kill a fallen enemy or one supplicating mercy." "supplicating mercy--bah!" the mouth that could smile so boyishly had a diabolical twist, the eyes blazed like hell-fires, as peter said afterward. "there is only the one boche that is safe, madame--the dead boche. when we find them wriggling i teach my men to make them safe--quickly!" the lips smiled sardonically. monsieur satan was a boy no longer; in some inexplicable fashion he had come into full possession of that mephistophelian middle-age. but the lady philanthropist had neither the eyes to see nor the intelligence to understand. instead she clumsily parried with invisible forces. "of course you don't mean that, captain fauchet. you are just making believe you are a wicked man. i believe you are trying to stuff me, as our american slang puts it. now if a wounded german came running toward you crying kamerad--" "sacrebleu! oui, madame, once i listen to that kamerad. but now--jamais! when they call it with their lying tongues i shout them back 'kamerad to hell!' and i zigeuille." the right hand made a swift, subtle twist with a deep thrust. it took little imagination to guess what it was supposed to be holding. for a second monsieur satan's eyes still continued to blaze at the woman before him; then he tossed back his head, plunged through the crowd, and was gone. "a devil of a blue devil," quoted peter under his breath. "our friend, monsieur marchand, was not indulging in hyperbole after all." sheila watched him go and said nothing. that twilight, when monsieur satan joined her, he looked as harmless as ever, only a trifle more bashful. "perhaps ma'am'selle will care no longer to promenade with the wicked man. n'est ce pas?" "a brave man," corrected sheila, and she looked straight into the black eyes. "a brave man who has given himself body and soul to france." "body and soul. oui, ma'am'selle. but listen--there is something--" his face changed in a breath, the eyes were blazing again, the mouth had turned as sinister as his _nom de guerre_ signified. but something in sheila's eyes checked him. he put out a hand unconsciously and laid it on her as though to steady himself. "non, ma'am'selle. one need not tell everything. you will see enough--enough." when they landed, his good-bys to her were curiously brief. he held her hand a second as if he would have said a great deal; then with a quick "_au 'voir_" he flung it from him and was down the gangway. but with peter it was different. he found him alone and vouchsafed him for the first time what might have been called conversation. "i do not know until yesterday that you were betrothed to ma'am'selle o'leary. that is so?" peter nodded. "you have been generous, monsieur. i wish to thank you." peter held out his hand. "oh, that's all right. american men aren't given to being jealous, as a rule. besides, miss o'leary is the sort one has no right to be selfish with. i guess you understand?" "oui, monsieur. she belongs a little to every one, man or child, who needs the sympathy, the kind word, the loving heart. moi, i comprehend. some time, perhaps, i render back the service. then you can trust me; the honor of bertrand fauchet can be trusted with women. adieu, monsieur." by dawn the next day the passengers of the liner were scattering to the far corners of the fighting-front. jacques marchand had gone, _via_ the office of the _figaro_, to flanders. monsieur satan had been despatched to relieve another captain of the chasseurs alpins with french outposts along the oise. peter had received his war permits to join the a. e. f. in action and sheila had received her appointment to an evacuation hospital near the front. her parting with peter was over before either of them had time to realize it. her train left the gare du nord before his. they had very little to say, these two who had claimed each other out of all the world and now were putting aside their personal happiness that they might give their service where it was so really needed. there were no whimperings of heart, no conscious self-righteousness; only a great gladness that hard work lay before them and that they understood each other. "good-by, man o' mine. whatever happens, remember i am yours for always, and death doesn't count," and sheila laid her lips to peter's in final pledge. "i know," said peter. "that's what makes all this so absurdly easy. and, sweetheart, you are to remember this, never put any thought of me before what you feel you have got to do. don't bungle your instincts. i'd swear by them next to god's own." and so they went their separate ways. there was no apprenticeship for sheila in the hospital whither she was sent. the chief of the surgical staff gave a cursory glance over the letter she had brought from the san, signed by the three leading surgeons in that state; then he looked hard at her. "hm ... m! and strong into the bargain. you're a godsend, miss o'leary." before the day had gone she was in charge of one of the operating-rooms; by midnight they had fifty-three major operations. and the days that followed were much the same; they passed more like dreams than realities. there were a few sane, clear moments when sheila realized that the sky was very blue or leaden gray; that the sun shone or did not shine, that the wards were cheery places and that all about her were faces consecrated to unselfish work or to patient suffering. these were the times when she could stop for a chat with the boys or write letters home for them. but for the most part she was being hurled through a maelstrom of operations and dressings with just enough time between to snatch her share of food and sleep. her enthusiasm was unbounded for the marvelous efficiency of it all. she could never have believed that so many delicate operations could have been done in so few hours, that wounds could heal with such rapidity, that nerves could rebound and hearts come sturdily through to go about their business of keeping their owners alive. and every boy brought to her room was a fighting chance; but the fight was up to her and the surgeons, and they fought as archangels might to restore a new heaven on a befouled earth. life had always seemed full and worth while to her. now it seemed a super-life, shorn of everything petty and futile. "war may be hell; very likely it is for those who make it; but for us who do the patching afterward it's like the day of creation. i feel as if i'd put new souls into mended bodies." and the gruff, overtired chief who heard her smiled and mumbled to himself, "those of us who survive will all have new souls; old ones have atrophied and dropped off." fall was slow in coming. instead of settling down to trench hibernating as had been the custom for three years, the entente kept to its periodic attacks, pushing the enemy back farther and still a little farther, so that trenches were no longer the permanent abiding-places they had been in the past. just as every one was prophesying the numbing of hostilities until spring, the rumor spread of foch's final drive. on the heels of the rumor came the drive itself. hospitals were taxed to their utmost; surgeons and nurses worked for days with a maximum of four hours' sleep a night. in sheila's hospital anzacs, territorials, poilus, americans, tommies, and zouaves poured in indiscriminately. mattresses covered every square inch on the floor and canvas was stretched in the yard over many more. the number of operating-tables gave out at the beginning and they used stretchers, boards--anything that could hold a wounded man. "it's our last pull," said the doctors. "if we can keep going three--four more days, we'll have as many months to get back some of our wind." "of course we'll keep going," said the nurses. and they slept in their clothes for those days and did dressings in their sleep. when it was over and they had settled down to what was near-routine again they began to sort out the minor cases and pass on the convalescents. sheila, who had slept on the threshold of her room for weeks, was dragged forth by the chief to make the rounds with him and dispose of the negligible cases. it was in the last ward that she came upon monsieur satan. from across the room she was conscious of the change in him. he was not much hurt--an exploding shell had damaged one foot and his heart had been strained. it was a mental change that caught sheila's attention. the eyes had grown abnormally alert and cunning; there was nothing boyish or naïve left to the mouth; it was sinister, vengeful, unrelenting. he was in a wheel-chair between two husky giants of australians who kept wary eyes upon him. as the surgeon and the nurse reached them, monsieur satan tossed his head back with a sudden recognition, and sheila held out a friendly hand. "i am glad to see you again, captain fauchet; not much of a scratch, i hope." the eyes held their cunning, the sinister droop to the lips intensified as they curved mockingly to greet her: "bon! it is ma'am'selle o'leary. the scratch it is nothing. bertrand fauchet has still the two good hands to kill with." he curled them as if over the hilts of invisible weapons, and with lightning thrusts attacked the air about him. "une, deux, trois, quatre, cinq--ha-ha!" and the appalling pantomime ended with a diabolical laugh. in some inexplicable fashion he had come into full possession of his _nom de guerre_. sheila had thought her nerves steel, her control unshakable; but she was shuddering when they reached the corridor. there she broke through the orthodox repression of her calling and quizzed the chief. "what's happened? he wasn't like that when i knew him. if it was witch-times we'd say he'd been caught by the evil eye." "same thing, brought up to date. it's shell shock. memory all right, nerves and brain speeded up like a maniac; he's come back obsessed with the idea he must kill. first night he was brought in, before we knew what the matter was, he knifed the two germans in his ward. since then we've kept him safe between these two australians, but he has their nerves almost shattered." the chief smiled grimly. to sheila it seemed diabolically logical. what was more natural in this business of war than that when one's reason went over the top it should grip the mad desire to kill? but the horror of it! she turned back to the day's work white and sick at heart. for twenty-four hours she accepted it as inevitable. at the end of that time her memory was harkening back to the bashful boy of the french liner, the boy who could smile like a lost cherub, who looked at her with the fineness of soul that made her companionship a willing gift. had that fine, simple part of him been blown to eternity and could eternity alone bring it back? and what of the years before him, the years such a physique was bound to claim? did it mean a mad-cell with a keeper? at the end of a third day the old leerie of the san was walking through the wards of the hospital with her lamp trimmed and burning, casting such a radiance on that eager face that the men turned in their cots to catch the last look of her as she passed; and after she had gone blinked across at one another as if to say: "did you see it? did you feel it? and what was it, anyway?" she was looking for some one; and she found him with a leg shot off, playing a mouth-organ in the farthest corner of one ward. he was a chasseur alpin; he had been wounded in the same charge as monsieur satan. sheila was searching for cause and effect and she prayed this man might help her find them. as she sat down on the edge of the cot she thanked her particular star for a speaking knowledge of french. "bon jour, mon ami. i have come for your help. c'est pour capitaine fauchet." the mouth-organ dropped to the floor. the eyes that had been merely pleasantly retrospective gathered gloom. "mais, que voulez-vous? all the others say it is hopeless. tell me, ma'am'selle, what can i do?" "i don't know--i hardly know what any of us can do. but we must try something. we know so little about shell shock, so often the impossible happens. tell me, were you with him?" the soldier hitched himself forward and leaned over on one elbow. "toujours, ma'am'selle, always i am with him. listen. i can tell you. i was born in the little town of tourteron where bertrand fauchet was born--and where nanette came to live with her brother paul and their uncle, the good abbé. i was not of their class; but we all played together as children and even then bertrand loved nanette. the year war came they were betrothed. i am not tiring ma'am'selle?" "no. go on." "we both enlisted in the chasseurs alpins. they made bertrand a lieutenant, then a captain--he was a man to lead. and how kind, how good to his men! that was before he had won his nom de guerre--before they called him monsieur satan. if there was a danger he would see it first and race for it, to get ahead of his men. he would give them no orders that he would not fill with them; and always so pitying for the prisoners. 'treat them kindly, mes garçons,' he would cry; and what mercy he would show! mon dieu! i have seen him, when his mouth was cracking with the thirst, pour the last drop from his canteen down the throat of a dying boche, or share the last bread in his baluchon with a wounded prisoner. and the many times he has crept into no man's land to bring in a blessé we could hear moaning in the dark; and when it turned out a boche, as so often it did, he would carry him with the same tenderness. that was bertrand fauchet when war began. once i ask him, 'why are you so careful with the boches?' and he smiled that little-boy smile of his and say: 'why not? we are still gentlemen if we are at war. and listen, françois--some day our little tourteron may fall into boche hands. i would have them know many kindnesses from us before that happens.' "eh bien, tourteron did fall into their hands, ma'am'selle, and there it has been until a fortnight ago. the german ranks swept it like a sea and made it their own, as they made the houses, the cattle, the orchards, the maids, quite their own. you comprehend? after that bertrand fight like the devil and pray like the saint. then one day a boche stabs paul--nanette's brother paul--as he stoops to succor him. fauchet sees; and he hears the tales that come across the trenches to us. the abbé is crucified to the chapel door because he gives sanctuary to the young girls; père fauchet is shot in the square with other anciens for example. after that capitaine fauchet gives us the order 'no mercy,' and we kill in battle and out. ma'am'selle shudders--mais, que voulez-vous? he is monsieur satan now; but i still think he prays. "and now comes the big drive of the supreme command. village after village that has been boche land for four years becomes french again. the people go mad with joy; they come rushing out to meet our regiments like souls turned out of hell by god himself. but such souls, ma'am'selle! be thankful in your heart you shall never have the little places of america thrown back to you by a retreating boche army, never look into the faces of the people who have been made to serve their desires. it is like when the tide goes out on the coast and leaves behind it wreckage and slime. only here it was human wreckage. "at last the night came when we lay outside tourteron. bertrand called for me and we bivouacked together. we were to attack some time before dawn, after the moon had set. we could not trust our tongues--at such times things are better left unsaid; so we lay and smoked and prayed against what we feared. only once bertrand spoke--'françois, to-morrow will see me always a devil or a saint, le bon dieu knows which.' "the moon shone bright till after midnight. we lay under cover of thin weeds, and beyond lay the meadow and stream and then the town. about twelve we heard the crisp bark of a sniper--two, three shots; then everything was still as death again. we were watching the shadows play across the meadow and timing the minutes before the moon would sink, when out of one of those shadows she came--straight across the meadow and the moonlight. it was nanette, ma'am'selle. we knew it on the instant. she had a way of carrying the head and a step one could not forget. it was she the sniper had been after. one side of her face was crimson, the other side white and beautiful. but she did not seem to know, and the first look i had told me she had gone quite mad. "i could feel bertrand fauchet stiffen by my side; i could feel him reach out for my rosalie and grip it fast. then he began a low or crooning call. he dared not call out loud--he dared not move to give our troops away! it was to be a surprise attack. so all he could do was to wait and call softly as to a little child, 'nanette chérie, allons, allons!' "there had been a skirmish in the meadow two days before; we had given way and the handful of dead we had left behind were still unburied. i think nanette had heard that the chasseurs alpins had come and she had stolen out to find her lover. she came slowly, so slowly, and frail as a shadow herself. as she passed each corpse she knelt beside it and sang the foolish little berceuse that poitou mothers sing to their babies. we could hear the humming far away, and as she came nearer we could hear the words. ma'am'selle knows them, perhaps? "'ah! ah! papillon, marie-toi-- hélas, mon maître, je n'ai pas de quoi, la dans ma bergeri-e j'ai cent moutons; ça s'ra pour faire les noces de papillon.'" [illustration: "the first look i had told me she had gone quite mad"] the soldier crooned the song through to himself as if under the spell of the story he was telling. then he went on. "she sang it through each time, patting the blue coats, pushing back the caps of those who still wore them, looking hard into each dead face. but she would always turn away with the little shake of the head, so triste, ma'am'selle. and all the time the man beside me calling out his heart in a whisper--'nanette-- nanette--allons, chérie!' "she was not twenty yards away, the arms of bertrand fauchet were reaching out to take her, when, pouf! the sniper barked again and nanette went down like a pale cornflower before the reaper. and all the time we laid there, waiting for the moon to set. when we charge we charge like devils. we swept tourteron clean of the boches; _and we take no prisoners!_ for that night every man remember the one thing, they love their captain and they see what he has seen. but before the day is gone we are sane men again, all but our captain. the shell that takes my leg takes what pity, what softness he has left, and leaves him with just the frenzy to kill. and it is not for me to wonder--moi--for i know all." the story haunted sheila for days; always when she closed her eyes she could see the girl nanette coming across the meadow in the moonlight. she never failed to open them before she saw too far. the plaintive melody of the berceuse rang in her ears on duty and off, till at last she could stand it no longer. it was the old dominant leerie who hunted up the chief. "colonel sparks, i want you to put me on captain fauchet's case. the work is lighter now; you can do with one less operating-room. i know it's bad form to interfere, but i want my chance on that case." the chief looked his surprise. "i've heard of your fondness for breaking rules--wondered when you were going to begin. i don't mind giving you up, but that case is hopeless. i'm sure of it. listen--and this isn't for publication--fauchet got out of his ward again, hid in the corridors until the nurse was gone, and killed another german last night. that man is incurably insane and we can't keep him here any longer." "please!" there was a look about leerie that could not be denied, a compelling prayer for the right to save another human being. "you could keep him a little longer; i'll promise there'll be no more dead germans. give me my chance." "what's your idea?" the girl raised a deprecating hand. "something so crazy that you'd laugh at it. let me keep it to myself--and give me captain fauchet." in the end leerie had her wish. the little room at the end of a ward, used heretofore for supplies, was turned into a private room, and monsieur satan was moved in, with sheila o'leary as guardian. it was very evident that the patient approved. once the door was closed behind them, he beckoned the nurse to him with malignant joy. "they are all germans out there--i've just discovered it. sooner or later they will all have to be destroyed. you are an american. i can swear to that, for i saw you on a liner coming from america and your french is so bad, pardonnez-moi, it could not be anything but american. that is why i trust you. you are with me against the boches, n'est-ce pas?" sheila solemnly agreed. "eh bien, listen. the world is slowly turning boche. you pour a little pinard into water and what do you get? crimson! well, you scatter a few boches over the earth and what have you? a german world colored prussian blue. come closer, ma'am'selle." he put out nervous hands and drew her down so he could whisper his words. "and the cure, ma'am'selle, the cure? ah, moi, monsieur satan, knows it." they spent the rest of the day in discussing the killing qualities of shells, grenades, bombs; the stabbing qualities of bayonets, daggers, swords; the exploding properties of dynamite, nitroglycerin, tnt, and others. as they talked monsieur satan sucked in his breath exultantly and hissed between his teeth, "_zigouille, toujours zigouille!_" while his hand stabbed and twisted into the air. another day and he had taken sheila entirely into his confidence. "i have my mind made. you shall hear the cure, ma'am'selle, for you and i will be partners. a boche world can be cured but the one way--destroyed, completely destroyed," and he laughed uproariously. then his eyes narrowed; he was all cunning and intensity, a beast of prey crouched for the spring. "ah, but we must whisper; there are spies everywhere. the men in the wards are all spies pretending they are french wounded; and the doctors are spies. oh, the boches are damnably clever, but we will be more damnable--we will outwit them. we will blow them into a million atoms. they will make good fertilizer for french vineyards in a hundred years. eh bien?" so sheila became partner in evolving the most colossal crime the world had ever known. everything played into her hands and gave credence to her deceptions. the great cases that came by night packed with dressings were to monsieur satan air-bombs with propellers. they were to be set loose on the day appointed in such millions that the air would be charged with them, the sun blotted out; and they would drop in exploding masses over the earth, exterminating humanity. "they shall be like the hordes of locusts that nearly destroyed egypt--only these shall destroy. and how every one shall run in terror! you will see, ma'am'selle. it will be a good sight." and monsieur satan rubbed his hands in keen anticipation. the tanks of oxygen placed on motor-trucks, the gasoline-tanks, were nothing else than a deadly gas. the partners had concocted it out of the strangest compounds, unshed-tears, heart-agony, fear-in-the-night, snipers' barks, and moonshine. monsieur satan chuckled over the formula and said he would swear not a living soul could withstand a single whiff of it. it was agreed that the makers of the gas--mythological beings sheila had created--should be killed at once so that their secret should never be discovered; and sheila herself was despatched to compass the deed. before she returned the bell in the church near by was tolling for their parting souls; and monsieur satan chuckled as he cast admiring glances at this prompt executioner. "you are a good pupil, ma'am'selle; you learn quickly. now the maps." and they fell to diagraming where the piping for this deadly gas should be laid. not an inch of the old world was to be left peopled; from east to west and north to south everything was to be destroyed. no, not everything. even as monsieur satan decreed it he hesitated. "there are the children, i think--yes, i think they shall live. their hearts are pure; the boches cannot contaminate them. they shall live after us with no memory of evil, so they can build again the beautiful world." he stopped and looked across at the nurse with a haunting, wistful stare. "tell me, ma'am'selle, was the world ever beautiful?" "very beautiful, capitaine." he passed an uncertain hand over his eyes. "i seem to remember that it was; but now i see it always running with red blood boiling from hell." after that the children were always in his mind; as he planned the destruction of the rest of the world he planned their re-creation. thereupon sheila saw to it that the war orphans from the _crêche_ came to play in the hospital gardens--under the window of the little room. soon it became a custom for monsieur satan to look for them, to ask their names, and wave gaily to them. and they waved back. and the chief of the surgical staff began to marvel that monsieur satan should give no more trouble. among them was a little girl, a wan, ethereal little creature who sat apart from the other children and watched their play with far-away, haunting eyes, as if she wondered what in the world they were doing. sheila had found toys for her--a ball, a doll, a jumping-jack--and tried to coax her to play. but she only clung to them for their rare value as possessions; as a means to enjoyment they were quite meaningless. from one of the older children sheila got her story. her father had been killed, her mother was with the boches; there was no one else. with an aching heart the nurse wondered how many thousand madelines france held. one day she brought the child in to monsieur satan and repeated her story. he listened wisely, patting her on the head, and then whispered to sheila: "ah, what did i say! these boches--they get everything--the mothers, the sweethearts." then to madeline: "listen, ma pauvre; you shall have the sadness no longer. monsieur satan will promise you happiness, ah, such happiness in the new beautiful world he is preparing for you. now go. but 'sh ... sh! you must say nothing." from this moment sheila became senior partner. it was she who suggested all the extraordinary horrors monsieur satan had overlooked. it was she who speeded up time and plans. "i have the hospitals and streets all mined in case the flying bombs should not come thick enough; and i have the wells poisoned. isn't that a clever idea?" the man looked disturbed. "that's as clever as the boches. but the children--where will they drink? you must take care of the children." then sheila played her trump card and said the thing she had been waiting so long to say. like monsieur satan she hissed the words between her teeth, while her face took on all the diabolical cunning it could muster. "the children--bah! what do they matter, after all? i have decided--the children shall be destroyed." monsieur satan sprang from his chair. he pinioned her arms behind her, forcing her back so he could look deep into her eyes with all the hate and mercilessness his soul harbored. "touch madeline--the children, never! let so much as one little hair of their heads be harmed and i--monsieur satan--will kill you!" she left him with a non-committal shrug, left him panting and swearing softly under his breath. from that moment he watched sheila suspiciously and followed the children with jealous eyes. for madeline he called constantly; and she sat on his knee by the hour while he danced the jumping-jack outrageously and taught her to sing to the doll a certain foolish berceuse that poitou mothers sing to their babies. sheila had planned to stage their day of destruction with the craft of a master manager. she had had to take certain officials into her confidence and get the chief to sign such orders as had never been issued in a hospital before. but in the end fate staged it, and did it infinitely better than the nurse had even conceived it. the hour of doom struck a full half-day too soon--the children were playing in the gardens, under monsieur satan's window instead of being in the cellar of the _crêche_ as he had decreed; and sheila was helping another head nurse do dressings in the ward outside. there were only a few minutes after the siren blew before the first of the great fokkers appeared over the city. monsieur satan's mind went strangely blank; the children stopped their play and gaped stupidly into the sky; sheila did nothing but listen. then the bombs began to rain down on the city. the noise was terrific. the children ran aimlessly about, shrieking pitifully. it was this that set monsieur satan's mind to working again. he broke out of the little room like the madman he was. he might have been lucifer himself as he stumbled along on his bandaged foot, his hair erect, his eyes blazing a thousand inextinguishable fires. in the corridor he came upon sheila, with other nurses and doctors, hurrying to gather in the out-of-door patients. as he overtook them a bomb struck the hospital. "sacrebleu!" he shouted. "you bungler! you fool of a destroyer! it was not the hour--and the children--first i go to save them. afterward i come to kill you, ma'am'selle." he was out before them all, through the entrance and down the steps, when another bomb struck. the doorway and the pillars were crushed to gravel and monsieur satan was hurled headlong across the gardens. in an instant he was up, stumbling frantically toward the children, his arms outstretched in appealing vindication to those small, quivering faces turned to him in their hour of annihilation. "mes enfants, have no fear. i come--i come." a third bomb fell. the children were tumbled in a heap like a pile of jackstraws. monsieur satan had time enough to see them go down before a fourth followed with the quick precision of an automatic. yes, he saw; and in that horror-smiting moment believed it all a part of his great scheme of destruction; then the universe went to pieces about him and something crumbled inside his brain. he stood transfixed to the earth, staring helplessly in front of him, as immovable as a graven image. it is one of the anomalies of war that the things that apparently destroy sometimes re-create. the gigantic impact of exploding masses may destroy a man's hearing, his sight, his memory, or his mercy, and leave him thus maimed for all time. but it happens, sometimes, that the first shock is followed by another which restores with the suddenness of a miracle and makes the man whole again. that delicate bit of human mechanism which has been battered out of place is battered in, by the merest chance. so it was with monsieur satan; and when sheila and the chief found him he was rubbing his eyes as children will who wake and find themselves in strange places. he saw only the chief at first and tried to pull himself together. "ah, monsieur, i think some things have happened--but i cannot as yet make the full report. i am bertrand fauchet, chasseur alpin," and he tried to click his bandaged heel against his shoe. then he looked beyond and saw sheila. it was as if he was seeing her for the first time since they had separated at the french quay. "bon dieu! it is ma'am'selle o'leary." he held out a shaking hand. "we meet in the thick of war--is it not so?" his eyes left sheila and traveled apprehensively to the children. they were wriggling themselves free of one another; frightened and bruised, but not hurt, barring one. the smallest of them all lay on the outskirts of the heap, quite motionless. "if you will permit," monsieur satan stumbled on and gently picked up madeline. he looked all compassion and bewilderment. "i do not altogether understand, ma'am'selle. but this little girl, i should like to carry her to some hospital and see that all is well with her. i seem to remember that she belongs to me." he smiled apologetically at the two watching him, then stumbled ahead with his burden. at the base hospital they gave sheila o'leary full credit for the curing of bertrand fauchet, which, of course, she flatly denied. she laid it entirely to the interference of fate and a child. but the important thing is that bertrand fauchet left the hospital a sound man--and that madeline went with him, each holding fast to the hand of the other. "she is mine now," he said, as he took leave of sheila. "le bon dieu saw fit to send me in the place of that other papa. eh, p'tite?" he stroked the hair back from the little face that looked worshipfully up at him. "it is for us who remember to make these little ones forget. n'est-ce pas, ma'am'selle? and we are going back to the world together, to find somewhere the happiness and the great love for madeline. adieu." chapter vii the lad who outsang the stars in the american military hospital no. one could always count on ward -a beginning the day with a genuine fanfare of good spirits--that is to say, ever since that ward had acquired a distinction and personality of its own. on this particular morning the doors of the wards were open, for orderlies were scrubbing floors, and sheila o'leary in the operating-room above could catch the words of the third chorus that had rung through the hospital since the ban of silence had been raised. "gra-ma-cree ma-cruiskeen, slainte-geal ma-vour-neen, gra-ma-cree a-coolin bawn, bawn, bawn, oh!" as usual, larry's crescendo boomed in the lead. how those lads could sing! in the regular order of things it was time for dressings; but the regular order of things was so often broken at no. that it had nearly become a myth. the operating staff had been steadily at it since eleven the night before. if nothing more came in, they might be through by eleven now and the dressings come only two hours late. that would be rare good luck. under the spell of the singing the tired backs of surgeons and nurses straightened unconsciously; cramped muscles seemed to lose some of their kinks; everybody smiled without knowing it--down to the last of the boys who were waiting their turn in the corridor outside. the boys had not been in the hospital long enough to know anything about ward -a, but the challenge to courage and good spirits in that chorus of voices was too dominant to be denied, even among the sorest wounded of them. one after another rallied to it like veterans. "gra-ma-cree ma-cruiskeen bawn," boomed larry's voice to the finish. the chief of the surgical staff looked at sheila as she handed him the sutures he was reaching for. "they're the best we've had yet, eh? not one with half a fighting chance, and just listen to the ones who are pulling through." "they're irish." there was a tinge of pride in the nurse's voice. the chief smiled. "it's like flipping a coin to find out whether you're more irish or american. sometimes it's heads, sometimes it's tails. which is it, honestly?" "honestly, both!" sheila laughed softly. then the door opened to admit the last of the stretchers, and she sobered for an instant until she saw the faces of the boys. she knew why they were smiling, and her eyes shone in the old luminous, leerie fashion as she greeted them, each as if he had been an old friend. "there's a welcome for you. those lads you hear have gone through what you are going through, only a lot worse. listen, and think of that as you go under. they'll be singing again in a moment." and as she slipped the ether cone over the face of the first, up from ward -a in rollicking cadences came another chorus: "wi' me bundle on me shoulder, sure, there's not a man that's bolder-- i am leavin' dear old ireland without warnin'. for i've lately took the notion for to cross the briny ocean, an' i'm off for philadelphia in the mornin'." the smile on the face of the first boy spread to a grin under its covering of gauze. "i'm off for philadelphia, too," he mumbled, thickly, and the eyes that looked into sheila's for a few last nebulous seconds showed all the comfortable security of a child's. they were hard at it for another hour, and while sheila o'leary's hands flew from sterilizer to ether cone, from handing instruments and holding forceps to tying sutures and packing wounds, her mind was busy with something that lay far beyond. to this girl, who had come across to do her bit, life had become a jumble of paradoxes. she had come to give, out of the bounty of her skill and her womanhood; instead she had received far more abundantly from the largess of universal brotherhood and sacrifice. she had come to minister, and she had been ministered unto by every piece of human wreckage swept across the door-sill of the hospital. she had thought to dispense life, and to her ever-increasing wonder she had been given a life so boundless that it reached beyond all previous dreams of space or time. she was learning what thousands had been learning since the war began, those who had thrown their fortunes into its crucible, and that is that if anything comes out at all, it comes out in the form of spirit and not of flesh. back in the old days at the sanitarium she had felt herself bound only to the problems and emergencies of war. it had never occurred to her then that in an incredibly short time she would be bothering about matters of adjustment afterward. with peace already on the horizon, she was troubled a hundredfold more than she had been when indefinite war was the promise for the future. from the beginning she had marveled at the buoyancy and optimism of the men who were focusing their lives within the limits of each day. many of them never thought in terms of more than twenty-four hours; often it was less. they had learned the knack of intensive living. world-old truths were flashed into their minds like spot-lights; friends were made and lost in a few hours; eternity was visioned and compassed in a minute. the last words jerry donoghue of ward -a had said before he went west came back to sheila with a curious persistence. "when all's said and done, miss, it's been a grand life--brave lads for comrades--a lass who kept faith to the end--a good fight an' somethin' good to fight for--near five years of it--wi' perdition grinnin' ye in the face an' the holy mother walkin' at your back--sure, i might ha' lived fifty year in letterkenny an' never tasted life half so plentiful--or--so--sweet." that was the strange part of it; they had all found life "plentiful an' sweet"--nurses, surgeons, soldiers alike. they might be homesick, worn out with the business of fighting and patching up afterward, eternally aching in body and heart with the long stretches of horror and work with little sleep and less food, and yet not a handful out of every thousand of them would have chosen to quit if they could. but when the quitting-time came, when war was over, what was going to happen then? sheila wondered it about the boys who lay unconscious on their stretchers, packed in the room about her. she wondered it about the boys conscious in their cots below. most of all she wondered it about ward -a. it was going to hurt so many to have to look beyond the immediate day into a procession of numberless days stretching into years and years. the sudden relaxing from big efforts to little ones, that would hurt, too, like the uncramping of over-strained muscles. and the being thrown back on oneself to think, to act, to feel for oneself again--what of that? it was like dismembering a gigantic machine and scattering the infinitesimal parts of it broadcast over the earth to function alone. only many of the parts would be imperfect, and all would have souls to reckon with. but of the puzzle of it one fact stood out grippingly vital to sheila. no soul must be thrown out of the melting-pot back into the old accustomed order of life and be left to feel unfit or unnecessary. there must be a big, compelling place for every man who came home. of all the tragedies of war, she could conceive no greater one than to have these men who had put no limit to the price they were willing to pay to make the world safe for democracy sent back useless, to mark time to eternity. but who was going to keep this from happening? how were the thousands of mutilés to be made free of the burden of dependence and toleration? who was going to guard them against atrophy of spirit? the nurse gathered up the last of the instruments and threw them in the sterilizer. as she took off her apron and wiped the beads of sweat from her face, her chief eyed her suspiciously. "get your coffee before you touch those dressings in -a. understand? when did you have your clothes off last?" he growled like a good-natured but spent old dog. the girl gave her uniform a disgusted look. "pretty bad, isn't it? i put it on four--no, five days ago, but i've had my shoes off twice." she laid an impulsive hand on the chief's arm. "promise about the coffee if you'll promise to do the dressings with me instead of captain griggs. he calls them the 'down-and-outers.' i can't quite stand for that." "well, what would you call 'em?" "the invincibles," she declared. "wouldn't you?" but for all her promise, sheila o'leary did not get past the door of -a without putting in her head and calling out a "good morning." whereupon twelve irish tongues, dripping almost as many brogues, flung it back at her with a vengeance. there were thirteen of them, all told, the remnants of a company of royal irish that had crossed the scheldt with haig. as larry shea had put it on the day of their arrival, they "made as grand leavin's as one could expect under the circumstances." the ambulances that had brought them, along with the additional seven who had gone west, had pivoted wrong at one of the crossroads, so that the american military hospital no. had fallen heir to them instead of the b. h. t. it is recorded that even the chief showed consternation when he looked them over, and larry, catching the look and being the only man conscious at the time, snorted indignantly: "well, sir, if ye think we're a mess, ye should have seen the fritzies we left behind. furninst them we're an ordther of perfectly decent lads." and larry had crumpled up into a grinning unconsciousness. it was larry who led the singing; it was larry now who, with an eye on the one silent figure in the ward and another on the nurse in the doorway, threw a wheedling remark to hold her with them a moment "by way of heartenment to jamie." "wait a bit, miss. patsy maclean was just askin' were ye a good hand at layin' a ghost?" before sheila could answer, harrigan, an irish-american orderly, stepped over the threshold and shook a fist at -a. "aw, cut it out. the way this bunch works miss o'leary makes me sick. don't cher know she hasn't been off duty for twenty-four hours? let her go, can't cher?" johnnie o'neil, from the far end of the room, smiled the smile of a cherub. "an' don't ye know, laddie, that it's always the saints in heaven that has the worst sinners on their hands? 'tis jealous ye are, not being wicked enough to get a bit more of her attention yerself." sheila smiled impartially at them both, and with a parting promise of dressings to come she hurried off. ward -a settled itself to wait for the worst and the best that the day had to offer. the room was a very small one, and the thirteen cots barely crowded into it, with space at the foot for jamie o'hara's wheel-chair to go the length and turn. they had been kept together by sheila's urgent plea that they should be given a ward to themselves instead of scattering them through the larger wards, and it is doubtful if in all the war a more quietly merciful act had been executed. not one of the thirteen but would have scorned to show any sign of dependence on the others, yet intuitively the girl had guessed what they would be able to give one another in the matter of spiritual succor. the way they continually hectored and teased, matched wits and good humor, as they had matched strength and daring in the old fighting-days before the hospital, was meat and drink to the souls struggling for dominance over mutilated bodies. united, they were men; separated--sheila had often shuddered to think what pitiful, pain-tortured beings they might have been. when she returned to the ward the chief was with her, and their combined arrival brought forth a prolonged, fortissimoed wail shammed forth in good gaelic fashion. larry's great hairy arm shot out, and a vindictive forefinger was wagged in the direction of the third cot. "ye'd best begin with patsy maclean this day. he hasn't been laid out first in a fortnight." the others, taking the words from larry's tongue, chorused, "aye, begin wi' patsy, the devil take him!" "why the devil? wouldn't fritzie do as well?" the chief smiled indulgently upon them all. "'tis a case for the devil, this time. tell the colonel what you were putting over us last night," michael kenney, lance-corporal, growled through an undercurrent of chuckle. patrick maclean, the color-sergeant, grinned as he reached out a welcoming hand to both surgeon and nurse. he was a prime favorite with them, as with his own lads. when pain wrestled for the upper hand, when things went wrong, moods turned black, or nights stretched interminably long and unendurable, patsy could always turn the trick and produce something so absorbingly interesting or ridiculous that the pain and the long nights were forgotten. how well sheila remembered that first time they had dressed his wounds! the muscles had stood out on his arms like whipcords; sweat poured down his face. he fainted twice, each time coming round to drawl out his story in that unforgetable irish way: "we were dthrivin' them afore us like sheep, all so tame an' sociable i was forgettin' where i was. somehow the notion took me i was back on the moorlan' drivin' the flocks for my father, when a fritzie overhead drops a bomb on our captain.... it spatters the mud in my eyes somethin' terrible, an' when i rubs them clean again the machine-guns were cacklin' all round us like a parcel o' hens layin' eggs; we'd stumbled on a nest of them. holy pether, i was mad! i was for stickin' the colors in the muzzle o' one o' their bloody guns, an' i sings out as i rush 'em, 'erin go bragh!' then down i goes. culmullen, there, comes staggerin' up. 'take the colors,' says i. 'i've got no legs to carry 'em on.' 'i can't,' says he; 'i've got no arms to shoulder 'em.'... a bit aftherwards i sees jamie--he's second in command--come runnin' up wild, but his arms an' legs is still in pairs, so i shouts afore things go black, 'the colors, jamie, ye take the colors.' 'wish to god, patsy, i could,' says he, 'but i can't see.'... faith, weren't we a healthy lot, miss? an' we the royal irish!" he had grinned then as he was grinning now. culmullen in the next cot, a schoolmaster from ballygowan, raised his head. "miss o'leary, patsy's the worst liar in ulster. ye might keep that in mind whenever he has anything to tell. if i had had the schooling of ye, i'd have thrashed the thruth into ye, ye rascal! will ye kindly lean over and brush the hair out of my eyes, and if ye tickle my nose this time, i'll have larry thrash ye for me the instant he's up." the color-sergeant pulled himself over and gently brushed back the straggling hair. "such a purty lad!" he murmured, sarcastically. "what's an arm or two so long's the fritzies didn't ruin one o' them handsome features--nor shorten the length o' your tongue." "what is it this time, sergeant?" sheila spoke coaxingly as she bent to the dressings. "well, ye know i've said from the beginnin' 'twas no ways natural havin' them legs o' mine twistin' an' achin' same as if they were still hangin' onto me. i leave it to both of yez. if they'd been anyways decent legs an' considerate o' the kindness i've always shown them, wouldn't they have quit pestherin' me when they took dutch leave?" "stop moralizin'," shouted johnnie o'neil, the piper from antrim. "get down to the p'int o' your tale." "it hasn't any point: it's flat," growled the lance-corporal. unembarrassed, patsy maclean went on: "i was a-thinkin' this all over again last night, a-listenin' to the ambulances comin' in, when a breath o' wind pushes the door open a bit, an' in walks, as natural as life, the ghost o' them two legs. 'tis the gospel truth i'm tellin' ye. they walked a bit bowlegged, same as they always did, straight through the door an' down the ward. an' the queer thing is they never stopped by larry's cot or casey ryan's--the heathen!--but came right on to me." "faith, they wouldn't have had the nerve to stop. the leg casey lost was as straight as a hazel wand, same as mine." larry snorted contemptuously. "the two of yez are jealous." patsy lowered his voice to a mock whisper and confided to the chief and sheila, "they know they'll have to be buyin' a good pair o' shoes an' throwin' the odd away, while i'll be sayin' enough from the shoes i'll never have to be buyin' to keep mysel' in cigars for the rest o' my life." "but patsy's wondtherin' can ye lay the ghost, miss?" timothy brennan, who had lost the "cream of his face," repeated the question larry had asked a half-hour before. the rest of the ward tittered expectantly. "let me see--" the irish blood in her steadied the nurse's hands, while she drew her lips into quizzical solemnity and winked at culmullen over her shoulder. "i always thought it was restlessness that sent ghosts walking. maybe these have come back, looking for their boots." the titter broke into a roar of delight. "thrue for ye!" shouted parley-voo flynn, pounding the arm of jamie's chair with his one fist. "all ye've got to do, patsy, is to be puttin' your boots beside your chair onct more, an' them legs will scrooch comfortably into them an' never haunt ye again. the lass is right, isn't she, jamie?" eleven pairs of eyes and an odd one shifted apprehensively from the lad who was being dressed to the lad in the wheel-chair, and the eyes all showed varying degrees of trouble, uncertainty, and sorrow. they had a way of searching jamie out in this fashion many times a day, while he sat very still, with eyes bandaged and lips that never flinched but never broke to a smile. larry shook a hairy fist at parley-voo and answered the question himself: "of course she's right! isn't she always? an' who but a heathen would be doubtin' the manners of a ghost?" "aye, but where will i be gettin' the boots?" patsy made a sour grimace. "me own purty ones had christian burial somewhere back in that tremendous mud-puddle. would any gentleman, now, still havin' two good legs, give me the loan of his boots for one night? size eleven, if i don't disremember." "that's teig's number. lend him yours, teig, like a good lad, or we'll never be rid o' them ghosts." mat o'shaughnessy, at the other end of the line, fairly shook with the depth of his wail. teig magee chuckled. he had lost an inch or so of back and was waiting the glad day when they could mend it with an inch or so of shin-bone; in the mean time he was paralyzed. "say, docthor, would ye mind reachin' undther my pillow an' fetchin' them out for me? the lads have a way of forgettin' my hands are temporarily engaged. thank ye. ye can have them, patsy, but ye'll have to go bail your ghosts won't up an' thramp off wi' them entirely." it ended by the schoolmaster giving security--a half-crown with a bullet hole through it. sheila was appointed custodian, and the boots were placed beside the color-sergeant's cot "against the comin' night." as the chief and sheila passed on from cot to cot, the spirits of ward -a never wavered. johnnie, who had piped the lads into battle and out for four years, and who daily rejoiced over the fact that fritzie had shown the good sense to take a foot instead of a hand, told them that he was in rare luck now, for there would be time to make wee johnnie at home the grandest piper in all of ireland--an honor he could never have promised himself before. there was "bertha" milliken, named for the big gun he had put out of commission and the gun crew he had captured. he had been given the v. c. for that. his pet joke was telling how the fritzies grudged him its possession by shooting it away on the scheldt along with a good bit that was under it. the nurse and surgeon handled "bertha" very carefully; there was no knowing just what was going to happen to him. casey ryan had lost the odd of 'most everything the lord had started him with, as he put it. an eye, an ear, a lung, and a leg were gone, and he was beating all the others at getting well. mat o'shaughnessy had it in the "vital." he was continuously boasting that it was the handiest place of all, and if it didn't get him he'd be the only perfect specimen invalided home. "parley-voo," the only one of them who essayed french, had wounds many but inconspicuous. he was given to counting a hypothetical fortune that might be his if the empire would give him a shilling for every time he had been hit. joseph daly and "gospel" smith, the one methodist, carried head wounds, while "granny" sullivan, the oldest, wisest, and most comforting of the company, had one smashed hip and a hole through the other, "the devil of a combination." never had the atmosphere of -a been keener or spicier. jamie alone sat still and silent. jamie was the last to be dressed, and because there was little to do the chief slipped away and left him to sheila. as the nurse passed from mat's cot to the wheel-chair, eleven pairs of eyes and an odd one followed her. a hush fell suddenly on the ward. the lads never intended this should happen, but somehow, at the same time everyday, the silence gripped them, and they seemed powerless to stay it. it was "granny" sullivan who first threw it off. "'tis a grand day outside, jamie. maybe ye're feeling the sun, now, comin' through the window?" the nurse had lifted the bandage from the eyes. there was nothing there but empty sockets, almost healed. one could hear the quick intake of breath from the watching twelve, while every face registered an agony it had scorned to show for its own disablement. but for jamie, "the singing lad from derry" as they lovingly called him, it was different. they could face their own conditions with amazing jocularity, but they writhed daily under the torment of jamie's. they could brave it no better than could he. for to put eternal darkness on the lad who loved the light, who would sit spellbound before the play of colors in the east at dawn or the flash of moonlight across troubled water, who could make a song out of the smile of a child or the rhythm of flying birds in the sky, that was damnable. an arch-fiend might have conceived it, but where was god to let it happen? a crippled jamie without an arm or a leg was endurable--that cried out for no blasphemy--but a jamie without eyes--god in heaven, how could it be! the face of the singing lad was the face of a dreamer, as exquisite as a piece of marble that might have been fashioned by praxiteles for a sun god. since the battle on the scheldt it had become a white mask, shorn of all dreams. almost it might have been a death-mask for the soul of jamie o'hara. it showed no response now when "granny" spoke; only the lad's hands fluttered a moment toward the window, then dropped heavily back into his lap. "aye, maybe i feel it." the voice was colorless and tired. "i can't be remembering clear sunlight any more. the last days of the fighting, smoke was too thick in the sky, or the rains fell." eleven pairs of eyes and one odd one cast about for some inspiration. "sure, think o' somethin' pleasanter nor cannon smoke an' rain. think o'--" "granny" floundered for a moment, then gave up in despair. "that's all i see when i look up. when i look down, it's worse--an everlasting earth, covered with mud and dying men!" jamie shivered. larry struggled out of his torment. "i say, jamie, don't ye mind the song ye were makin' for us the day we fell back from cambrai? 'twas an irish one, full o' the sun an' the singin' birds of donegal. wi' the fritzies risin' like a murdtherous tide behind us, 'twas all that kept the heart in us that day. ye say it for miss o'leary. sure, ye've never said a song for her yet." jamie shook his head. "i'm sorry, lad; i've lost it. i was making so many songs those days--ye couldn't be expecting a body to carry them all about in his head. now could ye?" the lips tried bravely to smile, and failed again. but larry grinned triumphantly. "sure 'granny' has it wrote down. he showed it to me once. fetch it, 'granny,' an' let jamie be re--" he broke off, aghast; the lads about him were staring in absolute horror. only the singing lad showed nothing. he might not have heard, or, hearing, the words were meaningless. so sheila took matters into her own hands. she covered the eyes with fresh gauze, wrapped jamie up, and bundled him out in his chair to harrigan with the remark that the day was too fine to miss and there was more of it outside the hospital than in. she watched until she had seen harrigan take him to a sunny, wind-sheltered corner of the gardens, and then she came back to -a. she was thinking of peter brooks, her man at the front, and she was trying to fathom with all her heart what manner of healing she would give had peter come back to her as jamie o'hara had come. she closed the door of the ward behind her and faced the twelve. "lads, what are we going to do for jamie?" larry groaned out loud. it was the first luxury of expression he had indulged in since jamie had been wheeled out. "aye, what are we goin' to do? that's what every man of us has been askin' himself since--since he knew." "we act like a crowd o' half-wits, a-thryin' to boost his spirits a bit, an' all the time he grows whiter an' quieter." patsy turned his head away; his lips were twitching. "aye, that's god's truth." "bertha's" hoarse croak was heavy with despair. "ye can see for yourself, miss, it's noways nat'ral for jamie--that's the worst of it. it's been jamie, just, that always put heart back in us when things went blackest. wasn't it him that made it easy goin' for them that went west? can one of us mind the time he wasn't ready with a song to fetch us over the top, or through the mud--or straight to death, if them was the orders? no matter how loud the guns screeched, we could always hear jamie above them." "we could hear him when we couldn't have heard another sound," culmullen mumbled. "gospel" smith raised a bandaged head and leveled piercing eyes at sheila. "you know what the gospel says about the stars singing in the morning--all together like? well, jamie was the lad who could outsing them. you know how it feels at that gray, creepy hour o' dawn, when a man's heart jumps to his throat and sticks there, and his hands shake like a girl's? often's the time we'd be waiting orders to attack just like that. the stars might have shouted themselves clear o' the sky, for all the good they'd have done us; but jamie was different. he'd make us a couplet or a verse to sing low under our breath, something you could put your teeth into. and when the orders came our hearts were always back where the lord had put them." "granny" sullivan plucked nervously at his blanket. "an' now, when we want to hearten him, we're hurtin' instead. seems as if the devil took hold of our tongues an' spilled the wrong words off." "shall i tell you what i would try to do, if i were one of you irish lads who had fought with him?" sheila's face was as drawn as any of the twelve. "in god's name tell us!" johnnie, the piper, spoke as reverently as if he were at mass. "you heard what he said just now about seeing nothing but mud and dying men? well, that's the trouble. he can't see any longer things he loves, the things he has always carried in his heart. all the beautiful memories have been lost, and all he has left are the horrors of those last days. he's got nothing left to make into songs any more. don't you see? you've got to bring that back to him, that power to see--here." the girl's hand pressed her heart. "aye, but how?" patsy asked it breathlessly. "bring him back his memories--memories of ireland, of the things he loved best to sing about. you have eyes; make him see." a hush fell on ward -a. then timothy brennan muttered as a man alone: "'tis the words of a woman. god's blessin' on her!" all through the day there rang through sheila's ears the last words jamie had said to her that morning. he had turned his face back, as harrigan had wheeled him away, to answer her "all right, jamie?" with "as right as ever i'll be. do ye know, the o'haras are famous for their long living? my grandfather lived to be ninety-eight, and his father to be over a hundred. that leaves me seventy-five years, maybe. seventy-five years! and already i'm fearin' the length of a day." she was still hearing them when she came back to the ward at day's end to find jamie in his old accustomed place by the window. his face was as masklike as ever, and larry was talking: "sure, i mind often an' often how the neighbors used to tell me if i'd lie asleep with my ear to a fairy rath i'd be hearin' their music an' seein' their dancin'. but i never did. but i saw a sight as grand, the flight o' the skylark at ring-o'-day. many's the time i've seen them leave the marsh an' go liltin' into the blue." "and the lilting!" culmullen closed his eyes the better to recall it. "i mind the last time i heard one. the sky was turned orange, and the lough turned gold. the marsh was glistening with mist, and out of the reeds where her nest was she flew. it was like a feathered bundle of song thrown skyward." "aye, what a song!" johnnie, the piper, spoke with ecstasy. "hark! i can make it." he puckered his lips, and through them came the sweet, lilting notes of the lark's matin song. "make it again." jamie was leaning forward in his chair, his hands gripping the arms. again the piper whistled it through, and then again and again. a smile brushed jamie's lips, and the others, watching, breathless, saw. "what is it?" asked "granny," softly. "naught. only for the moment i was thinking i could be smelling the dew on the bogs, yonder. can ye pipe for the blackbirds, johnnie?" and johnnie piped. so a new order of things was established in ward -a, and as heretofore the lads had vied in witty derision of their calamities they vied now with one another in telling tales of ireland. each marshaled forth his dearest, greenest memory, clothed in its best, to fill the ears and heart of jamie o'hara. sometimes he smiled, and then there was a great, silent rejoicing among the twelve; sometimes he asked for more, and then tongues tripped over one another in mad effort to furnish forth a memory more wonderful than all that had gone before. but more often he sat still and white, as if he heard nothing. and in the midst of it all, as the lads drew each day nearer to health, sheila noted a new uneasiness among them. it was larry who spoke the trouble while the nurse was doing his dressings. he whispered it, so the others should not hear. "by rights we don't belong here. well, they'll be movin' us soon as we're mended, won't they?" the nurse nodded. "invalided home. ye know what that means?" again the nurse nodded. "mind ye, there's been never a word dropped atween us, but we're all fearin' it like--" larry rubbed his sleeve over his mouth twice before he went on. "while we've got jamie to think about, we can manage, but when he's packed off somewheres--to learn readin' an' writin' for the blind--an' we're scattered to the four winds o' ireland, we'll be realizin' for the first time what we are, just. then what are we goin' to do? i ask ye it honest, miss." and honestly sheila answered, "i don't know." a day later "granny" whispered over his dressings: "faith there's a shadow creeping over the sill. can't ye be feeling it?" and the color-sergeant's spirits failed to rise that day at all. yet for all their fears the inevitable day came upon them unawares and caught them, as you might say, red-handed. sheila had stolen a half-hour from rest and was sitting with them, listening to casey ryan, the galway lad, tell of the fishing in kilkieran bay. larry took the words out of his mouth. "'twill be the proud day for us all when we cast our eyes on irish wather again, whether 'tis in dublin bay or off the skerries." "aye, and smelling the thorn bloom and hearing the throstles sing!" "granny's" rejoicing followed on the heels of larry's, while he shook his fist at him in warning. larry threw a helpless look at jamie and sank back on his pillow, while patsy roared his ultimatum: "i'd a deal sight rather hear a throstle sing than see all the bloody wather in the world. larry's fair mad about wather ever since he went dirty for a fortnight at vimy." "sure, the thing i'm most wantin'," croaked "bertha," "is to hear the wind in the heather again, deep o' the night. there isn't a sweeter sound than that, so soft an' croony-like." "yes, an' i'll be wantin' to hear the old cracked voice o' biddy donoghue callin' cockles at the antrim fair. faith, she's worth thravelin' far to be hearin'. an' think o' gettin' your tooth on a live cockle!" johnnie moistened his lips in anticipation as he broke forth in a falsetto: "cockles--good cockles--here's some for your dad, an' some for your lassie--an' more for your lad." amid the appreciative chuckle of the listeners, the door of ward -a opened and the chief stood on the threshold. he smiled as a man may when he has a hurting thing to do and grudges the doing of it. he saluted the remnants of company--of the royal irish: "orders, lads. you'll be leaving to-morrow for--blighty." there was nothing but silence, a silence of agony and apprehension, until patsy whispered, "leavin' _together_, sir?" "i--hope so." "thravelin'--the same?" it was timothy brennan this time. "i don't know." "will we be afther makin' the same hospital yondther--do ye think?" it took all larry's fighting soul to keep his voice steady. "i--it isn't likely." "thank ye, sir." that was all. the chief left, and sheila sat on in the stillness of ward -a, wondering wherein lay the value of theories when in the face of the first crucial need one sat stunned and helpless. the mask of good spirits had dropped from the lads like a camouflaged screen; behind it showed the naked, bleeding souls of twelve terror-stricken men. for jamie's mask was still upon him. if the orders had brought any added misery to him, no one could have told. as sheila looked into their faces and saw all that was written there, she gripped her hands behind her and tried to tell them what she had thought out so clearly in the operating-room days and days before. but the message she had thought was hers to give had somehow become meaningless. what guarantee had she to make that their lives would go on being vital, necessary to the big scheme of humanity? how could she promise that out of their share in the war and the price they had paid would be wrought something so fine, so strong and eternal, that the years ahead must needs hold plenty for their hearts and souls? she could not get beyond the realization that it was all only theory, the theory of one glowingly healthy mind in a sound body. if such a promise could be given at all, it must not come from such as she; if it was to bear faith, it must be spoken by one who had gone through the crucible as they had gone through--and come out even as they had come. she looked at jamie. if jamie had only had eyes to catch the meaning of the thing she was trying to say! if he who had sung courage into their hearts in the old days could sing it once again! a message from jamie would bring it home. but there was nothing in that blank, white face sheila could reach. he seemed as he had seemed from the beginning, a soul apart, so wrapped in its own despair that no human cry of need could shake it free. in desperation she looked at larry. his eyes were closed; his face had gone almost as white as jamie's. patsy was gazing at the ceiling; the veins on his arms stood out as they had on that first day when he had fainted twice from the pain of his dressing. down the line of cots the nurse's eyes traveled, and back again. every lad was past speaking for another; each lay transfixed with his own personal fear. the minutes seemed intolerable. the silence grew heavy with so much muffling of despair. sheila found herself praying that the men would groan, cry out, curse, anything to break the ghastly hush. then suddenly "bertha" propped himself as best he could on an elbow and croaked: "for the love of mary, miss, can't ye cram us with morphine the night? 'twould save the british empire a few shillin's' expense and them at home a deal o' misery." and the color-sergeant choked out, "aye, in god's mercy send us west, along wi' them lucky seven that has gone already!" without knowing why she did it, sheila reached over and gripped one of jamie's hands. "help, can't you?" she whispered. the late afternoon sun was shining through the window back of him. the glory of it was full on his face, so that every lad in the ward saw plainly the smile that crept into the lips, a tender, whimsical smile that belonged to the jamie of old. and the deep, vibrating voice was the voice of the jamie of fighting days. "patsy, ye rascal! i'm thinking it was like yourself to come breaking into the first song i've had on my lips in a month. you've nearly ruined it for me, lad." amazement, incredulity, thanksgiving swept over the faces like puffs of wind over young wheat. unnoticed, sheila turned to the window and wept a scattering of tears that could no longer be held back. jamie pulled himself out of the wheel-chair and found his way down the space at the foot of the cots to the door. he was very straight, and his head was high. "just a minute, lads." he dug his hands deep into his pockets. "before i give ye the song i've made for ye, there's something i have to be saying first. miss o'leary was right when she said a man has more than one pair of eyes to see with. he can see grand with his heart--if he's shown the way. that's what i have to thank ye for this day, the wiping of my memory clean of those last days, and the showing me how to see anew. ye've given ireland back to me with her lark songs, her blue, dancing water, her wind-brushed heather like a purple sea. ye've made the world beautiful for me again, and ye've given me the heart to sing." he stopped a minute and smiled again. "i was thinking all this when the chief came in, and after that i was so busy with the song that sprang into my mind that i came near forgetting the lot o' ye. if that rascal patsy hadn't interrupted me, faith, i might have made the song longer." sheila turned back from the window. there was a grin on the face of every lad, and on the face of jamie was the look of a man who had found his dreams again. the song being new to his tongue, he gave it slowly: "they say the earth's a bit shot up--well, we can say the same, but, praise to every lad that's fought, the scars they show no shame. and for those who have prayed for us--why, here's an end to tears. sure, god can do much healing in the next handful of years. "so, johnnie, set your chanter and blow your pipes full strong, and, larry, raise your voice again and lead our marching song. let mac unfurl the colors--till they sweep yon crimson west, for we're still the royal irish, a-fighting with the best." and that is precisely the way they went when they left the american military hospital no. the next morning. the color-sergeant led. jamie walked beside the stretcher to give a hand with the staff. johnnie sat bolt upright, bolstered with many pillows, to enable him to get a firm grip on the pipes, and he skirled the "shule aroon" as he had never skirled before. larry's voice again boomed in the lead, and every man in the hospital that had breath to spare cheered them as they passed. and for every one who saw or heard the going of the royal irish, that day, was left behind a memory green enough to last till the end of time. chapter viii into her own the last big drive was on. somewhere on the road between what had been the line of defense and what was the line of farthest advance rumbled a hospital camion with its nose to the war trail like an old dog on a fresh scent. in the camion sat sheila o'leary, late of the old san and later yet of the american military hospital no. . she was in field uniform; a pair of the chief's own boots were strapped over two pairs of woolen stockings. she was contemplating those boots now with a smile of rare contentment that showed its inwardness even in the gray light of early morning. "never thought i should step into the shoes of a great surgeon. they ought to pass me through to the front if everything else fails, don't you think?" the chief eyed her quizzically. "they'll carry you as far as you'll care to go and for as long as you'll stand. what's troubling me is what your man will say when he knows?" "who--peter?" sheila's smile deepened. "he'll understand; he'll be glad. something both of us will remember always, something big to share. oh, i know it's going to be life and death, heaven and hell, rolled into a minute, but i wouldn't be missing this chance--" she broke off suddenly, and when she spoke again there was a great reverence in her voice. "i feel as the littlest angel might have felt if god had asked him to be at the creation." "rather different, this." griggs, the chief's assistant, spoke. there were just the three of them in the ambulance. "not so very. it's another big primal happening, the hurling together of elemental things and impulses and watching something more solid and lasting come out. a new heaven and a new earth." "what we see coming out won't be so solid or so lasting. we may not be ourselves." griggs was a pessimist, a heroic one, with an eye ever keen for the grimmest and most disappointing in life and a courage to meet it squarely. the chief's glance brushed him on its way to the nurse; griggs's share of it was plainly commiserating. "and i say, blessed be those who shall inherit it. but, girl, this doesn't settle the question of your man. i've had to duck orders a bit to bring you along. women aren't wanted at the front. he may hold it up stiff against me for it." "but i can help. any woman who can stand it will be needed. they shouldn't bar us out. that's all peter'll think about. don't worry." there was no question in the girl's mind as to the wisdom or right in her coming--or peter's verdict in the matter. he would not fuss over this plunge into danger any more than he had misunderstood her giving away her wedding back at the old san and coming over at the eleventh hour. the last words peter had said when he left her for the front came back with absolute distinctness: "whatever happens, do what you think best, go where you feel you must go. don't bungle your instincts. i'd trust them next to god's own." no, peter brooks would have been the last person to deny her this chance, and so all was well. she was wondering now if by some rare good luck she might stumble on peter at the front. she had not seen him since they separated the day after their arrival in france. a few penciled hieroglyphics had come from time to time telling her all was well with him. she had written when she could and when she knew enough of an address to risk a letter reaching him. but peter, after the manner of all correspondents, was like hamlet's ghost--here, there, and gone; and sheila had no way of knowing if her letters had ever reached him. for weeks it had seemed to the girl that her love had lain dormant, hushed under the pressure of work. so vital and eternal were both love and happiness that in her zeal for perfect, impersonal service she had thrust them both out of sight, as one might put seeds away in the dark to wait until planting-time, assured of their fulfilment when the time came. but now in the lull between the work at the hospital and the work that would soon claim her again she discovered that in some inexplicable manner love would no longer be shut out. she was sick for the man she loved. a funny little wistful droop took sheila's lips, and her chin quivered for an instant. it was so unlike the girl that the chief, seeing, reached across and laid a hand on her knee. "what is it? not sorry?" "never. but i was thinking how pleasantly easy it might have been to stay behind at the old san. peter and i'd be climbing that mythical hilltop of ours, with a home of our own at the end of the climb--if we'd stayed behind." "well, why didn't you?" the nurse laughed softly. griggs volunteered to answer for her. "because you were a fool, like a lot of the rest of us." "because--oh, because of that queer something inside us all that pries us away from our determinations just to be contented and happy all our lives and hustles us somewhere to do something for somebody else. remember in the old fairy-tales they were always cleaning the world of dragons or giants or chimeras before they married and lived happy ever after." "bosh! remember that it's only in the fairy-tales that the giants or the monsters don't generally get you, and you get an epitaph instead of a wedding. you romantic idealists make me sick," and griggs snarled openly. their mobile unit was held up that day in a little ruined city. only one other dressing-station was there, and the wounded were passing through so fast and so wounded that many could not go on. so they set up another dressing-station and worked through the night until the stars went out and their orders came to hurry on. they caught two hours' sleep and by noon of another day they were as close to the front as a hospital unit could go. a dugout had been portioned out to them, and while orderlies brought in their equipment and the surgeons were coupling up lights and sterilizer, sheila started to get a hot meal in two sterilizing basins. the nurse was just drawing in her first breath of real war. before she had time to exhale it a despatch-bearer climbed down into the dugout and handed an order to the chief. it was from headquarters, and brief. the division did not intend to have any woman's name on its casualty list. sheila was to be returned at once. the bearer added the information that an ambulance was returning with wounded; she could take it. the chief had never seen the nurse turn so white. her eyes spoke the appeal her lips refused to make. he tried to put something into words to make it easier for her, but gave it up in final despair. what was there to say? in silence the girl put on her trench coat, jammed on her hat, and was gone. for the first kilometer her senses were too numbed to allow for much thinking. mechanically she passed her canteen to one of the wounded, readjusted a blanket over another. it was not until the division turned loose its first barrage that day that she woke up to what was happening to her. she was going back; she was not going to have her chance. the noise was terrific. it drowned everything but the mutinous hammerings of her own heart. in the flash of an eye she changed from the sheila o'leary of civilized production to a savage, primitive woman. she had but one dominating instinct, to stand by the male of her tribe, to succor him, fight with him, die with him. it seemed as futile a thing to try to stay this impulse as to try to put out the burning of a prairie when the wind blows. the ambulance stopped with a jerk. something was wrong with the engine. the driver climbed down and threw back the hood, and, unnoticed, the nurse slipped down and passed him. when he had finished his tinkering, sheila was fifty rods away across the meadow. "here, you, you come back!" shouted the driver. for answer sheila doubled her speed. the driver watched her, uncertain what to do. a shell whizzed from beyond the barrage and burst a hundred yards from the nurse. the shock threw her, but she was up in an instant, her course changed toward some deserted trenches. the driver hesitated no longer. he climbed back and started the engine. "no use tacklin' them kind," he remarked to the empty seat beside him. "she'll get there or she won't--but she won't turn back." it was nightfall when sheila came up with what she had chosen to call "her division." she intended to possess it in spite of the commander. an outpost sentry challenged what he thought a wraith. his tongue fumbled the words, "oh, gawd! it's a woman!" "yes. will you pass her? lots to do." he looked at the red cross on her arm and smiled foolishly. "you bet there is! sure i'll pass you." she came up with the first battalion, bivouacked under a shell-riven ridge. "a woman!" the first boy whispered it, and the exclamation rippled on to the next and the next like wind in dry leaves. remembering the exodus of the morning, the nurse knew if she was to stay she must prove her need and prove it quickly. her voice was as business-like as in the old san days. "dressing-station? company's surgeon? wounded? doesn't matter which, only get me some work." a hand slipped out of the darkness and caught her elbow. "this way, lady," and she was drawn along the protecting shelter of the ridge. after rods of stumbling she stumbled down irrational stairs into the same dugout she had left that morning. she was almost as surprised as the two surgeons. "you're a fool," muttered griggs. "wait till they order me back. i'll not be crying for purgatory twice." the chief smiled. "i reckon you got that s o s call i've been sending out all day. we need help like sixty. bichloride's under that basin. we'll be ready for you when you've washed up. night ahead--" his words trailed off into an incoherent chuckling. he was wondering how the girl had managed it. he was wondering more what the command would do when it found out. in the mean time he was glorying in her courage; he would see she got full measure of the work that had claimed her in spite of orders, while he silently thanked a merciful god for providing her. no one questioned her right to be there that night. wounded poured in, flooded the dugout to capacity, were cared for, carried away, and more flooded again. it was daybreak before a lull came, and then there were orders to be ready to follow the battalion in an hour. so they ate a snatch, packed, and rolled on in the wake of the allies' conquest. again it was nightfall before they caught up with their regiment. even to eyes as inexperienced as theirs it was easy to see it had been factored and factored again, and not the half of it was standing. they found a couple of regimental surgeons floundering through a sea of wounded. the nurse had to bite her lips to keep back the cry of horror over the apparent hopelessness of the task that lay before them. so many--and so few hands to do it all! a shout went up from the men who had come through whole, when they saw her. they were wet, covered with mud, aching in every joint and sinew, but they forgot it all in their joyful pride over the fact that the nurse was standing by. "gosh durn it, it's our girl!" "stuck fast to the old bat. whoopee!" "at-a-boy! three cheers for the pluckiest girl on the front--our girl!" and a young giant led the cheering that sprang as one yell from those husky throats. "she's all right--our girl's all right--'rah-'rah-'rah!" sheila's own voice was too husky to more than whisper, as she slipped behind the giant, "tell them my thanks and--good luck." "you bet i will." from that instant there was no more helplessness in the feelings of sheila o'leary. she felt empowered to move mountains, to make new a mangled heap of boys. as she joined the chief she stopped to see how it was with him. his eyes met hers, and in the flash she read there the same fighting faith that was in her own heart. he patted her shoulder. "didn't think you'd funk. nothing like team-work when you're up against it. keeps you believing in the divinity of man, eh?" and who can tell if at times like these the power of the nazarene does not pass on to those who go fearlessly forth to minister in the face of death! it would not be so strange if he had passed over innumerable battle-fields and so anointed those who had come to succor that their task was made easier and their burden at least bearable. there was no shelter for any of them that night. they worked in the open, and volunteers came from the ranks to do what they could. the surgeons would have scorned them, but the nurse mustered in a score or more to keep the fires under the kettles burning, to hold supplies and lanterns, to make coffee when the sterilizing basins could be surrendered for the purpose; and she showed those with pocket-knives how to cut away the blood-soaked clothing. caked with mud herself and desperately hungry, she dressed and comforted as she went. the scene was ghastly--verestchagin might have painted it--but sheila saw none of it. it was for her a time exalted, even for those she helped to die. there was no sting in this death. as she passed on and on in the darkness the space about her seemed filled with the shadowy forms of those whom god was mustering out, peacefully, gloriously waiting his command to march into a land of full promise. so acutely did she feel this that a prayer rose to her lips and stayed there, mute, half through the night, that some time she might be given the chance to make this clear for those who mourned at home, to make them feel that death, here, held no sting. in the midst of it sheila felt a heavy hand laid on her arm, and turned to look into the face of the commander. "are you the nurse i ordered back two days ago?" "i believe so." "who ordered you back again?" "no one." "how did you come?" the girl laughed softly. she could not resist the memory of that flight. "engine went wrong and i--beat it. don't blame the driver; he did his best to obey orders. i joined the division last night and came on with my chief." "so there's no use in ordering you back?" "none in the least--that is, not so long as the boys are coming in like this." "how long can you stand it?" "as long as they can, sir." and then without rhyme or reason tears sprang into the nurse's eyes, to her great mortification and terror. that would probably finish her; a woman who cried had no place at the front, and the general would dismiss her promptly and with scorn. but he did not. the hand that had touched her arm reached out and gripped her hand. she caught a whimsical smile brushing his lips in the dark. "good night. when you want your discharge, i'll sign it." he went as swiftly and silently as he had come. the nurse turned back to her work with a sigh of relief. the regiment was hers officially now. the next day they made another little town. so quickly and unexpectedly had the enemy been forced to evacuate it that there had been no time to destroy or pillage, and the shells had somehow passed it by. the town was full of liberated french--the young and very old--who crowded the streets and shouted their welcome as the troops passed through. the chapel was flung open to receive the wounded, and the hospital unit was installed therein. as sheila o'leary crossed the threshold of the little church a strange feeling sprang at her, so that her throat went dry and her heart almost stopped beating. it was as if something apart from her and yet not apart had spoken and said: "here is where the big moment of your life will be staged. whatever matters for all time will happen here, and what has gone before--the san, the hospital, everything you have felt, striven for, believed in, and trusted--all that is but a prologue. the real part of your life is just beginning--or--" griggs broke the terror that was clutching at her. "what's the matter? don't you know there's a war going on and about a million wounded coming in? there are a few hundred of them up there, lying round under the images of the saints. the saints may bless 'em, but they won't dress 'em. the chief's growling for you. come along!" for once she was grateful to the pessimist. she tried to brush the strangeness away as she hurried down the aisle, but it clung in spite of her. and at the altar more strangeness confronted her. a slightly wounded lad suddenly reached out a hand holding a crumpled paper. "guess you're miss o'leary, ain't you? he said there wasn't much of a chance, but what you don't expect over here is what you get. you know?" the incoherency was lost on sheila. she took the crumpled paper wonderingly and found it covered with peter's scribbled hieroglyphics: beloved: the boys have been telling me about you--to think you're really with us and standing by! it may bring its dole of horror--bound to--we all have our turn at it. if it comes, hold to your courage and take deep hold of that wonder-soul of yours; that will steady you. and remember, there is peace coming, and home--yours and mine. close your eyes when the sights get too bad, and you'll see that blessed house of ours on the hilltop you've chosen; you'll see the little lamp shining us good cheer. think of that. i'm with the other wing now, but any day i may be shifted to yours. until then, yours, "p. b." the nurse thrust the paper into the front of her uniform, shook the hand that had brought it to her, and passed up the steps to the work that was waiting for her. the first day passed like a dream. guns boomed, shells screeched their way overhead and landed somewhere. wounded came and went. many died, and a white-haired, tottering old sexton helped to carry them away. the old palsied _abbé_ came and chanted prayers for the dying, and some one played a "_dies iræ_" on the little organ. old french mothers stole in timorously and offered their services, the service of their hands and emptied hearts. when they found they might help they were pathetically grateful, fluttering down between the aisles of wounded like souls with a day's reprieve from purgatory. they were finding panacea for their bereavement in this care of the sons of other mothers. and as they passed sheila, in broken sentences, almost inarticulate, they told their sorrow: "six--all gone, ma'm'selle." "jean, françois, paul, and victor--victor the last--he fell two months ago." "four sons and four daughters--a rich legacy from my dead husband, ma'm'selle. and i have paid it back--soul by soul--all--he has them all now." so they mourned as they went their way of tender service, the words dropping unconsciously from their quivering old lips. a few there were who stood apart, the envied mothers with hope. sheila learned who they were almost from the beginning. each had a son somewhere not reported. old madame d'arcy whispered about it as she bathed the face of the boy who looked so much like her own. "of course, ma'm'selle, my lucien may be--i have not heard from him in many months. it is not for me to hope too much. but i think--yes, i think, ma'm'selle, he will come home to me when the war is over." and madame simone, who brought fresh black coffee and little cakes for those who could eat them, trembled with the gladness of ministering to the boys who were fighting with hers for france. "i had almost ceased to pray when the americans came, but now--ah, ma'm'selle, now there is hope again in this withered breast. i even dream now of mon p'tit--the youngest of them all. i feel the good god is sparing him for me." and old isabelle, who came to scrub the floor and clean, muttered, as she bent her willing back to the labor: "moi, that is what i say, too. the lord will send my jacques home to comfort my old age." as sheila listened, it epitomized for her the tragedy of the mothers of france, this antiphonal chorus of the mothers who had lost all and those who had yet one son left. to the girl's mind there came in almost cruel contrast that chorus of maeterlinck's mothers raised in rapturous expectancy to the unborn; she knew she was hearing now the agonized antithesis of it. throughout the first day it rang incessantly, until she could have hummed the haunting melody of it. then night came. the patches of reds and greens and blues that had sifted through the stained-glass window in the chancel and played all day in grotesque patches on the white cheeks of the wounded faded alike to gray, and the nurse lit the tall wax candles on the altar that the work might go on without stopping. the next day--and the next--passed much the same. there was no end to the wounded. griggs fainted twice the second day, and the chief and sheila carried the work alone for a few hours. each of them was acutely conscious of the strain on the other and did what he and she could to ease the tension. for the girl her greatest comfort was in the scrap of paper crumpled over her breast. it told her peter was near, coming to her soon. it seemed to transmit some of his strength and optimism. there were moments when, but for his reassurance, the girl would have doubted every normal, happy phase of life and acknowledged only the unending torture and renunciation. sometimes the horror seemed to wrap them in like an impenetrable fog. as for the chief, it took every ounce of will and sanity to keep him going, and he wondered how the girl beside him could brave it through without a whimper. always about them roared the great guns like the last booming of a judgment day, and under that noise the moaning chorus of the french mothers. when the strain reached the breaking-point sheila closed her eyes and looked for the light on the hilltop that peter had promised would be there--and there it always was. moreover, she could feel peter's vital presence and the marvelous reality of his love reaching nearer and nearer to her through the darkness. so she kept her head clear and her hands steady and forced a smile whenever the chief eyed her anxiously. she never failed a boy "going west." to the last breath she let him see the radiating faith of her own soul that believed in the ultimate love above everything else. those old illuminating smiles that had won for her her nickname of leerie never had to be forced, and they lighted the way out for many a groping soul in that little church. and the old frenchwomen, watching above their prayers for the return of louis or charles or jacques, said: "see, for all she's so young, she knows what the mother-heart is. that is why she feels for us. she knows how our hearts have bled." on the th of november they were still there. the division had continued its drive, but slowly, and no orders had come for the mobile unit to go forward. and then came one of those lulls and flush-backs which for the moment made one almost believe that the tide of battle had turned again--and for the enemy. with the coming of the first wounded that day came orders to evacuate the town at once. at first the townsfolk would not believe, but as the muddy columns of the first company could be seen on the outskirts, doubt gave place to certainty, and without moan they gathered up what few belongings they could and set their faces toward what they prayed would hold french soil. before the refugees had cleared the town, the shelling began, giving the last impelling haste to their exodus. the hospital unit stayed in the church. they got the wounded ready to be moved and waited for further orders. they came in another ten minutes; everybody was to clear out. three ambulances from the east and a half-dozen from the west gathered up the stretcher cases, while the others piled into the supply-trucks--that is, all but the chief and sheila. they stood in the church door with minds for anything but going. it came to them both that, as the battalions fell back, each would be bringing its wounded as far as it could. if there was a place to drop them--and care waiting until a few more ambulances could push through--many lives might be saved, and much suffering. the chief looked down at the girl and saw what was in her mind. linking his arm in hers, he muttered under his breath, "still game, bless you!" and then aloud: "miss o'leary and i have a liking for this place. we'll stay until the next orders." griggs had climbed to the footboard of an ambulance, and he faced them with contempt. "we didn't volunteer to sit 'round and be blown to bits. don't be fools, you two. come on while you've got a chance." and then, when he saw how futile were his words: "if you haven't had enough slaughter for one while, i have. good-by." as they waved them off, the muddy column of the first company swung down the street. it was even as they had thought--wounded were with them, and the nurse and surgeon hurried inside to make ready. the day wound itself out in an almost ludicrous repetition of events. straggling companies fell back, dropped their wounded, and went on; a few ambulances made the town, gathered up the worst cases, and went back. desultory shells picked off their belfry, smashed a group of monuments in the cemetery, and wiped out a street of houses not far away. and every half-hour or so came the orders to evacuate at once. regiment after regiment fell back through the city; the rest of the division must have passed to north and south of it. by nightfall nearly all had passed and the town was left like a delta between two dividing currents. "they'll begin shelling in earnest by midnight. we'll get barrages from both sides. we won't know it, but this town's going to be wiped off the map to-night." the chief said it in his most matter-of-fact voice, but his face showed gray. the girl hushed him. "the boys might hear, and they've been through so much. there's no harm in letting them hope." she turned back to the emergency kettle she was stirring. they were making cocoa and feeding the boys out of the chalice-cups from the altar. to the nurse it seemed like passing the last communion, and though her hands kept steady, her heart seemed drained. out of the noise and the gathering gloom outside came two more stretcher-loads. the bearers whistled when they saw the red cross on the door. they whistled harder when they pushed it open and looked inside. "gee! we thought all you outfits had been ordered back!" the bearers laid down their burden on a pew, and the fore one groaned out the words. "we were," the chief spoke. "sorry we didn't go?" "dunno. bet these chaps wouldn't be, though--if they knew. don't know whether it's any use trying; they're all but gone, doc." the speaker jerked his head over his shoulder and thumbed a command to the other bearers. "here you, jake! you and fritzie hustle along with yours." as the surgeon bent over to examine, the nurse stopped an instant to listen, then went on feeding her boys. "this one's french." the chief was looking over the first stretcher. "how did you pick him up?" "got mixed up with a company of _poilus_ in the last scrap. we fought all together." "hmmmm! he'll need speed or he'll make it. give me a hand with him, boys, over to the table there." "wait, doc. there's another just as bad. he's--the other's a yank." the spokesman again jerked his comrades into further evidence. one of the bearers was an american, the other a captured german, slightly wounded. between them lay a figure in the gray uniform of a correspondent. a heavy growth of beard made the man almost unrecognizable, but something tugged at the chief's memory and set him speculating. he cast a furtive glance over his shoulder toward the nurse, then lowered his voice. "you haven't any idea who it is, have you?" "sure. he's the a. p. man that's been with our division from the first. his name's brooks." the chalice fell through sheila's fingers and struck the altar steps with a sharp, metallic ring. the next instant she was beside the chief, looking down with wide, unbelieving eyes at the stretcher which held nothing familiar but the gray uniform--and there were many men wearing the same. it could not be. this was not the way peter was coming back to her. in all the days of horror, of caring for the hundreds of wounded, it had never entered her mind that war might claim the man she loved. her love, and the fulfilment thereof, had stood out as the one absolute reality of life, the thing that could not fail. this simply could not be; peter was still far away, but coming, supreme in his strength, invulnerable in his love and promise to her. "you--don't know him?" the chief asked it hopefully. the girl shook her head. "he can't be--the beard--wait." her hand slipped through the opening in his uniform to an inside pocket. she drew out a flat bundle of papers, and the first glance told her all she needed to know. there was peter's unmistakable scribbling on the uppermost, and from under it showed the corner of one of her letters to him. the chief's hand steadied her. "no time to lose, girl, but we'll pull him through. we've got to fight for it, but we'll do it. easy there, boys. take him over to the table, there, under the light." but sheila o'leary put out a detaining hand. her eyes were no longer on peter; she was looking at the figure on the other stretcher. "what did you say about that french boy?" "he'll have to go, poor chap! there isn't time for both. listen, leerie," as a flash of pain swept the girl's face, "it's a toss-up between them who's worse, and it's down now to a matter of minutes. it means the best team-work we've done yet to save just your man." still the girl made no move. her eyes were turned away. in her ears was ringing the chorus of the mothers, those waiting for louis or jacques or lucien to come home. dear god, what was she to do? the chief pulled her sleeve. "wake up, girl. there's a chance for your man, i tell you, only in heaven's name don't waste it! come." she tried to take her eyes away from the boy, tried to shut her ears to the cry that was ringing in them. she wanted to look at peter and say the word that would start the bearers carrying him to that little zone of light about the altar where they had saved so many during those days. but her eyes clung, in spite of her, to the white boy-face and the faded blue uniform below it. peter had no mother, no one but herself to face the grief and mourn the loss of him, and the hearts of french mothers had been drained--bled almost to the last drop? wouldn't peter say to save that drop? had she the right to shed it and spare her own heart's bleeding? the questions filtered through her mind with the inevitableness of sands in an hour-glass. with a cry of agony she wrenched her eyes away at last and faced the chief. "we'll let peter--wait. we'll take the boy--first." dumfounded, the chief stared for the fraction of a moment; then he shook her. "for god's sake, wake up, leerie! you've gone through so much, your thinking isn't just clear. get rational, girl. you'd be deliberately killing your man, to leave him now. you don't realize his condition, or you wouldn't be wasting time this way. by the time we finish with the first there'll be no chance for the second; they're both bleeding in a dozen places. here, boys! help me over with mr. brooks." but sheila put out a quick hand and held them back. "and if i put peter first i shall be deliberately killing the other. don't you see? i can't do it--peter wouldn't wish it--it would mean--boys, carry over the other. the chief's going to save a lad for france." there was no denying her. she stood guard over peter's stretcher until the other had been lifted and carried away. grimly the surgeon followed, and sheila turned to the two who were still holding the stretcher. "would you mind putting him down there? now, will you leave us just a minute?" she spoke to the american, but the german must have understood, for he led the way to the church door and stood with his back to her. even the comfort of staying with peter to the last was denied her. the chief had said it must be team-work, the best. she mustn't waste many seconds. she thought of the many she had helped to die, the courage a warm grip of the hand had given, the healing strength in a smile, and her heart cringed before this last sacrifice of giving peter over to a desolate, prayerless death. hardly breathing, she slipped down and laid her cheek to his bearded one. she could offer one prayer, that he need never wake to know. kneeling there, his last words came back to her almost in mockery: "don't bungle your instincts. i'd trust them next to god's own." dear god, if she only could bungle them! if only they had not wrenched from her this torturing, ghastly choice! she knew the meaning now of the strangeness that had met her as she first crossed the threshold of the little church. she knew why the chorus of mothers had been sung so deep into her heart. the greatest moment of her life had come--a terrible, soul-rending moment. and beyond it lay nothing. she choked out an incoherent, futile prayer into the dulled ears--and left him. this--this was her farewell to peter brooks--her man--her man for all time. the american orderly had disappeared. sheila stumbled over to the door and gripped the sleeve of the german. "if he opens his eyes"--she opened and shut her own eyes in pantomime--"come for me, quick. verstehen?" the german nodded. for the next half-hour, with nerves keyed to their utmost and hands working with the greatest speed and skill they were capable of, sheila o'leary's soul went down into purgatory and stayed there. not once did she look beyond the boy she was helping to save; not once did she let herself think what might be happening beyond the circle of light that hemmed them in. with all the woman courage she could muster, she was stifling every breath of love or longing--or self-pity. if she could have killed her body and known that when that night's work was done she would be laid in the cemetery outside with peter, she would have been almost satisfied. suddenly she realized they had finished. the chief was repeating something over and over again. "the boy is safe. you'd better lie down." the bearers were moving the boy back to the pews and the chief was leading her down the steps of the chancel. but it was sheila who guided their steps at the bottom. she led the way toward the german and the thing he had been asked to watch. terror shook her. it seemed as if she could never look at what she knew would be waiting for her, and yet no power on earth could have held her back. as she reached the prisoner she saw in bewilderment a strange scattering of things on the floor about him--forceps, some knives, a roll of gauze, and a syringe. there was an odor of a strange antiseptic which made her faint. she tottered and would have fallen had the german not helped the chief to steady her. "he has not gained consciousness, madam. he has lost too much blood for that." the german spoke in english. he also spread his hands in mute apology for what he had done. "i have stanched his wounds with what poor supplies i had with me. it has merely kept him alive. he will require more care, better dressing." no one answered. words seemed the most impossible and absurd means of expression just then. the german smiled at the look sheila gave him, and the smile was arrogant. "you americans have always made such a fuss over what you have been pleased to call our brutalities. what is war if it isn't a consistent effort to exterminate the enemy? the women are the wives of the enemy and the breeders of more; the wounded are still the enemy--if they recover, they fight again. but a german knows how to honor a brave act. and when you go back, madam, you can tell how carl tiefmann, a german surgeon, wounded and taken prisoner, so far forgot his prussian creed as to spare an enemy for a brave woman." he bowed and went back to the church doors. sheila watched him go through a trailing of mist; then she dropped through the chief's arms, unconscious, on the floor beside peter's stretcher. the germans never reached the little town, and by some merciful stroke of luck neither did any more of the shells. so it came to pass that on the th of november a very white nurse, holding fast to the hand of a man unconscious on a stretcher, followed peace across the threshold of the american military hospital no. . it was days before sheila spoke above a husky whisper or smiled, for it was days before peter was out of danger, but there came a morning at last when a shaven and shorn peter, looking oddly familiar, opened clear, sane eyes and saw the woman he loved bending close above him. [illustration: "he will require more care, better dressing"] he gave the same old cry that he had given ages before when he had come out of another nightmare of unconsciousness and fear, "it's leerie--why, it's leerie!" and sheila smiled down at him again with the old luminous smile. when he was sufficiently mended to look about him and take reckoning of what had happened, he asked first for the ring that he had bought for that long-before wedding and that he had carried ever since with him. and he asked, second, for the chaplain. sheila drew the gold chain from about her neck and dangled the ring in front of his nose. "i took it when we cut off your coat that night, and i've kept it handy ever since. the chaplain's handy, too. he's promised--any hour of the day or night. shall we send for him--now?" peter nodded. the nurse turned to go, hesitated, and then came back to the cot. peter thought he had never seen her eyes so full of wonder. "man o' mine, maybe you won't want me when you know i almost let you go, that i intended to let you die to save first a french lad that came in with you." peter grinned. "same old leerie! well, we're quits, sweetheart, and i'm glad to have it off my conscience. sort of did the same thing myself. rushed off in the shelling to bring in that same poor chap--he'd got a bullet in his leg--and all the time i knew i ought to be thinking of you first and hanging on to safety. funny, isn't it, how something queer gets you in the midst of it all and you do the last thing in the world you want to do? a year or two and the whole thing will be unexplainable." sheila bent over and laid her lips to peter's. she knew that in a year--in a century--they would still understand why they had done these things, and she was glad they had both paid their utmost for the love and happiness that she knew was theirs now for all time. peter broke on her reverie with a chuckle. "remember old hennessy saying once that he believed you would give me away with everything else--if you thought anybody else needed me more? he'd certainly wash his hands of the pair of us." "hennessy's an old dear. i'll get the chaplain, and afterward let's send hennessy the first--and the best--cable he's ever had. sort of owe it to him, don't we?" without any of the original splendor of decorations, collation, and attire, with no one but the chaplain to marry them and the chief to bless them, sheila o'leary came into her own at last. as for peter--he looked as hennessy described him on the day the brookses came home--"wi' one eye on the thruest lass god ever made an' the other on paradise." afterword i thought i had to have a better ending to the story than the scraps of things i had made over from leerie's letters and what peter had told me. so i went to hennessy. it was midwinter. i found him cracking the ice on the pond to let the swans in for a cold bath. "'tis not docthor's ordthers," he grinned by way of explanation; "but they get so blitherin' uneasy there's no housin' them. that's the why i give them a bit of a cold nip onct the while--sure 'tis good threatment for us all--an' then they settle down." i huddled deeper into a fur coat and tried to agree with hennessy. "did ye see leerie, then, since she came home?" "have you?" he shirred his lips into an ecstatic pucker and whistled triumphantly. "wasn't i always sayin' she'd marry the finest gentleman in the land, same as the king o' ireland's only daughter, and go dandtherin' off to a fine home of her own?" "and she has." "she has that." "and so the story's told, hennessy." "told nothin'. sure, it isn't half told--it isn't more than half begun, just." "but you can't end a book that way. you have to end with an ending." "'tis the best way to end a book, then. haven't ye taken the lass over the worst o' the road an' aren't ye leavin' her with the best ahead?" "but what is there left--to find along the way? she's found her work--that's over with. she's found her man--that's over with. she's found love--that's over--" hennessy interrupted me almost viciously. i think he wanted to prod me instead of the ice. "what kind of talkin' is that for a person who thries to write books about real folk? ye harken to me. do ye think because love is found 'tis over with? sure, leerie's only caught a whiff of it yet--'tis naught but budded for her. by an' by there come the blossom of it an' the fruit of it. an' when death maybe withers it for a spell--'twill be but a winther-time promise to bud an' blossom again in the counthry beyond. there's no witherin' to love like hers. an' do ye think because she has her man found there's no pretty fancy or adventure still waitin' them along the way? an' do ye think leerie's work will ever be done? tell me that!" the shirr tightened into something like contempt. hennessy looked down upon me with undisguised pity. "did ye ever know leerie at all, at all, i'm wondtherin'--to be savin' things like that? don't ye know for the likes o' her there'll be childher--saint anthony send them a nestful!" he crossed himself to further the wish. "an' over an' above the time it takes tendin' an' lovin' them an' rearin' them into the finest parcel o' youngsters god ever made--wi' the help o' their parents--there'll be time left to light the way for every poor, sorry soul within a hundred miles o' her. ye can take my word for it; an' if she never did another stroke o' work so long as she lived--bein' leerie, just, would be enough." "you may be right, hennessy, but it's still no way to end a book." he came a step nearer and shook a warning finger at me. "will ye listen? faith, i'm wondtherin' sometimes that folk read your books when ye have so little sense wi' the endin' o' them. don't ye know that a book that ends wi' the end is a dead book entirely? an' who cares to be readin' a dead book? tell me that." his contempt changed to commiseration. i might have been brian boru, the gray swan, the way he looked at me. "the right way of endin' is with a beginnin'--the beginnin' o' something bigger an' betther an' sweeter. 'tis like ye were takin' a friend with ye up a high hill--showin' him all the pretty things along the way. then just afore ye get to the top--an' afore ye can look over an' see what's waitin' beyond--ye leave him, sayin', 'go ye alone an' find whatever ye are most wishin' for.'" he stopped, pushed his hat back and pulled his forelock as if for more inspiration. "do ye see? just be leavin' it to folk the world over. they can read in a betther endin' than ye can be writin' in in a hundthred years. an' let leerie be as i'm tellin' ye--wi' the road windin' over the hill an' out o' sight. sure the two of us know what she'll be findin' there; an' do ye think the readers have less sense than what we have?" the end a diary without dates * * * * * soldiers' tales of the great war my ' . from the french of paul lintier. s. d. net. on two fronts. by major h. m. alexander, d.s.o. s. d. net. nursing adventures. (anon.) illustrated. s. d. net. forced to fight. by erich erichsen. s. d. net. in german hands. by charles hennebois. s. d. net. "contemptible." by "casualty." s. d. net. on the anzac trail. by "anzac." s. d. net. uncensored letters from the dardanelles. notes of a french army doctor. illustrated. s. d. net. prisoner of war. by andrÉ warnod. illustrated. s. d. net. in the field ( - ). the impressions of an officer of light cavalry. s. d. net. dixmude. a chapter in the history of the naval brigade, oct.-nov. . by charles le goffic. illustrated. s. d. net. with my regiment. by "platoon commander." s. d. net. london: william heinemann * * * * * uniform with this volume the lovers by elizabeth robins pennell "it is one of the most charming little books among the many that owe their genesis to the war. the letters might be described as a lyric of married love; and their beauty and passion are enhanced by the exquisite setting which mrs. pennell has given them."--_yorkshire post._ london: william heinemann a diary without dates by enid bagnold [illustration: logo] london william heinemann _first printed january _ _second impression february _ _london: william heinemann, _ to that friend of mine who, when i wrote him endless letters, said coldly, "why not keep something for yourself!" _i apologize to those whom i may hurt._ _can i soothe them by pleading that one may only write what is true for oneself?_ _e. b._ contents i outside the glass doors ii inside the glass doors iii "the boys ..." i outside the glass doors i like discipline. i like to be part of an institution. it gives one more liberty than is possible among three or four observant friends. it is always cool and wonderful after the monotone of the dim hospital, its half-lit corridors stretching as far as one can see, to come out into the dazzling starlight and climb the hill, up into the trees and shrubberies here. the wind was terrible to-night. i had to battle up, and the leaves were driven down the hill so fast that once i thought it was a motor-bicycle. madeleine's garden next door is all deserted now: they have gone up to london. the green asphalt tennis-court is shining with rain, the blue pond brown with slime; the little statues and bowls are lying on their sides to keep the wind from putting them forcibly there; and all over the house are white draperies and ghost chairs. when i walk in the garden i feel like a ghost left over from the summer too. i became aware to-night of one face detaching itself from the rest. it is not a more pleasing face than the others, but it is becoming conspicuous to me. twice a week, when there is a concert in the big hall, the officers and the v.a.d.'s are divided, by some unspoken rule--the officers sitting at one side of the room, the v.a.d.'s in a white row on the other. when my eyes rest for a moment on the motley of dressing-gowns, mackintoshes, uniforms, i inevitably see in the line one face set on a slant, one pair of eyes forsaking the stage and fixed on me in a steady, inoffensive beam. this irritates me. the very lack of offence irritates me. but one grows to look for everything. afterwards in the dining-room during mess he will ask politely: "what did you think of the concert, sister? good show...." how wonderful to be called sister! every time the uncommon name is used towards me i feel the glow of an implied relationship, something which links me to the speaker. my sister remarked: "if it's only a matter of that, we can provide thrills for you here very easily." the name of my ... admirer ... is, after all, pettitt. the other nurse in the mess, who is very grand and insists on pronouncing his name in the french way, says he is "of humble origin." he seems to have no relations and no visitors. out in the corridor i meditate on love. laying trays soothes the activity of the body, and the mind works softly. i meditate on love. i say to myself that mr. pettitt is to be envied. i am still the wonder of the unknown to him: i exist, walk, talk, every day beneath the beam of his eye, impenetrable. he fell down again yesterday, and his foot won't heal. he has time before him. but in a hospital one has never time, one is never sure. he has perhaps been here long enough to learn that--to feel the insecurity, the impermanency. at any moment he may be forced to disappear into the secondary stage of convalescent homes. yes, the impermanency of life in a hospital! an everlasting dislocation of combinations. like nuns, one must learn to do with no nearer friend than god. bolts, in the shape of sudden, whimsical orders, are flung by an almighty whom one does not see. the sister who is over me, the only sister who can laugh at things other than jokes, is going in the first week of next month. why? where? she doesn't know, but only smiles at my impatience. she knows life--hospital life. it unsettles me as i lay my spoons and forks. sixty-five trays. it takes an hour to do. thirteen pieces on each tray. thirteen times sixty-five ... eight hundred and forty-five things to collect, lay, square up symmetrically. i make little absurd reflections and arrangements--taking a dislike to the knives because they will not lie still on the polished metal of the tray, but pivot on their shafts, and swing out at angles after my fingers have left them. i love the long, the dim and lonely, corridor; the light centred in the gleam of the trays, salt-cellars, yellow butters, cylinders of glass.... impermanency.... i don't wonder the sisters grow so secret, so uneager. how often stifled! how often torn apart! it's heaven to me to be one of such a number of faces. to see them pass into mess like ghosts--gentleman, tinker, and tailor; each having shuffled home from death; each having known his life rock on its base ... not talking much--for what is there to say?--not laughing much for they have been here too long--is a nightly pleasure to me. creatures of habit! all the coloured dressing-gowns range themselves round the two long tables--this man in this seat, that man by the gas-fire; this man with his wheel-chair drawn up at the end, that man at the corner where no one will jostle his arm. curious how these officers leave the hospital, so silently. disappearances.... one face after another slips out of the picture, the unknown heart behind the face fixed intently on some other centre of life. i went into a soldiers' ward to-night to inquire about a man who has pneumonia. round his bed there stood three red screens, and the busy, white-capped heads of two sisters bobbed above the rampart. it suddenly shocked me. what were they doing there? why the screens? why the look of strain in the eyes of the man in the next bed who could see behind the screens? i went cold and stood rooted, waiting till one of them could come out and speak to me. soon they took away the screen nearest to me; they had done with it. the man i was to inquire for has no nostrils; they were blown away, and he breathes through two pieces of red rubber tubing: it gave a more horrible look to his face than i have ever seen. the sister came out and told me she thought he was "not up to much." i think she means he is dying. i wonder if he thinks it better to die.... but he was nearly well before he got pneumonia, had begun to take up the little habits of living. he had been out to tea. inexplicable, what he thinks of, lying behind the screen. to-night i was laying my trays in the corridor, the dim corridor that i am likely often to mention--the occasional blue gas-lamps hanging at intervals down the roof in a dwindling perspective. the only unshaded light in the corridor hangs above my head, making the cutlery gleam in my hands. the swish-swish of a lame foot approached down the stone tiling with the tapping, soft and dull, of a rubber-tipped walking-stick. he paused by the pillar, as i knew he would, and i busied myself with an added rush and hurry, an added irritating noise of spoons flung down. he waited patiently, shyly. i didn't look up, but i knew his face was half smiling and suppliant. "we shall miss you," he said. "but i shall be back in a week!" "we shall miss you ... laying the trays out here." "everything passes," i said gaily. he whistled a little and balanced himself against his stick. "you are like me, sister," he said earnestly; and i saw that he took me for a philosopher. he shuffled on almost beyond the circle of light, paused while my lips moved in a vague smile of response, then moved on into the shadow. the low, deep quiet of the corridor resumed its hold on me. the patter of reflection in my brain proceeded undisturbed. "you are like me!" the deepest flattery one creature pays its fellow ... the cry which is uttered when another enters "our country." far down the corridor a slim figure in white approaches, dwarfed by the smoky distance; her nun-like cap floating, her scarlet cape, the "cape of pride," slipped round her narrow shoulders. how intent and silent they are! i watched this one pass with a look half-reverence, half-envy. one should never aspire to know a sister intimately. they are disappointing people; without candour, without imagination. yet what a look of personality hangs about them.... to-night ... mr. pettitt: "sister!" "yes, mr. pettitt." "do you ever go to theatres? do you like them?" at the risk of appearing unnatural, i said, "not much." "oh ... i thought.... h'm, that's a pity. don't you like revues?" "oh, yes...." "i thought you'd take me to a _matinée_ one afternoon." "oh, charming! i can't get leave in the afternoons, though." "you often have a day off." "yes, but it's too soon to ask for another." "well, how about wednesday, then?" "too soon. think of the new sister, and her opinion of me! that has yet to be won." "well, let me know, anyway...." (staved off!) the new sister is coming quite soon: she has a medal. now that i know _my_ sister must go i don't talk to her much; i almost avoid her. that's true hospital philosophy. i must put down the beauty of the night and the woman's laugh in the shadowy hedge.... i walked up from the hospital late to-night, half-past eight, and hungry ... in the cold, brilliant moonlight; a fine moon, very low, throwing long, pointed shadows across the road from the trees and hedges. as one climbs up there is a wood on the right, the remains of the old wooded hill; sparse trees, very tall; and to-night a star between every branch, and a fierce moon beating down on the mud and grass. i had on my white cap and long blue coat, very visible. the moon swept the road from side to side: lovers, acting as though it were night, were lit as though it was day. i turned into the wood to take a message to a house set back from the road, and the moonlight and the night vapour rising from the marshy ground were all tangled together so that i could hardly see hedge from field or path. i saw a lit cigarette-end, and a woman's laugh came across the field as naturally as if a sheep had bleated in the swampy grass. it struck me that the dark countryside was built to surround and hide a laugh like hers--the laugh of a lover, animal and protesting. i saw the glowing end of the cigarette dance in a curve and fall to the ground, and she laughed again more faintly. walking on in the middle of the moonlight, i reached the gate i was looking for, ran up the pebbly drive to the dining-room window, gave my message, and returned. i slipped my cap off my hair and pushed it into my pocket, keeping under the shadow of the hedge and into the quiet field. they were whispering: "do you?" "i do...." "are you?" "i am...." crushed into the set branches of the hedge. the mess went vilely to-night. sister adds up on her fingers, and that's fatal, so all the numbers were out, and the _chef_ sent in forty-five meats instead of fifty-one. i blushed with horror and responsibility, standing there watching six hungry men pretending to be philosophers. the sergeant wolfed the cheese too. he got it out from under my very eyes while i was clearing the tables and ate it, standing up to it in the pantry with his back to me when i went in to fetch a tray. whenever i see that broad khaki back, the knickered legs astride, the flexed elbow-tips, i know that his digestion is laying up more trouble for him. benks, the mess orderly, overeats himself too. he comes to the bunk and thrusts his little smile round the door: "sister, i got another of them sick 'eadaches," very cheerfully, as though he had got something worth having. she actually retorted, "benks, you eat too much!" one day, but he only swung on one leg and smiled more cheerfully than ever. the new sister has come. that should mean a lot. what about one's habits of life...? the new sister has come, and at present she is absolutely without personality, beyond her medal. she appears to be deaf. i went along to-night to see and ask after the man who has his nose blown off. after the long walk down the corridor in almost total darkness, the vapour of the rain floating through every open door and window, the sudden brilliancy of the ward was like a haven. the man lay on my right on entering--the screen removed from him. far up the ward the sister was working by a bed. ryan, the man with his nose gone, was lying high on five or six pillows, slung in his position by tapes and webbing passed under his arms and attached to the bedposts. he lay with his profile to me--only he has no profile, as we know a man's. like an ape, he has only his bumpy forehead and his protruding lips--the nose, the left eye, gone. he was breathing heavily. they don't know yet whether he will live. when a man dies they fetch him with a stretcher, just as he came in; only he enters with a blanket over him, and a flag covers him as he goes out. when he came in he was one of a convoy, but every man who can stand rises to his feet as he goes out. then they play him to his funeral, to a grass mound at the back of the hospital. it takes all sorts to make a hospital. for instance, the visitors.... there is the lady who comes in to tea and wants to be introduced to every one as though it was a school-treat. she jokes about the cake, its scarcity or its quantity, and makes a lot of "fun" about two lumps of sugar. when she is at her best the table assumes a perfect and listening silence--not the silence of the critic, but the silence of the absorbed child treasuring every item of talk for future use. after she goes the joy of her will last them all the evening. there is the lady who comes in to tea and, sitting down at the only unlaid table, cries, "nurse! i have no knife or plate or cup; and i prefer a glass of boiling water to tea. and would you mind sewing this button on my glove?" there is the lady who comes in and asks the table at large: "i wonder if any one knows general biggens? i once met him...." or: "you've been in gallipoli? did you run across my young cousin, a lieutenant in the...? well, he was only there two days or so, i suppose...." exactly as though she was talking about cairo in the season. to-day there was the limit. she sat two paces away from where i sit to pour out tea. her face was kind, but inquisitive, with that brown liver-look round the eyes and a large rakish hat. she comes often, having heard of him through the _padre_, to see a canadian whom she doesn't know and who doesn't want to see her. from two places away i heard her voice piping up: "nurse, excuse my asking, but is your cap a regulation one, like all the others?" i looked up, and all the tea i was pouring poured over the edge. mr. pettitt and captain matthew, between us, looked down at their plates. i put my hand to my cap. "is anything wrong? it ought to be like the others." she leant towards me, nodding and smiling with bonhomie, and said flatteringly, "it's so prettily put on, i thought it was different." and then (horror): "don't you think nurse puts her cap on well?" she asked captain matthew, who, looking harder than ever at his plate and reddening to the ears, mumbled something which did not particularly commit him since it couldn't be heard. the usual delighted silence began to creep round the table, and i tried wildly to divert her attention before our end became a stage and the rest of the table an audience. "i think it's so nice to see you sitting down with them all," she cooed; "it's so cosy for them." "is your cup empty?" i said furiously, and held out my hand for it. but it wasn't, of course; she couldn't even do that for me. she shook hands with me when she went away and said she hoped to come again. and she will. there was once a lady who asked me very loudly whether i "saw many horrible sights," and "did the v.a.d.'s have to go to the funerals?" and another who cried out with emotion when she saw the first officer limp in to mess, "and can some of them _walk_, then!" perhaps she thought they came in to tea on stretchers, with field-bandages on. she quivered all over, too, as she looked from one to the other, and i feel sure she went home and broke down, crying, "what an experience ... the actual wounds!" shuffle, shuffle, up the corridor to-night, as i was laying my trays. captain matthew appeared in the circle of light, his arm and hand bound up and his pipe in his mouth. he paused by me. "well...." he said companionably, and lolled against a pillar. "you've done well at tea in the way of visitors," i remarked. "six, wasn't it?" "yes," he said, "and now i've got rid of 'em all, except one." "where's the one?" "in there." he pointed with his pipe to the empty mess-room. "he's the father of a subaltern of mine who was killed." "he's come to talk to you about it?" "yes." but he seemed in no hurry to go in, waiting against the pillar and staring at the moving cutlery. he waited almost three minutes, then he sighed and went in. biscuits to put out, cheese to put out. how wet this new cheese is, and fresh and good the little bits that fall off the edge! i never eat cheese at home, but here the breakings are like manna. and pears, with the old shopman's trick, little, bitten ones at the bottom, fine ones at the top. soft sugar, lump sugar, coffee. as one stirs the coffee round in the tin the whole room smells of it, that brown, burnt smell. and then to click the light on, let down the blind, stir the fire, close the door of the little bunk, and, looking round it, think what exhilaration of liberty i have here. let them pile on the rules, invent and insist; yet behind them, beneath them, i have that strong, secret liberty of an institution that runs like a wind in me and lifts my mind like a leaf. so long as i conform absolutely, not a soul will glance at my thoughts--few at my face. i have only to be silent and conform, and i might be in so far a land that even the eye of god had lost me. i took the plate of biscuits, the two plates of cheese, one in each hand and one balanced with a new skill on my arm, and carried them into the dining-room, where the tables were already laid and only one light kept on as yet for economy's sake. low voices.... there in the dimmest corner sat captain matthew, his chin dug deep in his grey dressing-gown, and beside him a little elderly man, his hat on his knees, his anxious, ordinary face turned towards the light. a citizen ... a baker or a brewer, tinker, tailor, or candlestick-maker...? there had been the buying of the uniform, the visits to the camp in england, the parcels to send out--always the parcels--week by week. and now nothing; no more parcels, no more letters, silence. only the last hungry pickings from captain matthew's tired memory and nervous speech. i turned away with a great shrinking. in a very few minutes the citizen went past my bunk door, his hat in his hand, his black coat buttoned; taking back to his home and his family the last facts that he might ever learn. at the end of the passage he almost collided with that stretcher which bears a flag. of the two, the stretcher moved me least. _my_ sister is afraid of death. she told me so. and not the less afraid, she said, after all she has seen of it. that is terrible. but the new sister is afraid of life. she is shorter-sighted. the rain has been pouring all day. to-night it has stopped, and all the hill is steam and drizzle and black with the blackness that war has thrust upon the countryside. _my_ sister has gone. two nights ago i went up to a dinner at madeleine's and to stay the night. my sister said, "go and enjoy yourself!" and i did. it is very amusing, the change into rooms full of talk and light; i feel a glow of pleasure as i climb to the room madeleine calls mine and find the reflection of the fire on the blue wall-paper. the evening wasn't remarkable, but i came back full of descriptions to the bunk and sister next day. i was running on, inventing this and that, making her laugh, when suddenly i looked up, and she had tears in her eyes. i wavered and came to a stop. she got up suddenly and moved about the room, and then with a muttered "wash my hands," disappeared into the corridor. i sat and thought: "is it that she has her life settled, quietly continuous, and one breaks in...? does the wind from outside hurt?" i regretted it all the evening. yesterday i arrived at the hospital and couldn't find the store-cupboard keys, then ran across to her room and tapped at the door. her voice called "come in!" and i found her huddled in an arm-chair, unnerved and white. i asked her for the keys, and when she gave them to me she held out her hand and said: "i'm going away to-morrow. they are sending me home; they say i'm ill." i muttered something with a feeling of shock, and going back to my bunk i brooded. the new sister came in, and a new v.a.d. too, explaining that my former companion was now going into a ward. a sense of desolation was in the air, a ruthlessness on the part of some one unknown. "shuffle, shuffle ... they shuffle us like cards!" i rose and began to teach the new v.a.d. the subtle art of laying trays. she seemed stupid. i didn't want to share my trays with her. i love them; they are my recreation. i hung over them idly, hardly laying down the spoons i held in my hand, but, standing with them, chivied the new v.a.d. until her movements became flustered and her eye distraught. she was very ugly. i thought: "in a day or two i shall get to like her, and then i shan't be able to chivy her." out in the corridor came a tremendous tramping, boots and jingling metal. two armed men with fixed bayonets arrived, headed by a sergeant. the sergeant paused and looked uncertainly this way and that, and then at me. i guessed their destination. "in there," i nodded, pointing through a closed glass door, and the sergeant marched his men in and beyond the door. an officer had been brought back under arrest; i had seen him pass with his escort. the rumour at tea had been that he had extended his two days' leave into three weeks. the v.a.d. looked at me questioningly but she didn't dare, and i couldn't bear, to start any elucidations on the subject. i couldn't think; she worried me. her odds and ends of conversation pecked at me like a small bird. she told me a riddle which filled me with nausea, and finally a limerick which i had heard three times in the mess. i left her and went into the bunk. here the new sister had installed herself, gentle and pink and full of quiet murmurs. the rain, half snow, half sleet, dabbled against the window-pane, and i lifted the blind to watch the flakes stick and melt on the glass. the v.a.d., her trays finished, appeared in the doorway. the little room seemed full of people. "there's a concert," i said, looking at the v.a.d. with distaste. she looked at me uncertainly: "aren't you coming?" "no," i said, "i've a note to write," forgetting that the new sister might not allow such infringements. she gave no sign. the v.a.d. gave in and disappeared concertwards. the sister rose too and went out into the kitchen to consult with the _chef_. i slipped out behind her and down the steps into the garden--into the wet, dark garden, down the channels that were garden-paths, and felt my way over to the sisters' quarters. my sister hadn't moved. there by the gas-fire, her thin hand to her face, she sat as she had two hours before. "come in," she offered, "and talk to me." her collar, which was open, she tried to do up. it made a painful impression on me of weakness and the effort to be normal. i remembered that she had once told me she was so afraid of death, and i guessed that she was suffering now from that terror. but when the specialist is afraid, what can ignorance say...? life in the bunk is wretched (except that the new v.a.d. tells fortunes by hands). the new sister is at the same time timid and dogged. she looks at me with a sidelong look and gives me little flips with her hand, as though (_a_) she thought i might break something and (_b_) that she might stave it off by playfulness. pain.... to stand up straight on one's feet, strong, easy, without the surging of any physical sensation, by a bedside whose coverings are flung here and there by the quivering nerves beneath it ... there is a sort of shame in such strength. "what can i do for you?" my eyes cry dumbly into his clouded brown pupils. i was told to carry trays from a ward where i had never been before--just to carry trays, orderly's work, no more. no. was lying flat on his back, his knees drawn up under him, the sheets up to his chin; his flat, chalk-white face tilted at the ceiling. as i bent over to get his untouched tray his tortured brown eyes fell on me. "i'm in pain, sister," he said. no one has ever said that to me before in that tone. he gave me the look that a dog gives, and his words had the character of an unformed cry. he was quite alone at the end of the ward. the sister was in her bunk. my white cap attracted his desperate senses. as he spoke his knees shot out from under him with his restless pain. his right arm was stretched from the bed in a narrow iron frame, reminding me of a hand laid along a harp to play the chords, the fingers with their swollen green flesh extended across the strings; but of this harp his fingers were the slave, not the master. "shall i call your sister?" i whispered to him. he shook his head. "she can't do anything. i must just stick it out. they're going to operate on the elbow, but they must wait three days first." his head turned from side to side, but his eyes never left my face. i stood by him, helpless, overwhelmed by his horrible loneliness. then i carried his tray down the long ward and past the sister's bunk. within, by the fire, she was laughing with the m.o. and drinking a cup of tea--a harmless amusement. "the officer in no. says he's in great pain," i said doubtfully. (it wasn't my ward, and sisters are funny.) "i know," she said quite decently, "but i can't do anything. he must stick it out." i looked through the ward door once or twice during the evening, and still his knees, at the far end of the room, were moving up and down. it must happen to the men in france that, living so near the edge of death, they are more aware of life than we are. when they come back, when the postwar days set in, will they keep that vision, letting it play on life ... or must it fade? and some become so careless of life, so careless of all the whims and personalities and desires that go to make up existence, that one wrote to me: "the only real waste is the waste of metal. the earth will be covered again and again with us. the corn will grow again; the bread and meat can be repeated. but this metal that has lain in the earth for centuries, the formation of the beginning, that men have sweated and grubbed for ... that is the waste." what carelessness of worldly success they should bring back with them! orderlies come and go up and down the corridor. often they carry stretchers--now and then a stretcher with the empty folds of a flag flung across it. then i pause from laying my trays, and with a bunch of forks in my hand i stand still. they take the stretcher into a ward, and while i wait i know what they are doing behind the screens which stand around a bed against the wall. i hear the shuffle of feet as the men stand to attention, and the orderlies come out again, and the folds of the flag have ballooned up to receive and embrace a man's body. where is he going? to the mortuary. yes ... but where else...? perhaps there is nothing better than the ecstasy and unappeasement of life? ii inside the glass doors my feet ache, ache, ache...! end of the first day. life in a ward is all scurry and rush. i don't reflect; i'm putting on my cap anyhow, and my hands are going to the dogs. i shall never get to understand sisters; they are so strange, so tricky, uncertain as collies. deep down they have an ineradicable axiom: that any visitor, any one in an old musquash coat, in a high-boned collar, in a spotted veil tied up at the sides, any one with whom one shakes hands or takes tea, is more important than the most charming patient (except, of course, a warded m.o.). for this reason the "mouths" of the pillow-cases are all turned to face up the ward, away from the door. i think plants in a ward are a barbarism, for as they are always arranged on the table by the door, it is again obvious that they are intended only to minister to the eye of the visitor, that race of gods. in our ward there are eighteen fern-pots, some in copper, some in pink china, three in mauve paper, and one hanging basket of ferns. all of these have to be taken out on the landing at night and in again in the morning, and they have to be soaked under the tap. the sisters' minds are as yet too difficult for me, but in the minds of the v.a.d.'s i see certain salient features. i see already manifested in them the ardent longing to be alike. i know and remember this longing; it was present through all my early years in a large boarding-school; but there it was naturally corrected by the changes of growth and the inexpertness of youth. here i see for the first time grown women trying with all the concentration of their fuller years to be as like one another as it is possible to be. there is a certain dreadful innocence about them too, as though each would protest, "in spite of our tasks, our often immodest tasks, our minds are white as snow." and, as far as i can see, their conception of a white female mind is the silliest, most mulish, incurious, unresponsive, condemning kind of an ideal that a human creature could set before it. at present i am so humble that i am content to do all the labour and take none of the temperatures, but i can see very well that it is when i reach a higher plane that all the trouble will begin. the ranklings, the heart-burnings, the gross injustices.... who is to make the only poultice? who is to paint the very septic throat of mr. mullins, army service corps? who is to--dizzy splendour--go round with the m.o. should the sister be off for a half-day? these and other questions will form the pride and anguish of my inner life. it is wonderful to go up to london and dine and stay the night with madeleine after the hospital. the hospital--a sort of monotone, a place of whispers and wheels moving on rubber tyres, long corridors, and strangely unsexed women moving in them. unsexed not in any real sense, but the white clothes, the hidden hair, the stern white collar just below the chin, give them an air of school-girlishness, an air and a look women don't wear in the world. they seem unexpectant. then at madeleine's ... the light, the talk, the deep bath got ready for me by a maid, instead of my getting it ready for a patient.... not that i mind getting it ready; i like it. only the change! it's like being turn and turn about maid and mistress. there is the first snow here, scanty and frozen on the doorstep. i came home last night in the dark to dinner and found its faint traces on the road and in the gutter as i climbed the hill. i couldn't see well; there were stars, but no moon. higher up it was unmistakable; long white tracks frozen in the dried mud of the road, and a branch under a lamp thickened with frozen snow. shall i ever grow out of that excitement over the first bit of snow...? i felt a glow of pride in the hill, thinking: "in london it's all slush and mud. they don't suspect what we've got here. a suburb is a wonderful place!" after a wet and muddy day in london i've seen the trains pull into charing cross with snow piled on the roofs of the carriages, and felt a foot taller for joy that i was one of those fortunates who might step into a train and go down into a white countryside. it is the same excitement to wake up early to an overnight fall and see down the dover road for miles no foot of man printed, but only the birds' feet. considering the dover road has been a highway since the romans, it really is a fine moment when you realize its surface has suddenly become untrodden and unexplored as any jungle. alas, the amount of snow that has set me writing!... two bucketfuls in the whole garden! when a medical officer goes sick, or, in other words, when an m.o. is warded, a very special and almost cynical expression settles on his face. also the bedside manner of the visiting officer is discarded as he reaches the bed of the sick m.o. "my knees are very painful," says the sick m.o., but it is a despondent statement, not a plea for aid. the visiting officer nods, but he does not suggest that they will soon be better. they look at each other as weak human beings look, and: "we might try...?" says the visiting officer questioningly. the m.o. agrees without conviction, and settles back on his pillows. not for him the comfortable trust in the divine knowledge of specialists. he can endure like a dog, but without its faith in its master. the particular m.o. whose knees are painful is, as a matter of fact, better now. he got up yesterday. mooning about the ward in a dressing-gown, he stared first out of one window into the fog and then out of another. finally, just before he got back into bed, he made an epigram. "nurse," he said, "the difference between being in bed and getting up is that in bed you do nothing, but when you get up there's nothing to do...." i tucked him up and put the cradle over his knees, and he added, "one gets accustomed to everything," and settled back happily with his reading-lamp, his french novel, and his dictionary. the fog developed all day yesterday, piling up white and motionless against the window-panes. as night fell a little air of excitement ran here and there amongst the v.a.d.'s. "how shall we get home...?" "are the buses running?" "oh no, the last one is stuck against the railings outside!" "my torch has run out...." by seven o'clock even the long corridor was as dim as the alley outside. no one thought of shutting the windows--i doubt whether they will shut ... and the fog rolled over the sill in banks and round the open glass doors, till even the white cap of a sister could hardly be seen as she passed. i am pleased with any atmospheric exaggeration; the adventure of going home was before me.... at eight i felt my way down over the steps into the alley; the torch, held low on the ground, lighted but a small, pale circle round my shoes. outside it was black and solid and strangely quiet. in the yard a man here and there raised his voice in a shout; feet strayed near mine and edged away. at the cross-roads i came on a lantern standing upon the ground, and by it drooped the nose of a benighted horse; the spurt of a match lit the face of its owner. up the hill, the torch held low against the kerbstone, the sudden looming of a black giant made me start back as i nearly ran my head into a telegraph-post.... i was at the bottom of the sea; fathoms and fathoms of fog must stand above my head. suddenly a dozen lights showed about me, then the whole sky alight with stars, and naked trees with the rime on them, bristling; the long road ran up the hill its accustomed steel colour, the post office was there with its red window, the lean old lamp-post with its broken arm.... i had walked out of the fog as one walks out of the sea on to a beach! looking back, i could see the pit behind me; the fog standing on the road like a solid wall, straight up and down. again i felt a pride in the hill. "down there," i thought, "those groping feet and shouting voices; that man and that horse ... they don't guess!" i walked briskly up the hill, and presently stepped on to the pavement; but at the edge of the asphalt, where tufted grass should grow, something crackled and hissed under my feet. under the torchlight the unnatural grass was white and brittle with rime, fanciful as a stage fairy scene, and the railings beyond it glittered too. i slid in the road as i turned down the drive; a sheet of ice was spread where the leaky pipe is, and the steps up to the house door were slippery. but oh, the honeysuckle and the rose-trees...! bush, plant, leaf, stem, rimed from end to end. the garden was a bond street jeweller's! perhaps the final chapter on mr. pettitt.... in the excitement of the ward i had almost forgotten him; he is buried in the mess, in the days when i lived on the floor below. to-night, as i was waiting by the open hatch of the kitchen for my tray to be filled with little castles of lemon jelly, the hot blast from the kitchen drawing stray wisps of hair from beneath my cap, i saw the familiar limping figure--a figure bound up with my first days at the hospital, evoking a hundred evenings at the concerts, in the dining-room. i felt he had been away, but i didn't dare risk a "so you're back!" he smiled, blushed, and limped past me. upstairs in the ward, as i was serving out my jellies, he arrived in the doorway, but, avoiding me, hobbled round the ward, visiting every bed but the one i was at at the moment. then he went downstairs again. i passed him on the stairs. he can't say he didn't have his opportunity, for i even stopped with my heavy tray and spoke to him. half an hour later he was back in the ward again (not his ward), and this time he found the courage of hysteria. there in the middle of the ward, under the glaring christmas lights, with the eyes of every interested man in every bed glued upon us, he presented me with a fan wrapped in white paper: "a little present i bought you, nurse." i took it, eyes sizzling and burning holes in my shoulders, and stammered my frantic thanks. "you do like it, nurse?" he said rapidly, three times in succession. and i: "i do, i do, i do...." "i thought you would. you do like it?" "oh, just what i wanted!" "that's all right, then. just a little christmas present." we couldn't stop. it was like taking too much butter for the marmalade and too much marmalade for the butter. he leaves the hospital in a day or two. the fog is still thick. to-night at the station after a day off i found it white and silent. touching the arm of a man, i asked him the all-important question: "are the buses running?" "oh no...." and the cabs all gone home to bed, and i was hungry! what ghosts pass ... and voices, bodyless, talking intimately while their feet fall without a stir on the grass of the open heath. i was excited by the strange silent fog. but my left shoe began to hurt me, and stopping at the house of a girl i knew, i borrowed a country pair of hers: no taller than i, she takes two sizes larger; they were like boats. i started to trudge the three miles home in the boats: the slightest flick of the foot would have sent one of them flying beyond the eye of god or man. after a couple of miles the shoes began to tell, and i stood still and lifted up one foot behind me, craning over my shoulder to see if i could catch sight of the glimmer of skin through the heel of the stocking. the fog was too thick for that. another half-mile and i put my finger down to my heel and felt the wet blood through a large hole in my stocking, so i took off the shoes and tied them together ... and, more silent than ever in the tomb of fog, padded along as god had first supposed that woman would walk, on the wet surface of the road. a warded m.o. is pathetic. he knows he can't get well quicker than time will let him. he has no faith. to-morrow i have to take down all the decorations that i put up for christmas. when i put them up i never thought i should be the one to take them down. when i was born no one thought i should be old. while i was untying a piece of holly from the electric-light cords on the ceiling and a patient was holding the ladder for me, a young _padre_ came and pretended to help us, but while he stood with us he whispered to the patient, "are you a communicant?" i felt a wave of heat and anger; i could have dropped the holly on him. they hung up their stockings on christmas night on walking-sticks hitched over the ends of the beds and under the mattresses. such big stockings! many of them must have played father christmas in their own homes, to their own children, on other christmases. on christmas eve i didn't leave the hospital till long after the day-sisters had gone and the night-sisters came on. the wards were all quiet as i walked down the corridor, and to left and right through the glass doors hung the rows of expectant stockings. final and despairing postscript on mr. pettitt. when a woman says she cannot come to lunch it is because she doesn't want to. let this serve as an axiom to every lover: a woman who refuses lunch refuses everything. the hospital is alive; i feel it like a living being. the hospital is like a dream. i am afraid of waking up and finding it commonplace. the white sisters, the ceaselessly-changing patients, the long passages, the sudden plunges into the brilliant wards ... their scenery hypnotizes me. sometimes in the late evening one walks busily up and down the ward doing this and that, forgetting that there is anything beyond the drawn blinds, engrossed in the patients, one's tasks--bed-making, washing, one errand and another--and then suddenly a blind will blow out and almost up to the ceiling, and through it you will catch a glimpse that makes you gasp, of a black night crossed with bladed searchlights, of a moon behind a crooked tree. the lifting of the blind is a miracle; i do not believe in the wind. a new sister on to-night ... very severe. we had to make the beds like white cardboard. i wonder what she thinks of me. mr. pettitt (who really is going to-morrow) wandered up into the ward and limped near me. "sister...." he began. he _will_ call me "sister." i frowned at him. the new sister glanced at him and blinked. he was very persistent. "sister," he said again, "do you think i can have a word with you?" "not now," i whispered as i hurried past him. "oh, is that so?" he said, as though i had made an interesting statement, and limped away, looking backwards at me. i suppose he wants to say good-bye. he sat beside mr. wicks's bed (mr. wicks who is paralysed) and looked at me from time to time with that stare of his which contains so little offence. it is curious to think that i once saw mr. wicks on a tennis-lawn, walking across the grass.... mr. wicks, who will never put his foot on grass again, but, lying in his bed, continues to say, as all tommies say, "i feel well in meself." so he does; he feels well in himself. but he isn't going to live, all the same. still his routine goes on: he plays his game of cards, he has his joke: "lemonade, please, nurse; but it's not from choice!" when i go to clear his ash-tray at night i always say, "well, now i've got something worth clearing at last!" and he chuckles and answers, "thought you'd be pleased. it's the others gets round my bed and leaves their bits." he was once a sergeant: he got his commission a year ago. my ruined charms cry aloud for help. the cap wears away my front hair; my feet are widening from the everlasting boards; my hands won't take my rings. i was advised last night on the telephone to marry immediately before it was too late. a desperate remedy. i will try cold cream and hair tonics first. there is a tuberculosis ward across the landing. they call it the t.b. ward. it is a den of coughs and harrowing noises. one night i saw a negro standing in the doorway with his long hair done up in hairpins. he is the pet of the t.b. ward; they call him henry. henry came in to help us with our christmas decorations on christmas eve, and as he cleverly made wreaths my sister whispered to me, "he's never spitting ... in the ward!" but he wasn't, it was part of his language--little clicks and ticks. he comes from somewhere in central africa, and one of the t.b.'s told me, "he's only got one wife, nurse." he is very proud of his austerity, for he has somehow discovered that he has hit on a country where it is the nutty thing only to have one wife. no one can speak a word of his language, no one knows exactly where he comes from; but he can say in english, "good morning, sister!" and "christmas box!" and "one!" directly one takes any notice of him he laughs and clicks, holding up one finger, crying, "one!" then a proud t.b. (they regard him as the creator might regard a humming-bird) explains: "he means he's only got one wife, nurse." then he did his second trick. he came to me with outstretched black hand and took my apron, fingering it. its whiteness slipped between his fingers. he dropped it and, holding up the hand with its fellow, ducked his head to watch me with his glinting eyes. "he means," explained the versatile t.b., "that he has ten piccaninnies in his village and they're all dressed in white." it took my breath away; i looked at henry for corroboration. he nodded earnestly, coughed and whispered, "ten!" "how do you know he means that?" i asked. "how can you possibly have found out?" "we got pictures, nurse. we showed 'im kids, and 'e said 'e got ten--six girls and four boys. we showed 'im pictures of kids." i had never seen henry before, never knew he existed. but in the ward opposite the poor t.b.'s had been holding conversations with him in window-seats, showing him pictures, painfully establishing a communion with him ... henry, with his hair done up in hairpins! although they showed him off with conscious pride, i don't think he really appeared strange to them, beyond his colour. i believe they imagine his wife as appearing much as their own wives, his children as the little children who run about their own doorsteps. they do not stretch their imaginations to conceive any strangeness about his home surroundings to correspond with his own strangeness. to them henry has the dignity of a man and a householder, possibly a rate-payer. he seems quite happy and amused. i see him carrying a bucket sometimes, sharing its handle with a flushed t.b. they carry on animated conversations as they go downstairs, the t.b. talking the most. it reminds me of a child and a dog. what strange machinery is there for getting him back? part of the cargo of a ship ... one day ... "a nigger for central africa...." "where's his unit?" "who knows! one nigger and his bundle ... for central africa!" the ward has put mr. wicks to coventry because he has been abusive and violent-tempered for three days. he lies flat in his bed and frowns; no more jokes over the lemonade, no wilfulness over the thermometer. it is in these days that mr. wicks faces the truth. i lingered by his bed last night, after i had put his tea-tray on his table, and looked down at him; he pretended to be inanimate, his open eyes fixed upon the white rail of the bed. his bedclothes were stretched about him as though he had not moved since his bed was made, hours before. his worldly pleasures were beside him--his reading-lamp, his christmas box of cigars, his _star_--but his eyes, disregarding them, were upon that sober vision that hung around the bedrail. he began a bitter conversation: "nurse, i'm only a ranker, but i had a bit saved. i went to a private doctor and paid for myself. and i went to a specialist, and he told me i should never get this. i paid for it myself out of what i had saved." we might have been alone in the world, he and i. far down at the other end of the room the men sat crouched about the fire, their trays before them on chairs. the sheet of window behind mr. wicks's head was flecked with the morsels of snow which, hunted by the gale, obtained a second's refuge before oblivion. "i'd sooner be dead than lying here; i would, reely." you hear that often in the world. "i'd sooner be dead than----" but mr. wicks meant it; he would sooner be dead than lying there. and death is a horror, an end. yet he says lying there is worse. "you see, i paid for a specialist myself, and he told me i should never be like this." there was nothing to be said.... one must have one's tea. i went down the ward to the bunk, and we cut the pink iced cake left over from christmas.... i did not mean to forget him, but i forgot him. from birth to death we are alone.... but one of the sisters remembered him. "mr. wicks is still in the dumps," she remarked. "what is really the matter with him, sister?" "locomotor ataxy." and she added as she drank her tea, "it's his own fault." "oh, hush, hush!" my heart cried soundlessly to her, "you can't judge the bitterness of this, nun, from your convent...!" alas, mr. wicks!... no wonder you saved your money to spend upon specialists! how many years have you walked in fear of this? he took your money, the gentleman in harley street, and told you that you might go in peace. he blessed you and gave you salvation. and the bitterest thing of all is that you paid for him like an officer and he was wrong. how the blinds blew and the windows shook to-night...! i walked out of the hospital into a gale, clouds driving to the sea, trees bending back and fore across the moon. i walked till i was warm, and then i walked for happiness. the maddening shine of the moon held my eyes, and i walked in the road like a fool, watching her--till at last, bringing my eyes down, the telegraph-posts were small as blades of grass on the hill-side and the shining ribbon tracks in the mud on the road ran up the hill for ever. they go to dover, and dover is france--and france leads anywhere. to what a lost enchantment am i recalled by the sight of a branch across the moon? something in childhood, something which escapes yet does not wither.... as i passed the public-house on the crest of the hill, all black and white in the cold moonlight, a heavy door swung open and, with a cough and a deep, satisfied snuffle, a man coming out let a stream of gaslight across the road. if i were a man i should certainly go to public-houses. all that polished brass and glass boxed up away from the moon and the shadows would call to me. and to drink must be a happy thing when you have climbed the hill. the t.b. ward is a melancholy place. there is a man in a bed near the door who lies with his mouth open; his head is like a bird-cage beneath a muslin cloth. i saw him behind his screens when i took them over a little lukewarm chicken left from our dinner. there was a dark red moon to-night, and frost. our orderly said, "you can tell it's freezing, nurse, by the breath," as he watched mine curl up in smoke in the icy corridor. i like people who notice things.... out in the road in front of the hospital i couldn't get the motor-bicycle to work, and sat crouched in the dark fiddling with spanners. the charwomen came out of the big gate in the dark talking and laughing, all in a bunch. one of them stepped off the pavement near me and stopped to put her toe through the ice in the gutter. "nah, come on, mrs. toms!" "i always 'ave to break it, it's ser nice an' stiff," she said as she ran after them. to be a sister is to have a nationality. as there are icelanders urbane, witty, lazy ... and yet they are all icelanders ... so there are cold, uproarious, observant, subservient, slangy, sympathetic, indifferent, and scotch sisters, and yet.... sister said of a patient to-day, "he was a funny man." a funny man is a man who is a dark horse: who is neither friendly nor antagonistic; who is witty; who is preoccupied; who is whimsical or erratic--funny qualities, unsafe qualities. no sister could like a funny man. in our ward there are three sorts of men: "nothing much," "nice boys," and mr. wicks. the last looms even to the mind of the sister as a biblical figure, a pillar of salt, a witness to god's wrath. the sister is a past-mistress of such phrases as "indeed!" "that is a matter of opinion," "we shall see..." "it is possible." i have discovered a new and (for me) charming game which i play with my sister. it is the game of telling the truth about the contents of my mind when asked. yesterday sister was trying to get some coal out of the coal-bin with a shovel that turned round and round on its handle; she was unsuccessful. i said, "let me, sister!" she said, "why?" and i: "because i think i can do it better." "why should you think that?" "because all human beings do," i said, and, luckily, she smiled. she was washing her caps out in a bowl in the afternoon when i came on. "good afternoon, sister," i said. "ironing?" "i am obviously only washing as yet," she said. "it's because i think so quickly, sister," i said; "i knew you would iron next." i dined with irene last night after the hospital. i refused to believe what she told me about the last bus passing at half-past nine, and so at a quarter to ten i stood outside "the green lamp" and waited. ten minutes passed and no bus. with me were two women waiting too--one holding a baby; the other, younger, smarter, dangling a purse. at last i communicated my growing fears: "i believe the last has gone...." we fixed our six eyes on the far corner of the road, waiting for the yellow lights to round it, but only the gas-lamps stood firm in their perspective. "oh my, elsie!" said the woman with the baby, "you can't never walk up to the cross-roads in the dark alone!" "i wouldn't make the attempt, not for anything!" replied the younger one firmly. without waiting for more i stepped into the middle of the road and started on my walk home; the very next sentence would have suggested that elsie and i should walk together. she wouldn't "make the attempt...." her words trailed through my mind, conjuring up some adventure, some act of bravery and daring. the road was the high road, the channel of tarmac and pavements that she probably walked along every day; and now it was the selfsame high road, the same flagstones, hedges, railings, but with the cloak of night upon them. it wasn't man she feared; even in the dark i knew she wasn't that kind. she would be awfully capable--with man. no, it was the darkness, the spooky jungle of darkness: she feared the trees would move.... "i wouldn't make the attempt, not for anything"; and the other woman had quite agreed with her. i knew where i was by the smells and the sounds on the road--the smell of the lines of picketed horses behind the railings, the sharp and sudden stamp of the sick ones in the wooden stables, and, later on, the glitter of water in the horse-troughs. i thought: "i am not afraid.... is it because i am more educated, or have less imagination?" "halt! who goes there?" "friend," i said, thrilling tremendously. he approached me and said something which i couldn't make anything of. presently i disentangled, "you should never dread the baynit, miss." "but i'm not dreading," i said, annoyed, "i ... i love it." he said he was cold, and added: "i bin wounded. if you come to that lamp you can see me stripe." we went to the lamp. "it's them buses," he complained, "they won't stop when i halt 'em." "but why do you want to stop them? they can't poison the horse-troughs." "it's me duty," he said. "there's one comin'." a bus, coming the opposite way, bore down upon us with an unwieldy rush and roar--the last bus, in a hurry to get to bed. "you'll see," he said pessimistically. "'alt! 'alt, there!" the bus, with three soldiers hanging on the step, rushed past us, and seemed to slow a little. the sentry ran a few paces towards it, crying "'alt!" but it gathered speed and boomed on again, buzzing away between the gas-lamps. he returned to me sadly. "i don't believe they can hear," i said, and gave him some chocolates and went on. as i passed the hospital gates it seemed there was a faint, a very faint, sweet smell of chloroform.... i was down at the hospital to-night when the factory blew up over the river. the lights went out, and as they sank i reached the kitchen hatchway with my tray. at the bottom of the stairs i could see through the garden door the sky grown sulphur and the bushes glowing, while all the panes of glass turned incandescent. then the explosion came; it sounded as though it was just behind the hospital. two hundred panes of glass fell out, and they made a noise too. standing in the dark with a tray in my hand i heard a man's voice saying gleefully, "i haven't been out of bed this two months!" some one lit a candle, and by its light i saw all the charwomen from the kitchen bending about like broken weeds, and every officer was saying, "there, there now!" we watched the fires till midnight from the hill. i went over this morning early. we were thirty-two in a carriage--lascars, chinese, children, jews, niggers from the docks. lascars and children and jews and i, we fought to get off the station platform; sometimes there wasn't room on the ground for both my feet at once. the fires were still burning and smouldering there at midday, but a shower of rime fell on it, so that it looked like an old ruin, something done long ago. at pompeii, some one told me, one looked into the rooms and they were as they had been left--tables laid.... here, too, i saw a table laid for the evening meal with a bedstead fallen from the upper floor astraddle across it. the insides of the houses were coughed into their windows, basket-chairs hanging to the sills, and fire-irons. outside, the soil of the earth turned up; a workman's tin mug stuck and roasted and hardened into what looks like solid rock--a fossil, as though it had been there for ever. london is only skin-deep. beneath lies the body of the world. the hump under the blankets rolls over and a man's solemn face appears upon the pillow. "can you get me a book, nurse?" "yes. what kind do you like?" "nothing fanciful; something that might be true." "all right!" "oh--and nurse...?" "yes?" "not sentimental and not funny, i like a practical story." i got him "lord jim."... another voice: "nurse, is there any modern french poetry in that bookcase?" "good heavens, no! who would have brought it here?" (who are they all ... these men with their differing tastes?) perhaps the angels feel like this as they trail about in heaven with their wings flapping on their thin white legs.... "who were you, angel?" "i was a beggar outside san marco." "were you? how odd! i was an englishman." the concerts that we give in the ward touch me with some curious emotion. i think it is because i am for once at rest in the ward and have time to think and wonder. there is captain thomson finishing his song. he doesn't know what to do with his hands; they swing. he is tall and dark, with soft eyes--and staff badges. could one guess what he is? never in a dozen years.... but i _know_! he said to me last night, "nurse, i'm going out to-morrow." i leant across the table to listen to him. "nurse, if you ever want any _crêpe de chine_ ... for nightgowns ... mind, at wholesale prices...." "i have bought some at a sale." "may i ask at what price?" "four-and-eleven a yard." "pity! you could have had it from me at three!" he gave me his business card. "that's it, nurse," he said, as he wrote on the back of it. "drop me a line to that address and you'll get any material for underwear at trade prices." he booked one or two orders the night he went away--not laughingly, not as a joke, but with deep seriousness, and gravely pleased that he was able to do what he could for us. he was a traveller in ladies' underwear. i have seldom met any one so little a snob.... watch mr. gray singing.... one hand on the piano, one on his hip: "i love every mouse in that old-fashioned house." "that fellow can sing!" whispers the man beside me. "is he a professional?" i asked as, finishing, the singer made the faintest of bows and walked back to his chair. "i think he must be." "he is, he is!" whispered mr. matthews, "i've heard him before." they know so little about each other, and they don't ask. it is only i who wonder--i, a woman, and therefore of the old, burnt-out world. these men watch without curiosity, speak no personalities, form no sets, express no likings, analyse nothing. they are new-born; they have as yet no standards and do not look for any. ah, to have had that experience too!... i am of the old world. again and again i realize, "a nation in arms...." watchmakers, jewellers, station-masters, dress-designers, actors, travellers in underwear, bank clerks ... they come here in uniforms and we put them into pyjamas and nurse them; and they lie in bed or hobble about the ward, watching us as we move, accepting each other with the unquestioning faith of children. the outside world has faded since i have been in the hospital. their world is often near me--their mud and trenches, things they say when they come in wounded. the worst of it is it almost bores me to go to london, and london was always my mecca. it is this garden at home, i think. it is so easy not to leave it. when you wake up the window is full of branches, and last thing at night the moon is on the snow on the lawn and you can see the pheasants' footmarks. then one goes to the hospital.... when madeleine telephones to me, "i'm living in a whirl...." it disturbs me. suddenly i want to too, but it dies down again. not that it is their world, those trenches. when they come in wounded or sick they say at once, "what shows are on?" mr. wicks has ceased to read those magazines his sister sends him; he now stares all day at his white bedrail. i only pass him on my way to the towel-cupboard, twice an evening, and then as i glance at him i am set wondering all down the ward of what he thinks, or if he thinks.... i may be quite wrong about him; it is possible he doesn't think at all, but stares himself into some happier dream. one day when he is dead, when he is as totally dead as he tells me he hopes to be, that bed with its haunted bedrail will bend under another man's weight. surely it must be haunted? the weight of thought, dream or nightmare, that hangs about it now is almost visible to me. mr. wicks is an uneducated and ordinary man. in what manner does his dream run? since he has ceased to read he has begun to drop away a little from my living understanding. he reflects deeply at times. to-night, as i went quickly past him with my load of bath-towels, his blind flapped a little, and i saw the moon, shaped like a horn, behind it. dropping my towels, i pulled his blind back: "mr. wicks, look at the moon." obedient as one who receives an order, he reached up to his supporting handle and pulled his shoulders half round in bed to look with me through the pane. the young moon, freed from the trees, was rising over the hill. i dropped the blind again and took up my towels and left him. after that he seemed to fall into one of his trances, and lay immovable an hour or more. when i took his dinner to him he lifted his large, sandy head and said: "seems a queer thing that if you hadn't said 'look at the moon' i might have bin dead without seeing her." "but don't you ever look out of the window?" the obstinate man shook his head. there was a long silence in the ward to-night. it was so cold that no one spoke. it is a gloomy ward, i think; the pink silk on the electric lights is so much too thick, and the fire smokes dreadfully. the patients sat round the fire with their "british warms" over their dressing-gowns and the collars turned up. through the two glass doors and over the landing you can see the t.b.'s moving like little cinema figures backwards and forwards across the lighted entrance. suddenly--a hesitating touch--an ancient polka struck up, a tune remembered at children's parties. then a waltz, a very old one too. the t.b.'s were playing dance music. i crept to their door and looked. one man alone was taking any notice, and he was the player; the others sat round coughing or staring at nothing in particular, and those in bed had their heads turned away from the music. the man whose face is like a bird-cage has now more than ever a look of ... an empty cage. he allows his mouth to hang open: that way the bird will fly. what is there so rapturous about the moon? the radiance of a floating moon is unbelievable. it is a figment of dream. the metal-silver ball that hung at the top of the christmas tree, or, earlier still, the shining thing, necklace or spoon, the thing the baby leans to catch ... the magpie in us.... mr. beecher is to be allowed to sleep till eight. he sleeps so badly, he says. he woke up crying this morning, for he has neurasthenia. that is what sister says. he should have been in bed all yesterday, but instead he got up and through the door watched the dead t.b. ride away on his stretcher (for the bird flew in the night). "how morbid of him!" sister says. he has seen many dead in france and snapped his fingers at them, but i agree with him that to die of tuberculosis in the backwaters of the war isn't the same thing. it's dreary; he thought how dreary it was as he lay awake in the night. but then he has neurasthenia.... pity is exhaustible. what a terrible discovery! if one ceases for one instant to pity mr. wicks he becomes an awful bore. some days, when the sun is shining, i hear his grieving tenor voice all over the ward, his legendary tale of a wrong done him in his promotion. the men are kind to him and say "old man," but mr. gray, who lies in the next bed to him, is drained of everything except resignation. i heard him say yesterday, "you told me that before...." we had a convoy last night. there was a rumour at tea-time, and suddenly i came round a corner on an orderly full of such definite information as: "there's thirty officers, nurse; an 'undred an' eighty men." i flew back to the bunk with the news, and we sat down to our tea wondering and discussing how many each ward would get. presently the haughty sister from downstairs came to the door: she held her thin, white face high, and her rimless glasses gleamed, as she remarked, overcasually, after asking for a hot-water bottle that had been loaned to us: "have you many beds?" "have they many beds?" the one question that starts up among the competing wards. and, "i don't want any; i've enough to do as it is!" is the false, cloaking answer that each sister gives to the other. but my sisters are frank women; they laughed at my excitement--themselves not unstirred. it's so long since we've had a convoy. the gallants of the ward showed annoyance. new men, new interests.... they drew together and played bridge. a little flying boy with bright eyes said in his high, piping voice to me across the ward: "so there are soldiers coming into the ward to-night!" i paused, struck by his accusing eyes. "what do you mean? soldiers...?" "i mean men who have been to the front, nurse." the gallants raised their eyebrows and grew uproarious. the gallants have been saying unprofessional things to me, and i haven't minded. the convoy will arm me against them. "soldiers are coming into the ward." eight o'clock, nine o'clock.... if only one could eat something! i took a sponge-finger out of a tin, resolving to pay it back out of my tea next day, and stole round to the dark corner near the german ward to eat it. the germans were in bed; i could see two of them. at last, freed from their uniform, the dark blue with the scarlet soup-plates, they looked--how strange!--like other men. one was asleep. the other, i met his eyes so close; but i was in the dark, and he under the light of a lamp. i knew what was happening down at the station two miles away; i had been on station duty so often. the rickety country station lit by one large lamp; the thirteen waiting v.a.d.'s; the long wooden table loaded with mugs of every size; kettles boiling; the white clock ticking on; that frowsy booking clerk.... then the sharp bell, the tramp of the stretcher-bearers through the station, and at last the two engines drawing gravely across the lighted doorway, and carriage windows filled with eager faces, other carriage windows with beds slung across them, a vast red cross, a chemist's shop, a theatre, more windows, more faces.... the stretcher-men are lined up; the m.o. meets the m.o. with the train; the train sisters drift in to the coffee-table. "here they come! walkers first...." the station entrance is full of men crowding in and taking the steaming mugs of tea and coffee; men on pickaback with bandaged feet; men with only a nose and one eye showing, with stumbling legs, bound arms. the station, for five minutes, is full of jokes and witticisms; then they pass out and into the waiting chars-à-bancs. a long pause. "stretchers!" the first stretchers are laid on the floor. there i have stood so often, pouring the tea behind the table, watching that littered floor, the single gas-lamp ever revolving on its chain, turning the shadows about the room like a wheel--my mind filled with pictures, emptied of thoughts, hypnotized. but last night, for the first time, i was in the ward. for the first time i should follow them beyond the glass door, see what became of them, how they changed from soldiers into patients.... the gallants in the ward don't like a convoy; it unsexes us. nine o'clock ... ten o'clock.... another biscuit. both germans are asleep now. at last a noise in the corridor, a tramp on the stairs.... only walkers? no, there's a stretcher--and another...! now reflection ends, my feet begin to move, my hands to undo bootlaces, flick down thermometers, wash and fetch and carry. the gallants play bridge without looking up. i am tremendously fortified against them: for one moment i fiercely condemn and then forget them. for i am without convictions, antipathies, prejudices, reflections. i only work and watch, watch.... our ward is divided: half of it is neat and white and orderly; the other half has khaki tumbled all over it--"sam brownes," boots, caps, mud, the caked mud from the "other side." but the neat beds are empty; the occupants out talking to the new-comers, asking questions. only the gallants play their bridge unmoved. they are on their mettle, showing off. their turn will come some day. now it only remains to walk home, hungry, under a heavy moon. the snow is running down the gutters. what a strange and penetrating smell of spring! february ... can it be yet? the running snow is uncovering something that has been delayed. in the garden a blackbird made a sudden cry in the hedge. i did smell spring, and i'm starving.... i thought last night that a hospital ward is, above all, a serene place, in spite of pain and blood and dressings. gravity rules it and order and a quiet procession of duties. last night i made beds with the eldest sister. the eldest sister is good company to make beds with; she is quiet unless i rouse her, and when i talk she smiles with her eyes. i like to walk slowly round the ward, stooping and rising over the white beds, flicking the sheets mechanically from the mattress, and finally turning the mattress with an ease which gives me pleasure because i am strong. in life nothing is too small to please.... once during the evening the eldest sister said to me: "i am worried about your throat. is it no better?" and from the pang of pleasure and gratitude that went through me i have learnt the value of such remarks. in every bed there is some one whose throat is at least more sore than mine.... though i am not one of those fierce v.a.d.'s who scoff at sore throats and look for wounds, yet i didn't know it was so easy to give pleasure. the strange, disarming ways of men and women! i stood in the bunk to-night beside the youngest sister, and she looked up suddenly with her absent stare and said, "you're not so nice as you used to be!" i was dumbfounded. had i been "nice"? and now different.... what a maddening sentence, for i felt she was going to refuse me any spoken explanation. but one should not listen to what people say, only to what they mean, and she was one of those persons whose minds one must read for oneself, since her words so often deformed her thoughts. the familiarity and equality of her tone seemed to come from some mood removed from the hospital, where her mistrustful mind was hovering about a trouble personal to herself. she did not mean "you are not so nice...." but "you don't like me so much...." she was so young, it was all so new to her, she wanted so to be "liked"! but there was this question of her authority.... how was she to live among her fellows? can one afford to disdain them? can one steer happily with indifference? must one, to be "liked," bend one's spirit to theirs? and, most disturbing question of all, is to be "liked" the final standard? whether to wear, or not to wear, a mask towards one's world? for there is so much that is not ripe to show--change and uncertainty.... as she sat there, unfolding to me the fogs of her situation, her fresh pink face clouded, her grand cap and red cape adding burdens of authority to the toil of growth, i could readily have looked into the glass to see if my hair was grey! "then there is nothing you condemn?" said the youngest sister finally, at the close of a conversation. i have to-day come up against the bedrock of her integrity; it is terrible. she has eternal youth, eternal fair hair, cold and ignorant judgments. on things relating to the world i can't further soften her; a man must do the rest. "a gentleman ... a gentleman...." i am so tired of this cry for a "gentleman." why can't they do very well with what they've got! here in the wards the sisters have the stuff the world is made of laid out, bedded, before their eyes; the ups and downs of man from the four corners of the empire and the hundred corners of social life, helpless and in pyjamas--and they're not satisfied, but must cry for a "gentleman"! "i couldn't make a friend of that man!" the youngest sister loves to add to her criticism of a patient. it isn't my part as a v.a.d. to cry, "who wants you to?" "i couldn't trust that man!" the youngest sister will say equally often. this goes deeper.... but whom need one trust? brother, lover, friend ... no more. why wish to trust all the world?... "they are not real men," she says, "not men through and through." that's where she goes wrong; they are men through and through--patchy, ordinary, human. she means they are not men after her pattern. something will happen in the ward. once i have touched this bedrock in her i shall be for ever touching it till it gets sore! one should seek for no response. they are not elastic, these nuns.... in all honesty the hospital is a convent, and the men in it my brothers. this for months on end.... for all that, now and then some one raises his eyes and looks at me; one day follows another and the glance deepens. "charme de l'amour qui pourrait vous peindre!" women are left behind when one goes into hospital. such women as are in a hospital should be cool, gentle; anything else becomes a torment to the "prisoner." for me, too, it is bad; it brings the world back into my eyes; duties are neglected, discomforts unobserved. but there are things one doesn't fight. "charme de l'amour...." the ward is changed! the eldest sister and the youngest sister are my enemies; the patients are my enemies--even mr. wicks, who lies on his back with his large head turned fixedly my way to see how often i stop at the bed whose number is . last night he dared to say, "it's not like you, nurse, staying so much with that rowdy crew...." the gallants ... i know! but one among them has grown quieter, and his bed is no. . even mr. wicks is my enemy. he watches and guards. who knows what he might say to the eldest sister? he has nothing to do all day but watch and guard. in the bunk at tea i sit among thoughts of my own. the sisters are my enemies.... i am alive, delirious, but not happy. i am at any one's mercy; i have lost thirty friends in a day. the thirty-first is in bed no. . this is bad: hospital cannot shelter this life we lead, no. and i. he is a prisoner, and i have my honour, my responsibility towards him; he has come into this room to be cured, not tormented. even my hand must not meet his--no, not even in a careless touch, not even in its "duty"; or, if it does, what risk! i am conspired against: it is not i who make his bed, hand him what he wishes; some accident defeats me every time. now that i come to think of it, it seems strange that the sisters should be my enemies. don't we deserve sympathy and pity, no. and i? from women, too.... isn't there a charm hanging about us? aren't we leading magic days? do they feel it and dislike it? why? i feel that the little love we have created is a hare whose natural fate is to be run by every hound. but i don't see the reason. we can't speak, no. and i, only a whispered word or two that seems to shout itself into every ear. we don't know each other. last night it was stronger than i. i let him stand near me and talk. i saw the youngest sister at the far end of the ward by the door, but i didn't move; she was watching. the moment i took my eyes from her i forgot her.... that is how one feels when one is desperate; that is how trouble comes. later, i stood down by the hatch waiting for the tray of fish, and as i stood there, the youngest sister beside me, he came down, for he was up and dressed yesterday, and offered to carry the tray. for he is reckless, too.... she told him to go back, and said to me, looking from her young, condemning eyes, "i suppose he thinks he can make up for being the cause of all the lateness to-night." "sister...." and then i stopped short. i hated her. were we late? i looked at the other trays. we were not late; it was untrue. she had said that because she had had to wrap her barb in something and hadn't the courage to reprove me officially. i resented that and her air of equality. since i am under her authority and agree to it, why dare she not use it? as for me, i dared not speak to her all the evening. she would have no weapons against me. if i am to remember she is my sister i must hold my hand over my mouth. she would not speak to me, either. that was wrong of her: she is in authority, not i. it is difficult for her because she is so young; but i have no room for sympathy. at moments i forget her position and, burning with resentment, i reflect, " ... this schoolgirl...." to-day i walked down to the hospital thinking: "i must be stronger. it is i who, in the inverted position of things, should be the stronger. he is being tortured, and he has no release. he cannot even be alone a moment." but at the hospital gates i thought of nothing but that i should see him. in the bunk sat the eldest sister, writing in a book. it passed through my head that the two sisters had probably "sat" on my affairs together. i wondered without interest what the other had told her. putting on my cap, i walked into the ward. surely his bed had had a pink eiderdown! i walked up the ward and looked at it; but i knew without need of a second glance what had happened. his bed was made in the fashion in which we make an empty bed, a bed that waits for a new patient. his locker was empty and stood open, already scrubbed. i smiled as i noticed they hadn't even left me that to do. no one volunteered a word of explanation, no one took the trouble to say he had gone. these women.... i smiled again. only the comic phrase rang in my head "they've properly done me in! properly done me in...." i went downstairs and fetched the trays, and all the time the smile was on my lips. these women.... somehow i had the better of the sister. it is better to be in the wrong than in the right. his friends looked at me a little, but apparently he had left no message for me. later i learnt that he had been taken to another hospital at two, while i came on at three. once during the evening the eldest sister mentioned vaguely, "so-and-so has gone." and i said aloud, after a little reflection, "yes ... in the nick of time, sister." during the evening i realized that i should never see him again. it was here in this ward the thing had grown. the hare we had started wouldn't bear the strain of any other life. he might write, but i shouldn't go and see him. "he must be wild," i thought with pity. the feeling between us would die anyhow; better throw in my strength with the sister's and help her hurl it now towards its death. i looked at her bent head with a secret triumph. then, slowly: "how ... permanently am i in disgrace?" and she: "not at all ... now." behind the stone pillar of the gateway is one dirty little patch of snow; i saw it even in the moonless darkness. the crown of the hill here holds the last snows, but for all that the spring smell is steaming among the trees and up and down the bracken slopes in the garden next door. there is no moon, there are no stars, no promise to the eye, but in the dense, vapouring darkness the bulbs are moving. i can smell what is not earth or rain or bark. the curtain has been drawn over no. ; the sister holds the corners tightly against the window-frame. he is outside, somewhere in the world, and i am here moving among my thirty friends; and since it isn't spring yet, the lights are lit to hide the twilight. the sister's eyes talk to me again as we make beds--yes, even bed no. with a little jaundice boy in it. they let me make it now! last night we had another concert in the ward. a concert demoralizes me. by reason of sitting on the beds and talking to whom one wills, i regain my old manners, and forget that a patient may be washed, fed, dressed but not talked to. my old manners were more gracious, but less docile. afterwards we wheeled the beds back into their positions. i bumped mr. lambert's as i wheeled it, and apologized. "i'm not grumbling," he smiled from his pillow. "you never do," i answered. "you don't know me, nurse!" and i thought as i looked down at him "i shall never know him better or so well again...." indeed a sister is a curious creature. she is like a fortress, unassailable, and whose sleeping guns may fire at any minute. i was struck with a bit of knowledge last night that will serve me through life, i.e. that to justify oneself is the inexcusable fault. it is better to be in the wrong than in the right. a sister has an "intimate life." it occurs when she goes off duty; that is to say, it lies between . , when she finishes her supper, and o'clock, when she finishes undressing. that is why one sister said to me, "if i hadn't taken up nursing i should have gone in for culture." i don't laugh at that.... to have an intimate life one must have a little time. who am i that i can step in from outside to criticize? the hospital is not my life. i am expectant.... but for them here and now is the business of life. as the weeks go by i recognize the difficulty of keeping the life of the sisters and the v.a.d.'s out of the circle of my thoughts. their vigorous and symmetrical vision of the ward attacks me; their attitude towards the patients, which began by offending me, ends by overtaking me. on the whole the sisters loathe relations. they look into the ward and see the mothers and sisters and wives camped round the beds, and go back into the bunk feeling that the ward doesn't belong to them. the eldest sister said to me yesterday: "shut the door, nurse; there's captain fellows's father. i don't want him fussing round." on that we discussed relations, and it seemed to me that it was inevitable that a sister should be the only buffer between them and their pressing anxieties. "no, a relation is the last straw.... you don't understand!" she said. i don't understand, but i am not specialized. long ago in the mess i said to _my_ sister, laughing: "i would go through the four years' training just to wear that cap and cape!" and she: "you couldn't go through it and come out as you are...." mr. wicks has set his heart on crutches. "if you won't try me on them i'll buy me own and walk out of here!" then i realize the vanity of his threat and the completeness of his imprisonment, and hurry to suggest a new idea before he sees it too.... we set him on crutches.... he is brave. he said with anger, "i can't stand on these, they're too long. you go and ask for some shorter ones...." and thus together we slurred over the fact of that pendulous, nerveless body which had hung from the crutches like an old stocking. but all the evening he was buried in his own silence, and i suppose he was looking at the vision on the bedrail. a boy of seventeen was brought in yesterday with pneumonia. he was so ill that he couldn't speak, and we put screens round his bed. all the other patients in the ward immediately became convalescents. i helped sister to wash him, holding him on his side while he groaned with pain; and sister, no longer cynical, said, "there you are sonnie, it's almost finished...." when i rolled back the blanket it gave me a shock to see how young his feet were--clean and thin, with the big toe curling up and the little toes curling back. "will you brush my hair?" he managed to say to me, and when i had finished: "this is a pretty ward...." it isn't, but i am glad it seems so to him. the boy is at his worst. whenever we come near him he lifts his eyes and asks, "what are you going to do now?" but to whatever we do he submits with a terrible docility. lying there propped on his pillow, with his small yellow face staring down the ward, he is all the centre of my thoughts; i am preoccupied with the mystery that is in his lungs. five days ago he was walking on his legs: five days, and he is on the edge of the world--to-night looking over the edge. there is no shell, no mark, no tear.... the attack comes from within. the others in the ward are like phantoms. when i say to-morrow, "how is the boy?" what will they say? the sun on the cobwebs lights them as it lights the telephone-wires above. the cocks scream from every garden. to-day the sky is like a pale egg-shell, and aeroplanes from the two aerodromes are droning round the hill. i think from time to time, "is he alive?" can one grow used to death? it is unsafe to think of this.... for if death becomes cheap it is the watcher, not the dying, who is poisoned. his mother buys a cake every day and brings it at tea-time, saying, "for the sisters' tea...." it is a bribe, dumbly offered, more to be on the safe side of every bit of chance than because she really believes it can make the slightest difference. now that i have time to think of it, her little action hurts me, but yesterday i helped to eat it with pleasure because one is hungry and the margarine not the best. aches and pains.... pains and aches.... i don't know how to get home up the long hill.... measles.... (unposted.) "dear sister,--four more days before they will let me out of bed.... whatever i promise to a patient in future i shall do, if i have to wear a notebook hanging on my belt. "by which you will see that i am making discoveries! "the quality of _expectation_ in a person lying horizontally is wrought up to a high pitch. one is always expecting something. generally it is food; three times a day it is the post; oftener it is the performance of some promise. the things that one asks from one's bed are so small: 'can you get me a book?' 'can you move that vase of flowers?' 'when you come up next time could you bring me an envelope?' "but if one cannot get them life might as well stop. "the wonder to me is how they stood me! "i was always cheerful--i thought it a merit; i find instead it is an exasperation. "i make a hundred reflections since my eyes are too bad to read. i stare at the ceiling, and if a moth comes on it--and just now that happened, or i would not have thought of mentioning it--i watch the pair of them, the moth and its leaping shadow, as they whirl from square to square of the smoke-ripened ceiling. this keeps my thoughts quiet. "then in the daytime there is the garden, the dog that crosses the lawn, the gardener talking to himself, the girl who goes to feed the hens.... "i don't say that in any of these things i find a substitute for reading, but since i can't and mayn't read.... "i am thinking, you know, of the beds down the right-hand side of the ward. "there's mr. wicks, now: he has his back to the road with the trams on it. "do you see anything in that? "i do. but then i have the advantage of you; my position is horizontal. "mr. wicks's position is also ... strictly ... horizontal. it seems to me that if he could see those trams, mark saturdays and sundays by the increase of passengers, make little games to himself involving the number of persons to get on and off (for the stopping-place is within view: i know, for i looked) it might be possible to draw him back from that apathy which i too, as well as you, was ceasing to notice. "mr. wicks, sister, not only has his back to the road with trams on it, but for eleven months he has had his eyes on the yellow stone of the wall of the german ward; that is, when they are not on his own bedrail.... "but if his bed were turned round to range alongside the window...? for he is a man with two eyes; not one who can write upon a stone wall with his thoughts. "and yet ... it would be impossible! there's not a ward in the hospital whose symmetry is so spoilt. "and that, you know, is a difficulty for you to weigh. how far are you a dictator? "i have been thinking of my rôle and yours. "in the long run, however 'capable' i become, my soul should be given to the smoothing of pillows. "you are barred from so many kinds of sympathy: you must not sympathize over the deficiencies of the hospital, over the food, over the m.o.'s lack of imagination, over the intolerable habits of the man in the next bed; you must not sigh 'i know ...' to any of these plaints. "yours is the running of the ward. yours the isolation of a crowned head. "one day you said a penetrating thing to me: "'he's not very ill, but he's feeling wretched. run along and do the sympathetic v.a.d. touch!' "for a moment i, just able to do a poultice or a fomentation, resented it. "but you were right.... one has one's _métier_." iii "the boys ..." so now one steps down from chintz covers and lemonade to the main army and lemon-water. and to show how little one has one's eye upon the larger issues, the thing that upset me most on coming into a "tommies'" ward was the fact that instead of twenty-six lemons twice a day for the making of lemonade i now squeeze two into an old jug and hope for the best about the sugar. smiff said to-day, "give us a drop of lemon, nurse...." and the sister: "go on with you! i won't have the new nurse making a pet of you...." i suppose i'm new to it, and one can't carry on the work that way, but, god knows, the water one can add to a lemon is cheap enough! smiff had a flash of temper to-night. he said: "keepin' me here starin' at green walls this way! nothing but green, nine blessed months!" his foot is off, and to-night for the first time the doctor had promised that he should be wheeled into the corridor. but it was forgotten, and i am too new to jog the memory of the gods. it's a queer place, a "tommies'" ward. it makes me nervous. i'm not simple enough; they make me shy. i can't think of them like the others do, as "the boys"; they seem to me full-grown men. i suffer awfully from my language in this ward. i seem to be the only v.a.d. of whom they continually ask, "what's say, nurse?" it isn't that i use long words, but my sentences seem to be inverted. an opportunity for learning to speak simple saxon.... "an antitetanic injection for corrigan," said sister. and i went to the dispensary to fetch the syringe and the needles. "but has he any symptoms?" i asked. (in a tommies' ward one dare ask anything; there isn't that mystery which used to surround the officers' illnesses.) "oh no," she said, "it's just that he hasn't had his full amount in france." so i hunted up the spirit-lamp and we prepared it, talking of it. but we forgot to talk of it to corrigan. the needle was into his shoulder before he knew why his shirt was held up. his wrath came like an avalanche; the discipline of two years was forgotten, his irish tongue was loosened. sister shrugged her shoulders and laughed; i listened to him as i cleaned the syringe. i gathered that it was the indignity that had shocked his sense of individual pride. "treating me like a cow...." i heard him say to smiff--who laughed, since it wasn't his shoulder that carried the serum. smiff laughed: he has been in hospital nine months, and his theory is that a sister may do anything at any moment; his theory is that nothing does any good--that if you don't fuss you don't get worse. corrigan was angry all day; the idea that "a bloomin' woman should come an' shove something into me systim" was too much for him. but he forgets himself: there are no individualists now; his "system" belongs to us. sister said, laughing, to smiff the other day, "your leg is mine." "wrong again; it's the governmint's!" said smiff. but corrigan is irish and doesn't like that joke. there are times when my heart fails me; when my eyes, my ears, my tongue, and my understanding fail me; when pain means nothing to me.... in the bus yesterday i came down from london sitting beside a sister from another ward, who held her hand to her ear and shifted in her seat. she told me she had earache, and i felt sorry for her. as she had earache we didn't talk, and i sat huddled in my corner and watched the names of the shops, thinking, as i was more or less forced to do by her movements, of her earache. what struck me was her own angry bewilderment before the fact of her pain. "but it hurts.... you've no idea how it hurts!" she was surprised. many times a day she hears the words, "sister, you're hurtin' me.... couldn't you shift my heel? it's like a toothache," and similar sentences. i hear them in our ward all the time. one can't pass down the ward without some such request falling on one's ears. she is astonished at her earache; she is astonished at what pain can be; it is unexpected. she is ready to be angry with herself, with her pain, with her ear. it is monstrous, she thinks.... the pain of one creature cannot continue to have a meaning for another. it is almost impossible to nurse a man well whose pain you do not imagine. a deadlock! one has illuminations all the time! there is an old lady who visits in our ward, at whom, for one or two unimportant reasons, it is the custom to laugh. the men, who fall in with our moods with a docility which i am beginning to suspect is a mask, admit too that she is comic. this afternoon, when she was sitting by corrigan's bed and talking to him i saw where her treatment of him differed from ours. she treats him as though he were an individual; but there is more in it than that.... she treats him as though he had a wife and children, a house and a back garden and responsibilities: in some manner she treats him as though he had dignity. i thought of yesterday's injection. that is the difference: that is what the sisters mean when they say "the boys."... the story of rees is not yet ended in either of the two ways in which stories end in a hospital. his arm does not get worse, but his courage is ebbing. this morning i wheeled him out to the awful sleep again--for the third time. they will take nearly anything from each other. the only thing that cheered rees up as he was wheeled away was the voice of pinker crying, "jer want white flowers on yer coffin? we'll see to the brass 'andles!" from pinker, a little boy from the mile end road, they will stand anything. he is the servant of the ward (he says), partly through his good nature and a little because he has two good arms and legs. "i ain't no skivvy," he protests all the time, but every little odd job gets done. rees, when he wakes, wakes sobbing and says, "don' go away, nurse...." he holds my hand in a fierce clutch, then releases it to point in the air, crying "there's the pain!" as though the pain filled the air and rose to the rafters. as he wakes it centralizes, until at last comes the moment when he says, "me arm aches cruel," and points to it. then one can leave him. it was the first time i had heard a man sing at his dressing. i was standing at the sterilizer when rees's song began to mount over the screen that hid him from me. ("whatever is that?" "rees's tubes going in.") it was like this: "ah ... ee ... oo, sister!" and again: "sister ... oo ... ee ... ah!" then a little scream and his song again. i heard her voice: "now then, rees, i don't call that much of a song." she called me to make his bed, and i saw his left ear was full of tears. o visitors, who come into the ward in the calm of the long afternoon, when the beds are neat and clean and the flowers out on the tables and the v.a.d.'s sit sewing at splints and sandbags, when the men look like men again and smoke and talk and read ... if you could see what lies beneath the dressings! when one shoots at a wooden figure it makes a hole. when one shoots at a man it makes a hole, and the doctor must make seven others. i heard a blackbird sing in the middle of the night last night--two bars, and then another. i thought at first it might be a burglar whistling to his mate in the black and rustling garden. but it was a blackbird in a nightmare. those distant guns again to-night.... now a lull and now a bombardment; again a lull, and then batter, batter, and the windows tremble. is the lull when _they_ go over the top? i can only think of death to-night. i tried to think just now, "what is it, after all! death comes anyway; this only hastens it." but that won't do; no philosophy helps the pain of death. it is pity, pity, pity, that i feel, and sometimes a sort of shame that i am here to write at all. summer.... can it be summer through whose hot air the guns shake and tremble? the honeysuckle, whose little stalks twinkled and shone that january night, has broken at each woody end into its crumbled flower. where is the frost, the snow?... where are the dead? where is my trouble and my longing, and the other troubles, and the happiness in other summers? alas, the long history of life! there is that in death that makes the throat contract and the heart catch: everything is written in water. we talk of tablets to the dead. there can be none but in the heart, and the heart fades. there are only ten men left in bed in the ward. sometimes i think, "will there never be another convoy?" and then: "is not one man alone sufficient matter on which to reflect?" "one can find god in a herring's head...." says a japanese proverb. when there is not much to do in the ward and no sound comes from behind the screens, when there has not been a convoy for weeks, when the little rubber tubes lie in the trolley-drawer and the syringe gives place to the dry dressing--then they set one of us aside from the work of the ward to sit at a table and pad splints. it isn't supposed to be a job we care for, and i am keeping up the delusion, but all the time i run my seams straight, pull the horsehair out to the last fine shred, turn in my corners as the corners of a leather book are turned, so that i may be kept at it, although out of cunning i appear to grumble and long to be released. one does not wash up when one makes splints, one does not change the pillow-cases--forcing the resentful pillow down, down till the corners of the case are filled--nor walk the ward in search of odd jobs. but these are not the reasons.... just as i liked the unending laying of the trays in the corridor, so making splints appears to me a gentle work in which one has time to look at and listen to the ward with more penetrating eyes, with wider ears--a work varied by long conversations with pinker about his girl and the fountain-pen trade. but i ought not to have asked if she were pretty. at first he didn't answer and appeared to be thinking very seriously--of a way out, perhaps. "does fer me all right," he presently said. the defence of his girl occupied his attention, for after a few minutes he returned to it: "sensible sort of girl. she ain't soft. can cook an' all that." i went on sewing my splint. almost reluctantly he pursued: "got 'er photograph 'ere." but he did not get up at once, and we turned to the fountain-pens. "any nib," he said, "crossed ever so, _i_ could mend it. kep' the books too; we was always stocktaking." now i think of it, fountain-pen shops always _are_ stocktaking. they do it all down the strand, with big red labels across the front. he rose suddenly and crossed to his locker to look for her photograph, returning after a few minutes with a bundle of little cardboards. the first i turned over was that of a pretty fair-haired girl. "is that her?" i asked. "she's pretty!" "that's 'er young sister," he answered. i turned over the rest, and he pointed out his family one by one--last of all his girl. there are some men who are not taken in by a bit of fair hair. one knows what these cheap photographs are, how they distort and blacken. the girl who looked at me from this one appeared to be a monster. she had an enormous face, enormous spectacles, bands of galvanized iron drawn across her forehead for hair.... "ther's just them two, 'er an 'er sister. 'er sister ain't got a feller yet." i praised his girl to pinker, and praised pinker to myself. "a girl friend," he said, "keeps yer straighter than a man. makes yer punctual." "so she won't wait for you when you are late?" "not a minute over time," he said with pride. "i used to be a terror when i first knew 'er; kep' 'er waitin' abaht. she soon cured me, did f. steel." "you are a funny little bird, pinker," said the sister, passing. "lil bird, am i?" he tucked his cardboards carefully into his locker and followed her up the ward firing repartee. i sewed my splint. in all walks of life men keep one waiting. i should like to ask the huge and terrible girl about her cure. monk is the ugliest man i have ever seen. he has a squint and a leer, his mouth drops at both sides, he has no forehead, and his straight, combed hair meets his eyebrows--or rather, his left eyebrow, since that one is raised by a cut. he has the expression of a cut-throat, and yet he is quite young, good-tempered, and shy. when monk was working at a woollen belt pinker said: "workin' that for yer girl?... you got a girl, monk?" monk squinted sidelong at pinker and rubbed his hands together like a large ape. "'e ain't got no girl," shrilled pinker. "monk ain't got no girl. you don' know what a girl is, do yer, monk?" although they do much more to help each other than i ever saw done in the officers' ward, yet one is always saying things that i find myself praying the other hasn't heard. in the next bed to monk lies gayner, six foot two, of the expeditionary force. wounded at mons, he was brought home to england, and since then he has made the round of the hospitals. he is a good-looking, sullen man who will not read or write or sew, who will not play draughts or cards or speak to his neighbour. he sits up, attentive, while the ulcers on his leg are being dressed, but if one asks him something of the history of his wound his tone holds such a volume of bitterness and exasperation that one feels that at any moment the locks of his spirit might cease to hold. " ... ever since mons, these ulcers, on and off?" "yes." "oh well, we must cure them now." her light tone is what he cannot endure. he does not believe in cure and will not believe in cure. it has become an article of faith: his ulcers will never be cured. he has a silent scorn of hospitals. he can wind a perfect bandage and he knows the rules; beyond that he pays as little attention as possible to what goes on. when his dressing is over he tilts his thin, intelligent face at the ceiling. "don't you ever read?" i asked him. "i haven't the patience," he replied. but he has the patience to lie like that with his thin lips compressed and a frown on his face for hours, for days ... since mons.... i have come to the conclusion that he has a violent soul, that he dare not talk. it is no life for a man. i said to pinker this morning, "i wish you'd hurry up over your bath; i've got to get it scrubbed out by nine." "don't you hurry me, nurse," said pinker, "it's the on'y time i can think, in me bath." i should like to have parried with pinker (only my language is so much more complicated than it ought to be) that thinking in one's bath is a self-deception. i lay in my own bath last night and thought very deep thoughts, but often when we think our thoughts are deep they are only vague. bath thoughts are wonderful, but there's nothing "to" them. we had a heated discussion to-day as to whether the old lady who leaves a tract beneath a single rose by each bedside could longer be tolerated. "she is a nuisance," said the sister; "the men make more noise afterwards because they set her hymns to ragtime." "what good does it do them?" said the v.a.d., " ... and i have to put the roses in water!" i rode the highest horse of all: "her inquiries about their souls are an impertinence. why should they be bothered?" these are the sort of things they say in debating societies. but life talks differently.... pinker said, "makes the po'r ole lady 'appy!" as one bends one's head low over the splint one sits unnoticed, a part of the furniture of the ward. the sounds of the ward rise and fill the ears; it is like listening to a kettle humming, bees round a bush of flowers, the ticking of a clock, the passing of life.... now and then there are incidents, as just now. two orderlies came in with a stretcher to fetch mr. smith (an older man than smiff and a more dignified) away to a convalescent home. mr. smith has never been to france, but walked into our ward one day with a sore on his foot which had to be cut. he was up and dressed in his bedraggled khaki uniform when the stretcher-bearers came for him. he looked down his nose at the stretcher. "i don't much like the look of that," he said. the stretcher-bearers waited for him. he stood irresolute. "i never bin in one of them, and i don't want to make a start." "its bad luck to be our name," called out smiff, waving his amputated ankle. "better get your hand in!" mr. smith got in slowly and departed from the ward, sitting bolt upright, gripping the sides with his hands. some of the wards and the sisters' bunks are charming at this time of the year, now that larkspur and rambler-roses are cheap in the market. but the love of decoration is not woman's alone. through the dispensary hatchway i saw three empty poison-bottles, each with a poppy stuck in its neck. everything in the dispensary is beautiful--its glasses, its flames, its brass weights, its jars and globes; but much more beautiful because it is half a floor higher than the corridor in which we stand and look up into it, through a hatchway in the wall. there is something in that: one feels like gulliver. no woman has ever been into this bachelors' temple. on tapping at a small square panel set in the wall of the corridor the panel flies up and a bachelor is seen from the waist to the knees. if he feels well and my smile is humble he will stoop, and i see looking down at me a small worn face and bushy eyebrows, or a long ascetic face and bleached hair, or a beard and a pair of bearded nostrils. between them the three old things, priests in their way, measure and weigh and mix and scold and let up the panel and bang it down through the long day, filling the hospital with their coloured bottles, sealed packets of pills, jars and vaccines, and precious syringes in boxes marked "to be returned at once" (i never knew a sister fail to toss her head when she saw this message). it is a very social spot outside the panel of the dispensary: each v.a.d. goes there each morning as one might do one's marketing, and, meeting there, puts down her straw basket, taps at the panel, and listens to the scolding of the old men with only half an ear. for the bachelors amuse themselves when they are not mixing and weighing by inventing odd rules and codes of their own, and, reaching a skinny arm through the hatchway, they pin them on, little scraps of paper which fall down and are swept to heaven in the charwomen's pails. and the v.a.d.'s, who are not at all afraid, because one cannot be afraid of a man of whom one has never seen more than half, turn a blind eye to the slips and a deaf ear to the voices, bringing their bottles and their jars just in the manner they were taught to do when first they entered the hospital. and they gossip! they have just seen the morning papers on all the beds; they have just heard about the half-days for the week; they have collected little rags and ends of news as they came along the corridor. they gossip. and once a bearded bachelor thumped the panel down almost on my finger, leaving three startled faces staring at a piece of painted wood. but a little dark girl worked the panel up an inch with her nails and cajoled through the crack. i have said before that the long corridor is wonderful. in the winter afternoons and evenings, when the mist rolled up and down over the tiles like the smoke in a tunnel, when one walked almost in darkness and peered into the then forbidden wards, when dwarfs coming from the g block grew larger and larger till the a block turned them into beings of one's own size, the corridor always made a special impression on me. but in the summer mornings it is remarkable too. then regiments of charwomen occupy it, working in close mass formation. seven will work abreast upon their knees, flanked by their pails, their hands moving backwards and forwards in so complicated a system that there appears to be no system at all. patches of the corridor are thick with soapsuds; patches are dry. the art of walking the corridor in the morning can be learnt, and for a year and five months i have done it with no more than a slip and a slide. but yesterday i stepped on a charwoman's hand. it was worse than stepping on a puppy: one knows that sickening lift of the heart, as though the will could undo the weight of the foot.... the stagger, the sense of one's unpardonable heaviness.... i slipped on her hand as on a piece of orange-peel, and, jumping like a chamois, sent the next pail all over the heels of the front rank. it was the sort of situation with which one can do nothing. i met a friend yesterday, one of the old chelsea people. he has followed his natural development. although he talks war, war, war, it is from his old angle, it wears the old hall-mark. he belongs to a movement which believes it "feels the war." personal injury or personal loss does not enter the question; the heart of this movement of his bleeds perpetually, but impersonally. he claims for it that this heart is able to bleed more profusely than any other heart, individual or collective, in ... let us limit it to england! in fact it is the only blood he has noticed. when the taxes go up he says, "well, now perhaps it will make people feel the war!" for he longs that every one should lose their money so that at last they may "feel the war," "stop the war" (interchangeable!) he forgets that even in england a great many quite stupid people would rather lose their money than their sons. how strange that these people should still picture the minds of soldiers as filled with the glitter of bright bayonets and the glory of war! they think we need a vision of blood and ravage and death to turn us from our bright thoughts, to still the noise of the drum in our ears. the drums don't beat, the flags don't fly.... he should come down the left-hand side of the ward and hear what the dairyman says. "i 'ates it, nurse; i 'ates it. them 'orses'll kill me; them drills.... it's no life for a man, nurse." the dairyman hasn't been to the front; you needn't go to the front to hate the war. sometimes i get a glimpse from him of what it means to the weaklings, the last-joined, feeble creatures. "me 'ead's that queer, nurse; it seems to get queerer every day. i can't 'elp worryin'. i keep thinkin' of them 'orses." always the horses.... i said to sister, "is no. really ill?" "there's a chance of his being mental," she said. "he is being watched." was he mental before the war took him, before the sergeant used to whip the horses as they got to the jumps, before the sergeant cried out "cross your stirrups!"? it isn't his fault; there are strong and feeble men. a dairyman's is a gentle job; he could have scraped through life all right. he sleeps in the afternoon, and stirs and murmurs: "drop your reins.... them 'orses, sergeant! i'm comin', sergeant; don't touch 'im this time!" and then in a shriller voice, "don't touch 'im...." then he wakes. poor mass of nerves.... he nods and smiles every time one looks at him, frantic to please. there are men and men. scutts has eleven wounds, but he doesn't "mind" the war. god made many brands of men, that is all; one must accept them. but war finds few excuses; and there are strange minnows in the fishing-net. sometimes, looking into the t.b. ward, i think: "it almost comes to this: one must spit blood or fight...." "why don't you refuse?" my friend would say to the dairyman. "why should you fight because another man tells you to?" it isn't so simple as that, is it, dairyman? it isn't even a question of the immense, vague machinery behind the sergeant, but just the sergeant himself; it isn't a question of generals or politicians of great wrongs or fierce beliefs ... but of the bugle which calls you in the morning and the bugle which puts you to bed at night. well, well.... the dairyman is in hospital, and that is the best that he can hope for. i read a book once about a prison. they too, the prisoners, sought after the prison hospital, as one seeks after one's heaven. it is so puffed up of my friend to think that his and his "movement's" are the only eyes to see the vision of horror. why, these others _are_ the vision! this afternoon i was put at splints again. i only had an inch or two to finish and i spun it out, very happy. presently the foot of a bed near me began to catch my attention: the toe beneath the sheets became more and more agitated, then the toes of the other foot joined the first foot, beating a frenzied tattoo beneath the coverings. i looked up. facing me a pair of blue eyes were bulging above an open mouth, the nostrils were quivering, the fingers were wrung together. it was gayner, surely seeing a ghost. i rose and went to his bed. "my jaws want to close," he muttered. "i can't keep them open." i jumped and went for sister, who took the news in a leisurely fashion, which reproved me for my excitement. feeling a fool, i went and sat down again, taking up my splint. but there was no forgetting gayner. i tried to keep my eyes on my work, but first his toes and then his hands filled all my mind, till at last i had to look up and meet the eyes again. still looking as though he had seen a ghost--a beast of a ghost...! in hospital since mons.... "i wonder how many men he has seen die of tetanus?" i thought. "he's got the jumps," i thought. so had i. suppose sister was wrong! suppose the precious minutes were passing! suppose...! she was only the junior sister. "shall i get you some water?" i said at last. he nodded, and gulped in a horrible fashion. i got him the mug, and while he drank i longed, but did not dare, to say, "are you afraid of ... that?" i thought if one could say the word it might break down that dumb fright, draw the flesh up again over those bulging eyes, give him a sort of anchor, a confessional, even if it was only me. but i didn't dare. gayner is one of those men so pent up, so rigid with some inner indignation, one cannot tamper with the locks. again i went and sat down. when next i looked up he was sweating. he beckoned to me: "ask sister to send for the doctor. i can't stand this." i went and asked her. she sucked her little finger thoughtfully. "give him the thermometer," she said. he couldn't take it in his mouth, " ... for if i shut my lips they'll never open." i put it under his arm and waited while his feet kicked and his hands twisted. he was normal. sister smiled. but by a coincidence the doctor came, gimlet-eyed. "hysteria...." he said to sister in the bunk. "is no one going to reassure gayner?" i wondered. and no one did. isn't the fear of pain next brother to pain itself? tetanus or the fear of tetanus--a choice between two nightmares. don't they admit that? so, forbidden to speak to him, i finished my splint till tea-time. but i couldn't bring myself to sit down to it, for fear that the too placid resumption of my duties should outrage him. i stood up. which helped me, not him. after the dressings are over we scrub the dishes and basins in the annexe. in the annexe, except that there is nothing to sit on, there is leisure and an invitation to reflection. beneath the windows legions of white butterflies attack the cabbage-patch which divides us from the road; beyond the road there is a camp from which the dust flows all day. when the wind is from the north the dust is worse than ever and breaks like a surf over the cabbages, while the butterflies try to rise above it; but they never succeed, and dimly one can see the white wings beating in the whirlpool. i shall never look at white butterflies again without hearing the sounds from the camp, without seeing the ring of riders, without thinking, perhaps, of the dairyman and of the other "dairymen." the butterflies do not care for noise. when, standing beside the cabbage-patch, the bugler blows the dinner-bugle, they race in a cloud to the far corner and hover there until the last note is sounded. i think it is i who am wrong when i consider the men as citizens, as persons of responsibility, and the sister right when she says "the boys." taken from their women, from their establishments, as monks or boys or even sheep are housed, they do not want, perhaps, to be reminded of an existence to which they cannot return; until a limb is off, or the war ends. to what a point they leave their private lives behind them! to what a point their lives are suspended.... on the whole, i find that in hospital they do not think of the future or of the past, nor think much at all. as far as life and growth goes it is a hold-up! there is really not much to hope for; the leave is so short, the home-life so disrupted that it cannot be taken up with content. perhaps it isn't possible to let one's thoughts play round a life about which one can make no plans. they are adaptable, living for the minute--their present hope for the cup of tea, for the visiting day, for the concert; their future hope for the drying of the wound, for the day when the sister's fingers may press, but no drop be wrung from the long scar. isn't it curious to wish so passionately for the day which may place them near to death again? but the longing for health is a simple instinct, undarkened by logic. yet some of them have plans. scutts has plans. for a fortnight now he has watched for the post. "parcel come for me, sister? small parcel?" or he will meet the postman in the corridor. "got my eye yet?" he asks. "what will it be like, scutts?" we ask. "can you move it? can you sleep in it? did he match your other carefully?" "you'll see," he says confidently. "it's grand." "when i get my eye...." he says, almost with the same longing with which he says "when i get into civies...." scutts is not one of those whose life is stopped; he has made plans. "when i get into civies and walk out of here...." his plans for six months' holiday "are all writ down in me notebook." "but what shall you do, scutts? go to london?" "london!... no towns fer me!" he will not tell us what he is going to do. secretly i believe it is something he wanted to do as a boy but thought himself a fool to carry out when he was a man: perhaps it is a sort of walking tour. among his eleven wounds he has two crippled arms. "i'm safe enough from death," he says (meaning france), "till it fetches me in a proper way." perhaps he means to live as though life were really a respite from death. i had a day on the river yesterday. "_i_ seed yer with yer bit of erdy-furdy roun' yer neck an' yer little attachy-case," said pinker. "a nurse's life is one roun' of pleasure," said pinker to the ward. we had two operations yesterday--one on a sergeant who has won the d.c.m. and has a certificate written in gold which hangs above his bed, telling of his courage and of one particular deed; the other on a welsh private. i wonder what the sergeant was like before he won his d.c.m.... there is something unreal about him; he is like a stage hero. he has a way of saying, "now, my men, who is going to volunteer to fetch the dinners?" which is like an invitation to go over the top. the men gape when he says that, then go on with their cards. it is like a joke. before his operation he was full of partially concealed boastings as to how he would bear it, how he would "come to" saying, "let me get up! i can walk...." i felt a sneaking wish that he should be undone and show unusual weakness. when the moment came he did as he had said he would do--he laughed and waved good-bye as he was wheeled away; and in the afternoon when i came on duty i found him lying in his bed, conscious, looking brown and strong and unconcerned. but he can't let well alone.... as i passed up the ward to the bedside of the welsh private i was called by the sergeant, and when i stood by his bed he whispered, "is that chap making a fuss over there?" "evan?" "chap as has had an operation the same as me...." "he's very bad." "you don't find me making a fuss and my leg isn't half giving me something." "we're not all alike, sergeant." "why should one make a fuss and another say nothing?" "is your leg hurting you a lot?" "yes, it is," and he screwed up his face into a grimace. after all, he was a child. "try to go to sleep," i said, knowing that it was his jealousy that was hurting him most. i went to evan. he could do nothing with his pain, but in its tightest embraces, and crying, he lay with his large red handkerchief over his eyes. "oh, evan...!" i said. i couldn't do anything either. "oh dear, dear, dear, dear, dear...." he wailed in his plaintive welsh voice. "oh, my dear leg, my poor leg...." he looked about nineteen. "couldn't i lie on my side?" "no, it would make it bleed." "would it?" he was so docile and so unhappy. the tears had run down and marked his pillow; i turned it, although the sergeant couldn't see. "will they give me something to make me sleep to-night?" "yes, evan, at eight o'clock." i said that because i was so sure of it, i had always seen it done. but oh, i should have made more sure...! he built on it, he leant all his hopes upon it; his little clenched hands seemed to be holding my promise as firmly as though it had been my hand. and sister said, "no, no ... it would be better not." "oh, sister, why not...?" (i, the least of mortals, had made a promise belonging only to the gods....) "oh, sister, why not?" her reason was a good one: "he will want it more later in the night, and he can't have it twice." i ran back to tell him so quickly--but one can't run back into the past. it is wonderful to talk to men affectionately without exciting or implying love. the utopian dreams of sixteen seem almost to be realized! when i sew splints they come and talk to me. scutts will sometimes talk for an hour. at first i was so proud that i dared hardly stir a finger for fear that i should frighten him away; now i am more sure of him. he never says "what?" to me, nor any longer jumps when i speak to him as though my every word must carry some command. when i sew splints and listen to scutts or the old scotch grocer or monk--that squinting child of whom pinker said, "monk got a girl! he don' know what a girl is!"--i think, "we cannot all be efficient, but ... this serves some end." for they are complaining that i am not efficient. at first it hurt my pride; but it depends upon the point of view. does one go into a ward primarily to help the patients or to help the sister? it is not always the same thing, but one must not question discipline.... to-day nine of the patients "went convalescent." they departed, hobbling and on stretchers, at two o'clock, with bursts of song, plastered hair, bright buttons, and not a regret. "you'll be able to hear a pin fall to-night, nurse," said one of them. "i know we shall. and a tear too," i added. but they won't listen to any such nonsense. they are going off to the little convalescent hospitals, they are going away to be treated like men; and i must laugh and shake hands and not dream of adding, "perhaps we shall see you back again." "no more route-marching...!" was the last cry i heard from the nine. how they hate route-marching--especially the city men, most especially pinker! "march down the silly road," he grumbles, "sit on the silly grass and get heat-bumps." sometimes i think that sewing splints will be my undoing. if i listen much longer i shall see crooked. to-day they had some small bottles of stout to help us say good-bye to the nine. happiness is cheap. last night at dinner a man said as he refilled his glass with champagne, "it makes me sad to think how much happiness there is in a bottle...." the attack has begun. "at . this morning ... on a front of two miles...." so that is why the ward is so empty and the ambulances have been hurrying out of the yard all day. we shall get that convoy for which i longed. when the ward is empty and there is, as now, so little work to do, how we, the women, watch each other over the heads of the men! and because we do not care to watch, nor are much satisfied with what we see, we want more work. at what a price we shall get it.... scutts and monk talk to me while i sew, but what about the monks, scutts, gayners, whose wounds will never need a dressing or a tube--who lie along a front of two miles, one on his face, another on his back? since . this morning a lot of men have died. thank god one cannot go on realizing death. but one need not think of it. this is a ward; here are lucky ones. even when i look at rees, even when i look at the grocer, even when i look at the t.b. ward, i know that anything, _anything_ is better than death. but i have known a man here and there who did not think so--and these men, close on death it is true, were like strangers in the ward. for one can be close on death and remain familiar, friendly, comprehensible. i used to think, "it is awful to die." but who knows what compliance the years will bring? what is awful is to die _young_. a new v.a.d. came into the ward yesterday--a girl straight from home, who has never been in a hospital before. rees told me, "she turned her head away when she saw me arm." "i did once, rees." he looked down at the almost unrecognizable twelve inches which we call "rees's wound," and considered how this red inch had paled and the lips of that incision were drawing together. "'tisn' no more me arm," he said at length, "than...." he paused for a simile. "'tisn' me arm, it's me wound," he finally explained. his arm is stretched out at right angles from his bed in an iron cradle, and has been for six months. "last night," he said, "i felt me arm layin' down by me side, an' i felt the fingers an' tried to scratch me knee. it's a feeling that's bin comin' on for some time, but last night it seemed real." the pain of the dressing forces rees's reason to lay some claim to his arm, but when it ceases to hurt him he detaches himself from it to such a point that the ghost-arm familiar to all amputations has arrived, as it were, by mistake. the new v.a.d. doesn't talk much at present, being shy, but to-night i can believe she will write in her diary as i wrote in mine: "my feet ache, ache, ache...." add to that that she is hungry because she hasn't yet learnt how to break the long stretches with hurried gnawings behind a door, that she is sick because the philosophy of rees is not yet her philosophy, that her hands and feet grow cold and her body turns to warm milk, that she longs so to sit on a bed that she can almost visualize the depression her body would make on its counterpane, and i get a glimpse of the passage of time and of the effect of custom. with me the sickness and the hunger and the ache are barely remembered. it makes me wonder what else is left behind.... the old battle is again in my mind--the struggle to feel pain, to repel the invading familiarity. here they come! one convoy last night and another this morning. there is one great burly man, a sort of bear, whose dried blood has squeezed through bandages applied in seven places, and who for all that mumbles "i'm well" if one asks him how he feels. long before those wounds are healed he will diagnose himself better than that! "i'm well...." that's to say: "i'm alive, and i have reached this bed, and this bit of meat, and this pudding in a tin!" he answers by his standards. but in a few days he will think, "i am alive, but i might be better..."; and in a few weeks, "is this, after all, happiness?" how they sleep, the convoy men! watching their wounds as we dress them, almost with a grave pleasure--the passports to this wonderful sleep. then when the last safety-pin is in they lie back without making themselves in the least comfortable, without drawing up a sheet or turning once upon the pillow, and sleep just as the head falls. how little women can stand! even the convoy cannot mend the pains of the new v.a.d. i dare not speak to her: she seems, poor camel, to be waiting for the last straw. but when we wash the bowls together we must talk. she and i together this morning washed and scrubbed, rinsed, dried, and piled basins into little heaps, and while we washed we examined each other. she is a born slave; in fact, i almost think she is born to be tortured. her manner with the sisters invites and entices them to "put upon" her. her spiritual back is already covered with sores. i suppose she is hungry for sympathy, but it isn't really a case in which sympathy can do as much as custom. i showed her the white butterflies, without supposing them to be very solid food. she reminds me of the man of whom the sister said, "he must stick it out." i might have pointed to the convoy and suggested comparisons; but one cannot rub a sore back. some one has applied the last straw in the night. when i came on duty a brisk little war-hardened v.a.d. was brushing a pile of dust along the long boards to the door. the poor camel whose back is broken is as though she had never existed; either she is ill or she is banished. such is the secret diplomacy of these establishments that nothing is known of her except her disappearance--at least among those whom one can ask. matron knows, sister knows.... but these are the inscrutable, smiling gods. there is only one man in the ward i don't much care for--a tall boy with a lock of fair hair and broken teeth. he was a sullen boy whose bad temper made his mouth repulsive. i say "was," for he is different now. now he is feeble, gentle, grateful, and he smiles as often as one looks at him. yesterday he went for his operation in the morning, and in the afternoon when i came on duty he was stirring and beginning to groan. sister told me to sit beside him. i went up to the little room of screens in which he lay, and taking a wooden chair, i slipped it in between the screen and the bed and sat down. is it the ether which rushes up from between his broken teeth?--is it the red glare of the turkey-twill screens?--but in ten minutes i am altered, mesmerized. even the size of my surroundings is changed. the screens, high enough to blot out a man's head, are high enough to blot out the world. the narrow bed becomes a field of whiteness. the naked arm stretched towards me is more wonderful than any that could have belonged to a boy with dirty fair hair and broken teeth; it has sea-green veins rising along it, and the bright hairs are more silver than golden. the life of the ward goes on, the clatter of cups for supper, the shuffling of feet clad in loose carpet-slippers, but here within he and i are living together a concentrated life. "oh, me back!" "i know, i know...." do i know? i am getting to know. for while the men are drinking their cocoa i am drinking ether. i know how the waves of the pain come up and recede; how a little sleep just brushes the spirit, but never absorbs it; how the arms will struggle up to the air, only to be covered and enmeshed again in heat and blankets. "was it in me lung?" (he pronounces the "g"--a lancashire boy....) "the shrapnel?" he nods. i hold up the piece of metal which has lain buried in him these past three weeks. it has the number engraved on it. that satisfies him. the blood which has come from between his lips is in a bowl placed too high for him to see. through the crack in the screens the man in the bed opposite watches us unwinkingly. eight o'clock.... here is sister with the syringe: he will sleep now and i can go home. if one did not forget the hospital when one leaves it, life wouldn't be very nice. from pillar to post.... the dairyman, who has been gone to another hospital these five weeks, returned to-day, saying miserably as he walked into the ward, "me 'ead's queerer than ever." his eyes, i think, are larger too, and he has still that manner of looking as though he thought some one could do something for him. i can't--beyond raising the smallest of tablets to him with the inscription, "another farthing spent...." waker had a birthday yesterday and got ten post cards and a telegram. but that is as nothing to another anniversary. "a year to-morrow i got my wound--two o'clock to-morrow morning." "shall you be awake, waker?" "yes." how will he celebrate it? i would give a lot to know what will pass in his mind. for i don't yet understand this importance they attach to such an anniversary. one and all, they know the exact hour and minute on which their bit of metal turned them for home. sometimes a man will whisper, "nurse...." as i go by the bed; and when i stop i hear, "in ten minutes it will be a twelvemonth!" and he fixes his eyes on me. what does he want me to respond? i don't know whether i should be glad or sorry that he got it. i can't imagine what he thinks of as the minute ticks. for i can see by his words that the scene is blurred and no longer brings back any picture. "did you crawl back or walk?" "i ... walked." he is hardly sure. i know that for some of them, for waker, that moment at two o'clock in the morning changed his whole career. from that moment his arm was paralysed, the nerves severed; from that moment football was off, and with it his particular ambition. and football, governing a kingdom, or painting a picture--a man's ambition is his ambition, and when it is wiped out his life is changed. but he knows all that, he has had time to think of all that. what, then, does this particular minute bring him? they think i know; for when they tell me in that earnest voice that the minute is approaching they take for granted that i too will share some sacrament with them. waker is not everything a man should be: he isn't clever. but he is so very brave. after his tenth operation two days ago there was a question as to whether he should have his pluggings changed under gas or not. the discussion went on between the doctors over his bed. but the anæsthetist couldn't be found. he didn't take any part in the discussion such as saying, "yes, i will stand it...." but waited with interest showing on his bony face, and when they glanced down at him and said, "let's get it through now!" he rolled over to undo his safety-pin that i might take off his sling. it was all very fine for the theatre people to fill his shoulder chockful of pluggings while he lay unconscious on the table; they had packed it as you might stuff linen into a bag: it was another matter to get it out. i did not dare touch his hand with that too-easy compassion which i have noticed here, or whisper to him "it's nearly over...." as the forceps pulled at the stiffened gauze. it wasn't nearly over. six inches deep the gauze stuck, crackling under the pull of the forceps, blood and puss leaping forward from the cavities as the steady hand of the doctor pulled inch after inch of the gauze to the light. and when one hole was emptied there was another, five in all. sometimes, when your mind has a grip like iron, your stomach will undo you; sometimes, when you could say "to-day is tuesday, the fifth of august," you faint. there are so many parts of the body to look after, one of the flock may slip your control while you are holding the other by the neck. but waker had his whole being in his hands, without so much as clenching them. when we had finished and sister told me to wipe the sweat on his forehead, i did so reluctantly, as though one were being too exacting in drawing attention to so small a sign. i must say that the dairyman seems to me quite mad, and i only wonder how little it is noticed. he will sit in a chair beside palmer for hours, raising and lowering his eyebrows and fitting imaginary gloves on to his fingers. an inspecting general, pausing at his bed this morning, said: "a dairyman, are you? frightened of horses, are you? then what do you do about the cows?" he was pleased with his own joke, and the dairyman smiled too, uncomprehendingly, his eyebrows shooting up and down like swallows' wings. such jokes mean nothing to him; he is where no joke but his own will ever please him any more.... palmer doesn't like sitting near him, but since it is too much trouble to move he allows it--poor palmer, who has a piece of metal somewhere in his brain and is never seen without one long hand to his aching head. he said to me yesterday when i asked him which convalescent home he was going to, "it doesn't matter. we both go to the same kind before long...." jerking his thumb at the dairyman. as for the latter, there surely can be no escape, but for palmer.... "they won't take it out; too risky. seen my x-ray picture?" "no." "you look at it. right in the middle of the brain. seems funny that if i say i'm willing to risk it, why they shouldn't be." "you're willing to risk it?" "i'm only nineteen! what's the good of my head to me! i can't remember the name of the last hospital i was at...." ah, these hurried conversations sandwiched between my duties, when in four sentences the distilled essence of bitterness is dropped into my ear! "sister, what will they do with palmer?" "they are going to discharge him. they won't operate." "but what will happen to him?" "i don't know." "but if he is willing to risk his life to save his brain, can they still refuse?" "they won't operate." pinker is full of grains of knowledge. he has just discovered a wonderful justification for not getting up directly he is told off for a job. "i never refuse a nurse," he said, as he thoughtfully picked over the potatoes ("li'l men, li'l spuds!" he says, to excuse himself for taking all the sought-after small ones).... "i never refuse a nurse. but i like to finish me game of draughts first--like drake." pinker notices everything. he took the grocer for a ride on the tram yesterday. "'e got so excited he got singing 'tipperary,' an' the blood-vessels on his neck goin' fit to burst. weren't he, bill?" he appealed to monk, whose name is george. (by the way, i wonder when people will stop calling them "tommy" and call them "bill." i never heard the word "tommy" in a soldier's mouth: he was a red-coated man. "but every mate's called 'bill,' ain't 'e, bill?") from the camp across the road the words of command float in through the ward window. "halt!" and "left wheel!" and "right wheel!..." they float into the ward bearing the sense of heat and dust, and of the bumping of the saddle. the dairyman has perhaps put me a bit against the camp across the road. when the dressings are finished and we scrub the enamel bowls in the annexe, one can see all the dairymen and all the plumbers, _chefs_ and shopwalkers bumping up and down in a ring amid a cloud of dust, while the voice of the sergeant cries out those things that my dairyman used to think of in his sleep. then the jumps go up. "left wheel!" "right wheel!..." and now, "cross your stirrups!" one out of every four of them is clinging, grabbing, swaying. the seventh is off! it was a long fight.... he went almost round the horse's neck before he fell. we must win the war, win the war, win the war! every sort of price must be paid, every mud of curious coinage--the pennies and farthings of fear and despair in odd places, as well as the golden coin of life which is spent across the water. all day long the words of command come over the ward window-sills. all day long they bump and shout and sweat and play that charade of theirs behind the guns. all day long little men training to fill just such another hospital as ours with other little men. but one does not say any longer, "what a strange thing is life!" for only in rare moments does the divine astonishment return. printed at the complete press west norwood london the builders by the same author ancient law, the the battle-ground, the the deliverance, the the freeman and other poems, the the life and gabriella miller of old church, the the romance of a plain man, the the virginia voice of the people, the the wheel of life the builders by ellen glasgow [illustration: colophon] garden city new york doubleday, page & company copyright, , by doubleday, page & company all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian contents book first appearances chapter page i. caroline ii. the time iii. briarlay iv. angelica v. the first night vi. letty vii. caroline makes discoveries viii. blackburn ix. angelica's charity x. other discoveries xi. the sacred cult xii. the world's view of an unfortunate marriage xiii. indirect influence book second realities i. in blackburn's library ii. readjustments iii. man's woman iv. the martyr v. the choice vi. angelica's triumph vii. courage viii. the cedars ix. the years ahead x. the light on the road xi. the letter xii. the vision book first appearances the builders chapter i caroline the train was late that day, and when the old leather mail pouch was brought in, dripping wet, by jonas, the negro driver, mrs. meade put down the muffler she was knitting, and received it reluctantly. "at least there aren't any bills at this time of the month," she observed, with the manner of one who has been designed by providence to repel disaster. while she unbuckled the clammy straps, her full, round face, which was still fresh and pretty in spite of her seventy years, shone like an auspicious moon in the dusky glow of the fire. since wood was scarce, and this particular strip of southside virginia grew poorer with each year's harvest, the only fire at the cedars was the one in "the chamber," as mrs. meade's bedroom was called. it was a big, shabby room, combining, as successfully as its owner, an aspect of gaiety with a conspicuous absence of comforts. there were no curtains at the windows, and the rugs, made from threadbare carpets, had faded to indeterminate patterns; but the cracked mahogany belonged to a good period, and if the colours had worn dim, they were harmonious and restful. the house, though scarred, still held to its high standards. the spirit of the place was the spirit of generous poverty, of cheerful fortitude. the three girls on the hearthrug, knitting busily for the war relief association, were so much alike in colouring, shape, and feature, that it was difficult at a casual glance to distinguish maud, who was almost, if not quite, a beauty, from margaret and diana, who were merely pretty and intelligent. they were all natural, kind-hearted girls, who had been trained from infancy to make the best of things and to laugh when they were hurt. from the days when they had played with ears of corn instead of dolls, they had acquired ingenuity and philosophy. for mrs. meade, who derived her scant income from a plantation cultivated "on shares" by negro tenants, had brought up her girls to take life gaily, and to rely on their own resourcefulness rather than on fortuitous events. "here is a nice fat letter for caroline, and it looks as if it weren't an advertisement." with one plump hand she held out the letter, while she handed the dripping mail bag to jonas. "bring some wood for the fire, jonas, and be sure to shut the door after you." "dar ain' no mo' wood, ole miss." for an instant mrs. meade stopped to think. "well, the garden fence is falling down by the smoke-house. split up some of the rails. here is your letter, caroline." a woman's figure, outlined against the rocking branches of an old cedar beyond the window, turned slowly toward the group on the hearthrug. in caroline's movements, while she lingered there for a moment, there was something gallant and free and spirited, which was a part of the world outside and the swaying boughs. though she was older than the three girls by the fire, she was young with an illusive and indestructible grace of the soul. at thirty-two, in spite of the stern sweetness about her thin red lips, and the defiant courage which flashed now and then from the shadowy pallor of her face, one felt that the flame and ardour of her glance flowed not from inward peace, but from an unconquerable and adventurous spirit. against the grey rain her face seemed the face of some swiftly changing idea, so expressive of an intangible beauty was the delicate curve of the cheek and the broad, clear forehead beneath the dark hair, which grew low in a "widow's peak" above the arched eyebrows and the vivid blue of the eyes. if there was austerity in the lines of her mouth, her eyes showed gaiety, humour, and tenderness. long ago, before the wreck of her happiness, her father, who had a taste for the striking in comparisons, had said that caroline's eyes were like bluebirds flying. the letter could wait. she was not interested in letters now, rarely as they came to her. it was, she knew, only the call to a patient, and after nearly eight years of nursing, she had learned that nothing varied the monotonous personalities of patients. they were all alike, united in their dreadful pathos by the condition of illness--and as a mere matter of excitement there was little to choose between diphtheria and pneumonia. yet if it were a call, of course she would go, and her brief vacation would be over. turning away from the firelight, she deferred as long as possible the descent from her thoughts to the inevitable bondage of the actuality. beyond the window, veiled in rain, she could see the pale quivering leaves of the aspens on the lawn, and the bend in the cedar avenue, which led to the big white gate and the private road that ran through the farm until it joined the turnpike at the crossroads. ever since she was born, it seemed to her, for almost thirty-two years, she had watched like this for something that might come up that long empty road. even in the years that she had spent away, she had felt that her soul waited there, tense and expectant, overlooking the bend in the avenue and the white gate, and then the road over which "the something different," if it came at all, must come at last to the cedars. nothing, not change, not work, not travel, could detach the invisible tendrils of her life from the eager, brooding spirit of the girl who had once watched there at the window. she had been watching--watching--she remembered, when the letter that broke her heart had come in the old mail pouch, up the road beyond, and through the gate, and on into the shadows and stillness of the avenue. that was how the blow had come to her, without warning, while she waited full of hope and expectancy and the ardent sweetness of dreams. "my poor child, your heart is broken!" her mother had cried through her tears, and the girl, with the letter still in her hands, had faced her defiantly. "yes, but my head and my hands are whole," she had replied with a laugh. then, while the ruins of her happiness lay at her feet, she began rebuilding her house of life with her head and her hands. she would accept failure on its own terms, completely, exultantly, and by the very audacity of her acceptance, she would change defeat into victory. she would make something out of nothing; she would wring peace, not from joy, but from the heart of an incredible cruelty; she would build with courage, not with gladness, but she would build her house toward the stars. "there must be something one can live on besides love," she thought, "or half the world would go famished." "come and read your letter, caroline," called maud, as she reached the end of a row. "there isn't anything for the rest of us." "i am so afraid it is a call, dear," said mrs. meade; and then, as caroline left the window and passed into the firelight, the old lady found herself thinking a little vaguely, "poor child, the hard work is beginning to show in her face--but she has never been the same since that unfortunate experience. i sometimes wonder why a just providence lets such things happen." aloud she added, while her beaming face clouded slightly, "i hope and pray that it isn't anything catching." as caroline bent over the letter, the three younger girls put down their knitting and drew closer, while their charming faces, brown, flushed, and sparkling, appeared to catch and hold the glow of the flames. they were so unlike caroline, that she might have been mistaken, by a stranger, for a woman of a different race. while she bent there in the firelight, her slender figure, in its cambric blouse and skirt of faded blue serge, flowed in a single lovely curve from her drooping dark head to her narrow feet in their worn russet shoes. "it is from an old friend of yours, mother," she said presently, "mrs. colfax." "lucy colfax! why, what on earth is she writing to you about? i hope there isn't anything wrong with her." "read it aloud, caroline," said diana. "mother, this fire will go out before jonas can fix it." "he has to split the wood, dear. look out on the back porch and see if you can find some chips. they'll be nice and dry." mrs. meade spoke with authority, for beneath her cheerful smile there was the heart of a fighter, and like all good fighters, she fought best when she was driven against the wall. "now, caroline, i am listening." "she wants me to take a case. it sounds queer, but i'll read you what she says. 'dear caroline'--she calls me 'caroline.'" "that's natural, dear. we were like sisters, and perhaps she took a fancy to you the time she met you in richmond. it would be just like her to want to do something for you." the sprightly old lady, who was constitutionally incapable of seeing any prospect in subdued colours, was already weaving a brilliant tapestry of caroline's future. "'dear caroline: "'my cousin, angelica blackburn, has asked me to recommend a trained nurse for her little girl, who is delicate, and i am wondering if you would care to take the case. she particularly wishes a self-reliant and capable person, and doctor boland tells me you have inherited your mother's sweet and unselfish nature (i don't see how he knows. everybody is unselfish in a sick-room. one has to be.)'" "well, i'm sure you have a lovely nature," replied mrs. meade tenderly. "i was telling the girls only yesterday that you never seemed to think of yourself a minute." in her own mind she added, "any other girl would have been embittered by that unfortunate experience" (the phrase covered caroline's blighted romance) "and it shows how much character she has that she was able to go on just as if nothing had happened. i sometimes think a sense of humour does as much for you as religion." "'i remember my poor father used to say,'" caroline read on smoothly, "'that in hard dollars and cents carrie warwick's disposition was worth a fortune.'" "that's very sweet of lucy," murmured mrs. meade deprecatingly. "'as you are the daughter of my old friend, i feel i ought not to let you take the case without giving you all the particulars. i don't know whether or not you ever heard of david blackburn--but your mother will remember his wife, for she was a fitzhugh, the daughter of champ fitzhugh, who married bessie ludwell.'" "of course i remember bessie. she was my bosom friend at miss braxton's school in petersburg." "let me go on, mother darling. if you interrupt me so often i'll never get to the interesting part." "very well, go on, my dear, but it does seem just like providence. when the flour gave out in the barrel last night, i knew something would happen." for mrs. meade had begun life with the shining certainty that "something wonderful" would happen to her in the future, and since she was now old and the miracle had never occurred, she had transferred her hopes to her children. her optimism was so elastic that it stretched over a generation without breaking. "'mrs. blackburn--angelica fitzhugh, she was--though her name is really anna jeannette, and they called her angelica as a child because she looked so like an angel--well, mrs. blackburn is the cousin i spoke of, whose little girl is so delicate.' she is all tangled up, isn't she, mother?" "lucy always wrote like that," said mrs. meade. "as a girl she was a scatterbrain." "'i do not know exactly what is wrong with the child,'" caroline resumed patiently, "'but as long as you may go into the family, i think i ought to tell you that i have heard it whispered that her father injured her in a fit of temper when she was small.'" "how horrible!" exclaimed diana. "caroline, you couldn't go there!" "'she has never been able to play with other children, and doctor boland thinks she has some serious trouble of the spine. i should not call her a disagreeable child, or hard to manage, just delicate and rather whining--at least she is whenever i see her, which is not often. her mother is one of the loveliest creatures on earth, and i can imagine no greater privilege than living in the house with her. she is far from strong, but she seems never to think of her health, and all her time is devoted to doing good. doctor boland was telling me yesterday that he had positively forbidden her undertaking any more charitable work. he says her nerves are sensitive, and that if she does not stop and rest she will break down sooner or later. i cannot help feeling--though of course i did not say this to him--that her unhappy marriage is the cause of her ill health and her nervousness. she was married very young, and they were so desperately poor that it was a choice between marriage and school teaching. i cannot blame anybody for not wanting to teach school, especially if they have as poor a head for arithmetic as i have, but if i had been angelica, i should have taught until the day of my death before i should have married david blackburn. if she had not been so young it would be hard to find an excuse for her. of course he has an immense fortune, and he comes of a good old family in southside virginia--your mother will remember his father--but when you have said that, you have said all there is to his credit. the family became so poor after the war that the boy had to go to work while he was scarcely more than a child, and i believe the only education he has ever had was the little his mother taught him, and what he managed to pick up at night after the day's work was over. in spite of his birth he has had neither the training nor the advantages of a gentleman, and nothing proves this so conclusively as the fact that, though he was brought up a democrat, he voted the republican ticket at the last two presidential elections. there is something black in a man, my dear old father used to say, who goes over to the negroes---- '" "of course lucy belongs to the old school," said mrs. meade. "she talks just as her father used to--but i cannot see any harm in a man's voting as he thinks right." "'i am telling you all this, my dear caroline, in order that you may know exactly what the position is. the salary will be good, just what you make in other cases, and i am sure that angelica will be kindness itself to you. as for david blackburn, i scarcely think he will annoy you. he treats his wife abominably, i hear, but you can keep out of his way, and it is not likely that he will be openly rude to you when you meet. the papers just now are full of him because, after going over to the republicans, he does not seem satisfied with their ways. "'give my fondest love to your mother, and tell her how thankful i am that she and i are not obliged to live through a second war. one is enough for any woman, and i know she will agree with me--especially if she could read some of the letters my daughter writes from france. i feel every hour i live how thankful we ought to be to a kind providence for giving us a president who has kept us out of this war. robert says if there were not any other reason to vote for mr. wilson, that would be enough--and with mr. hughes in the white house who knows but we should be in the midst of it all very soon. david blackburn is making fiery speeches about the duty of america's going in, but some men can never have enough of a fight, and i am sure the president knows what is best for us, and will do what he thinks is right. "'be sure to telegraph me if you can come, and i will meet your train in angelica's car. "'your affectionate friend, lucy colfax. "'i forgot to tell you that doctor boland says i am prejudiced against david blackburn, but i do not think i am. i tell only what i hear, for the stories are all over richmond.'" as caroline finished the letter she raised her head with a laugh. "it sounds like a good place, and as for bluebeard--well, he can't kill me. i don't happen to be his wife." her figure, with its look of relaxed energy, of delicate yet inflexible strength, straightened swiftly, while her humorous smile played like an edge of light over her features. the old lady, watching her closely, remembered the way caroline's dead father had laughed in his youth. "she is as like him as a girl could be," she thought, with her eyes on her daughter's wide white brow, which had always seemed to her a shade too strong and thoughtful for a woman. only the softly curving line of hair and the large radiant eyes kept the forehead from being almost masculine. "she might be as pretty as maud if only she had more colour and her brow and chin were as soft as her eyes. her mouth isn't full and red like maud's, and her nose isn't nearly so straight, but the girls' father used to say that the best nose after all is a nose that nobody remembers." smiling vaguely at the recollection, mrs. meade readjusted her mental processes with an effort, and took up her work. "i hope lucy is prejudiced against him," she observed brightly. "you know her father was once governor of virginia, and she can't stand anybody who doesn't support the democratic party." "but she says he treats his wife abominably, and that it's all over richmond!" exclaimed maud indignantly. before this challenge mrs. meade quailed. "if she is prejudiced about one thing, she may be about others," she protested helplessly. "well, he can't hurt me," remarked caroline with firmness. "people can't hurt you unless you let them." nothing, she felt, in an uncertain world was more certain than this--no man could ever hurt her again. she knew life now; she had acquired experience; she had learned philosophy; and no man, not even bluebeard himself, could ever hurt her again. "there was something about him in the paper this morning," said margaret, the serious and silent one of the family. "i didn't read it, but i am sure that i saw his name in the headlines. it was about an independent movement in politics." "well, i'm not afraid of independent movements," rejoined caroline gaily, "and i'm not like mrs. colfax--for i don't care what he does to the democratic party." "i hate to have you go there, my dear," mrs. meade's voice shook a little, "but, of course, you must do what you think right." she remembered the empty flour barrel, and the falling fence rails, and the habit of a merciful providence that invariably came to her aid at the eleventh hour. perhaps, after all, there was a design working through it, she reflected, as she recovered her sprightliness, and providence had arranged the case to meet her necessities. "it seems disagreeable, but one never knows," she added aloud. "it isn't the first time i've had a disagreeable case, mother. one can't nurse seven years and see only the pleasant side of people and things." "yes, i know, my child, i know. you have had so much experience." she felt quite helpless before the fact of her daughter's experience. "only if he really does ill treat his wife, and you have to see it----" "if i see it, perhaps i can stop it. i suppose even bluebeard might have been stopped if anybody had gone about it with spirit. it won't be my first sudden conversion." her eyes were still laughing, but her mouth was stern, and between the arched black eyebrows three resolute little lines had appeared. before her "unfortunate experience," mrs. meade thought sadly, there had been no grimness in caroline's humour. "you have a wonderful way of bringing out the good in people, caroline. your uncle clarence was telling me last sunday that he believed you could get the best out of anybody." "then granting that bluebeard has a best, i'd better begin to dig for it as soon as i get there." "i am glad you can take it like that. if you weren't so capable, so resourceful, i'd never be easy about you a minute, but you are too intelligent to let yourself get into difficulties that you can't find a way out of." the old lady brightened as quickly as she had saddened. after all, if caroline had been merely an ordinary girl she could never have turned to nursing so soon after the wreck of her happiness. "if a man had broken my heart when i was a girl, i believe i should have died of it," she told herself. "certainly, i should never have been able to hold up my head and go on laughing like that. i suppose it was pride that kept her up, but it is queer the way that pride affects people so differently. now a generation ago pride would not have made a girl laugh and take up work. it would have killed her." and there flashed through her thoughts, with the sanguine irrelevance of her habit of mind, "what i have never understood is how any man could go off with a little yellow-haired simpleton like that after knowing caroline. yet, i suppose, as clarence said, if she hadn't been a simpleton, it would have been that much worse." "well, i'm going," said caroline so briskly that her mother and sisters looked at her in surprise. "jonas will have to saddle billy and take the telegram to the station, and then you can stop knitting and help me finish those caps. this is my war and i'm going to fight it through to the end." she went out with the telegram, and a little later when she came back and turned again to the window, mrs. meade saw that her eyes were shining. after all, it looked sometimes as if caroline really liked a battle. always when things went wrong or appeared disastrous, this shining light came to her eyes. outside an eddying wind was driving the rain in gusts up the avenue, and the old cedar dashed its boughs, with a brushing sound, against the blurred window panes. as caroline stood there she remembered that her father had loved the cedar, and there drifted into her thoughts the words he had spoken to her shortly before his death. "i haven't much to leave you, daughter, but i leave you one good thing--courage. never forget that it isn't the victory that matters, it is the fight." she heard mrs. meade telling jonas, who was starting to the station, that he must haul a load of wood from pine hill when the rain was over, and while she listened, it seemed to her that she had never really known her mother until this instant--that she had never understood her simple greatness. "she has fought every minute," she thought, "she has had a hard life, and yet no one would know it. it has not kept her from being sweet and gay and interested in every one else. even now in that calico dress, with an apron on, she looks as if she were brimming with happiness." out of the wreck of life, out of poverty and sacrifice and drudgery, she realized that her mother had stood for something fine and clear and permanent--for an ideal order. she had never muddled things under the surface; she had kept in touch with realities; she had looked always through the changing tissue of experience to the solid structure of life. like the old house she had held through all vicissitudes to her high standards. then her thoughts left her mother, and she faced the unknown future with the defiant courage she had won from disillusionment. "if we were not so poor i'd go to france," she reflected, "but how could they possibly do without the hundred dollars a month i can earn?" no, whatever happened she must stick to her task, and her task was keeping the roof from falling in over her mother and the girls. after a month's rest at the cedars, she would start again on the round of uninspiring patients and tedious monotony. the place mrs. colfax offered her seemed to her uninteresting and even sordid, and yet she knew that nothing better awaited her. she hated darkness and mystery, and the house into which she was going appeared to her to be both dark and mysterious. she was sure of her own strength; she had tested her courage and her endurance, and she was not afraid; yet for some vague and inexplicable reason she shrank from the position she had accepted. mrs. colfax's picture of the situation she thought tinged with melodrama, and her honest and lucid intelligence despised the melodramatic. they might all have been on the stage--the good wife, the brutal husband, and the delicate child; they seemed to her as unrelated to actual life as the sombre ghost that stalked through hamlet. "angelica! it is a lovely name," she mused, seizing upon the one charming thing in mrs. colfax's description, "i wonder what she is like?" fair, graceful, suffering, she saw this unknown woman against the background of the unhappy home, in an atmosphere of mystery and darkness. "she must be weak," she thought. "if she were not weak, she would not let him hurt her." and she longed to pour some of her own strength of will, her own independence and determination and philosophy, into the imaginary figure of mrs. blackburn. "it may be that i can help her. if i can only help her a little, it will all be worth while." she tried presently to think of other things--of the caps she must finish, of the uniforms she had intended to make during her vacation, of the piece of white lawn she must cut up into kerchiefs, of the mending she would ask the girls to do for her before they went to bed. there was so much to occupy her time and her thoughts in the one evening that was left to her--yet, do what she would--look where she pleased--the sweet veiled image of mrs. blackburn floated to her through the twilight, up the long, dim road and round the bend in the avenue--as if this stranger with the lovely name were the "something different" she had waited for in the past. by a miracle of imagination she had transferred this single character into actual experience. the sense of mystery was still there, but the unreality had vanished. it was incredible the way a woman whose face she had never seen had entered into her life. "why, she is more real than anything," she thought in surprise. "she is more real even than the war." for the war had not touched her. she stood secure, enclosed, protected from disaster, in her little green corner of southside virginia. her personal life had not been overpowered and submerged in the current of impersonal forces. the age of small things still surrounded her--but the quiver and vibration of great movements, of a world in dissolution, the subdued, insistent undercurrent of new spiritual energies in action--these were reaching her, with the ebb and flow of psychological processes, as they were reaching the virginia in which she lived. the world was changing--changing--while she went toward it. chapter ii the time at midnight, when she was alone in her room, caroline's mind passed from an intense personal realization of the blackburns to a broader conception of the time in which she was living--the time which this generation had helped to create, and which, like some monster of the imagination, was now devouring its happiness. she thought of her father--a man of intellectual abilities who had spent his life out of touch with his environment, in an uncongenial employment. young as she was when he died, she had been for years the solitary confidant of his mind, for he also, like these strangers into whose lives she was about to enter, had been the victim of the illimitable and inscrutable forces which shape the thought of an age. he had been different from his generation, and because he had been different, it had destroyed him. yet his single idea had outlived the multitudinous actions and reactions that surrounded him. he saw not to-day, but to-morrow; and though he was of another mettle from this blackburn of whom she had been reading, he appeared now in her fancy to take a place beside him in the vivid life of the age. the lamp was smoking, and after lowering the wick, she sat gazing into the darkness beyond the loosened shutters, which rattled when the wind shook them. * * * * * it was in the early autumn of nineteen hundred and sixteen, the moment in history when america, hesitating on the verge of war, discovered that it was no longer an anglo-saxon nation; that, in spite of its language and literature, its shell of customs and traditions, a new race had been created out of a complicated mass of diverse interacting sympathies, prejudices, attractions, and repulsions. confronted now with problems demanding a definite expression of the national will, it became evident that the pioneer stock had undergone profound modifications, and that from a mingling of many strains had been born an emphatic american spirit, with aspirations essentially different from those of the races from which its lifeblood was drawn. in the arrogant vigour of youth this spirit resented any disposition on the part of its kindred to dictate or even influence its policy or its purpose. for two years europe had been at war. the outbreak of the struggle had come as a distant thunderbolt to a nation unaccustomed to threatening armies, and ignorant of the triumphant menace of military ideals; and stunned by a calamity which it had believed impossible, america had been inclined at first to condemn indiscriminately those who had permitted the disaster for apparently insignificant causes. there was sympathy with belgium because it had been destroyed; with france because it had been invaded; and with england because it had worked sincerely in the interests of peace; but as early as the autumn of nineteen hundred and sixteen this sympathy was little more than uncrystallized sentiment. to the people the problem was irrelevant and disguised in words. for a century they had been taught that their geographical isolation was indestructible, and that european history concerned them only after it had been successfully transmuted into literature. the effect of these political illusions had been accentuated by the immediate demands upon the thoughts and energies of the nation, by the adventure of conquering a rich and undeveloped continent, and by the gradual adjustment of complex institutions to a rapidly expanding social and economic life. secure in its remoteness, the country had grown careless in its diplomacy. commerce was felt to be vital, but foreign relations were cheerfully left to the president, with the assumption that he was acting under the special guidance of providence, on those memorable occasions when he acted at all. with the sinking of the _lusitania_, the spirit of the country had flamed into a passionate demand for redress or war. then the indignation had been gradually allayed by diplomatic phrases and bewildering technicalities; and the masses of the people, busy with an extravagant war prosperity, resigned international matters into the hands of the government, while, with an uneasy conscience but genuine american optimism, they continued actively to hope for the best. to an aërial philosopher the government of the hour might have appeared a composite image of the time--sentimental, evasive of realities, idealistic in speech, and materialistic in purpose and action. dominated by a single strong intellect, it was composed mainly of men who were without knowledge of world questions or experience in world affairs. at the moment war was gathering, yet the demand for preparation was either ignored or ridiculed as hysteria. as the national elections approached both parties avoided the direct issue, and sought by compromise and concession to secure the support of the non-american groups. while the country waited for leadership, the leaders hesitated in the midst of conflicting currents of public sentiment, and endeavoured to win popularity through an irresolute policy of opportunism. to virginians, who thought politically in terms of a party, the great question was resolved into a personal problem. where the president led they would follow. from the beginning there had been many americans who looked beneath the shifting surface of events, and beheld in this war a challenge to the principles which are the foundation-stones of western civilization. they realized that this was a war not of men, not of materials, but of ideals--of ideals which are deeper than nationality since they are the common heritage of the human race. they saw that the ideals assailed were the basis of american institutions, and that if they should be overthrown the american republic could not endure. as in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the problems of european civilization were fought out in the forests of america, so to-day, they felt, the future of america would be decided on the battlefields of europe. the cause was the cause of humanity, therefore it was america's war. and now as the elections drew nearer, these clearer thinkers stood apart and watched the grotesque political spectacle, with its unctuous promises of "peace and prosperity," in the midst of world tragedy. though the struggle would be close, it was already evident that the sentiment of the country was drifting, not so much toward the policies of the administration, as away from the invectives of the opposite party. since neither party stood for principle, nor had the courage to declare fearlessly for the maintenance of american rights, there was a measure of comfort in the reflection that, though the purposes of the government were not wholly approved, they were at least partly known. by the early autumn the campaign had passed through a fog of generalization and settled into a sham battle of personal and sectional issues, while in europe the skies grew darker, and the events of the coming year gathered like vultures before the approaching storm. and always, while america waited and watched, the forces that mould the destinies of men and of nations, were moving, profound, obscure, and impenetrable, beneath the surface of life. * * * * * caroline's lamp flickered and went out, while her thoughts rushed back to the shelter of the house. the room was in darkness, but beyond the shutters, where the wind swept in gusts, the clouds had scattered, and a few stars were shining. chapter iii briarlay in the train caroline sat straight and still, with her eyes on the landscape, which unrolled out of the golden web of the distance. now and then, when her gaze shifted, she could see the pale oval of her face glimmering unsteadily in the window-pane, like a light that is going out slowly. even in the glass, where her eyes were mere pools of darkness, her mouth looked sad and stern, as if it had closed over some tragic and for ever unutterable secret. it was only when one saw her eyes--those eyes which under the arch of her brows and hair made one think of bluebirds flying--it was only when their colour and radiance lighted her features, that her face melted to tenderness. while she sat there she thought of a hundred things, yet never once did she think of herself or her own interests as the centre around which her imagination revolved. if life had repressed and denied her, it had trained her mental processes into lucid and orderly habits. unlike most women, she had learned to think impersonally, and to think in relations. her spirit might beat its wings against the bars of the cage, but she knew that it would never again rise, with a dart of ecstasy, to test its freedom and its flight in the sky. she had had her day of joy. it was short, and it had left only sadness, yet because she had once had it, even for so brief a time, she might be disillusioned, but she could not feel wholly defrauded. through that dead emotion she had reached, for an instant, the heart of life; she had throbbed with its rapture; she had felt, known, and suffered. and in confronting the illusions of life, she had found the realities. because she had learned that thought, not emotion, is the only permanent basis of happiness, she had been able to found her house on a rock. it was worth a good deal of pain to discover that neither desire nor disappointment is among the eternal verities of experience. to-day, as on many other days since she had passed through her training in the hospital, she was leaving home, after a vacation in which she had thought of herself scarcely a minute, for the kind of service in which she would not have time to think of herself at all. work had been the solution of her problem, the immediate restorative; and she knew that it had helped her through the anguish, and--worse than anguish--through the bleakness of her tragedy, as nothing else could have done. "i will not sit down and think of myself," she had said over and over in those first bitter days, and in the years since then, while she was passionately rebuilding her universe, she had kept true to her resolve. she had been active always; she had never brooded among the romantic ruins of the past. if her inner life had grown indifferent, cold, and a little hard, her external sympathies had remained warm, clear, and glowing. the comfort she had denied herself, she had given abundantly to others; the strength she had not wasted in brooding, she had spent freely in a passion of service and pity. in her face there was the beauty and sweetness of a fervent, though disciplined, spirit. "i am so sorry to leave them," she thought, with her eyes on the amber, crimson, and purple of the forest. "mother is no longer young. she needs all the help i can give her, and the girls have so few pleasures. i wish there was something more i could do for them. i would work my fingers to the bone to give them a little happiness." and there floated before her, against the background of the forest, a still yet swiftly fleeting vision, of the fire-lit room, with the girls gathered, knitting, on the hearthrug, and her mother turning to look at her with the good and gentle expression that shone always in her face. beyond the window the rain fell; the cedar brushed its boughs against the panes with a sound like that of ghostly fingers; on the roof above she heard the measured dropping of acorns. in the flickering light the old mahogany gleamed with a bronze and gold lustre, and the high white bed, under its fringed marseilles coverlet, stood, like an embodiment of peace and sleep, in the corner. "it looks so happy, so sheltered," she thought, "and yet--" she was going to add, "and yet unhappiness came up the road, from a great distance, and found me there----" but she shattered the vague idea before it formed in her mind. at the station mrs. colfax was waiting, and though caroline had seen her only once, ten years ago, she recognized her by a bird-like, pecking manner she had never forgotten. as the ruin of a famous beauty the old lady was not without historic distinction. though she was now shrunken and withered, and strung with quaint gold chains, which rattled with echoes of an earlier period, she still retained the gracious social art of the "sixties." her eyes, hollowed under thin grey eyebrows, were black and piercing, and her small aristocratic features looked mashed, as if life had dealt them too hard a blow. "my dear child, i should have known you anywhere, so, you see, i haven't yet lost my memory. it was years ago that i met you, wasn't it?" a man in livery--she discovered afterwards that he was the blackburn's footman--took her bag, and caroline helped mrs. colfax out of the station and into the big limousine at the door. "it was so good of you to meet me," she said, for it was all she could think of, and to the last she had been haunted by the fear that mr. blackburn might decide to come for her. "good of me? why, i wanted to come." as she watched caroline's face, the old lady was thinking shrewdly, "she isn't so pretty as she used to be. i doubt if many men would think twice about her--but she has a lovely expression. i never saw a more spiritual face." once safely started she rambled on while the car shot into franklin street, and ran straight ahead in the direction of monument avenue. "i always meant to meet you, and just as soon as your telegram came, i 'phoned angelica about the car. she wanted to come down herself, but the doctor makes her lie down two hours every afternoon. do you see that new office building at the corner? your mother and i went to school on that spot before we boarded at miss braxton's in petersburg. at that time this part of franklin street was very fashionable, but everything has moved west, and everybody who can afford it is building in the country. it isn't like your mother's day at all. new people have taken possession of the town, and anybody who has money can get into society now. we are coming to monument avenue. all the houses are brand new, but it is nothing to the country outside. the blackburns' place just off the river road is the finest house anywhere about richmond, they tell me. he built it the year before his marriage, and i remember an artist, who came down to lecture before the woman's club, saying to me that briarlay was like its owner--everything big in it was good and everything little in it was bad. i don't know much about such things, but he poked fun at the fireplaces--said they were gothic or italian--i can't remember which--and that the house, of course, is colonial." a fit of coughing stopped her, and while she dived into her black silk bag for a handkerchief, caroline asked curiously, "has mr. blackburn so much money?" "oh, yes, i suppose he is the richest man we have here. he owns the large steel works down by the river, and he discovered some new cheap process, they say, which brought him a fortune. i remember hearing this, but i haven't much of a head for such matters. just now he is having a good deal of trouble with his men, and i'm sure it serves him right for deserting the ways of his father, and going over to the republicans. charles takes up for him because david has always stood by him in business, but of course out of respect for father's memory he couldn't openly sympathize with his disloyalty." "does anybody follow him, or is he all alone?" inquired caroline, less from active interest in the question than from the desire to keep the old lady animated. "you'll have to ask charles, and he will be delighted to answer. in this new-fangled idea about breaking the solid south--did you ever hear such stuff and nonsense?--i believe he has had a very bad influence over a number of young men. then, of late, he has been talking extravagantly about its being our duty to go into this war--as if we had any business mixing ourselves up in other people's quarrels--and that appeals to a lot of fire-eaters and fight-lovers. of course, a man as rich as david blackburn will always have a trail of sycophants and addlepates at his heels. what i say is that if providence had intended us to be in this war, we shouldn't have been given a president wise and strong enough to keep us out of it. if mr. wilson is elected for a second term--and my brother charles says there isn't a doubt of it--it will be because the country feels that he has kept us out of war. there was a long editorial in the paper this morning warning us that, if mr. hughes is elected, we shall be fighting germany within two months. then think of all the destruction and the dreadful high taxes that would follow----" "but i thought there was a great deal of war spirit here? at home we work all the time for the allies." "oh, there is, there is. angelica is president or chairman of two or three societies for helping the wounded, and they even made me head of something--i never can remember the name of it--but it has to do with belgian orphans. everybody wants to help, but that is different from going into the actual fighting, you know, and people are very much divided. a few, like david blackburn, wanted us to declare war the day after the lusitania was destroyed, but most of us feel--especially the wiser heads--that the president knows more about it than any one else----" "i suppose he does," admitted caroline, and she added while she looked at the appointments of the car, "what a beautiful car!" she sighed gently, for she was thinking of the rotting fence rails and the leaking roof at the cedars. how far she could make a few thousand dollars go in repairing the house and the out-buildings! if only the leaks could be mended, and the roof reshingled over the wings! if only they could hire a younger man to help poor old jones, who was growing decrepit! "this car is angelica's," said the old lady, "and everything she has is wonderful. as soon as she was married she began to re-decorate briarlay from garret to cellar. when david first made his money, he went about buying everything he laid eyes on, and she gave whole wagon-loads of furniture to her relatives. there are people who insist that angelica overdoes things in her way as much as her husband does in his--both were poor when they grew up--but i maintain that her taste is perfect--simply perfect. it is all very well for my daughter lucy, who has studied interior decoration in new york, to turn up her nose at walls hung with silk in a country house, but to my mind that pink silk in angelica's parlours is the most beautiful thing she could have, and i reckon i've as good a right to my ideas as lucy has to hers. after all, as i tell her, it is only a question of taste." it was a mild, bright afternoon in october, and as the car turned into the river road, the country spread softly, in undulations of green, gold, and bronze, to the deep blue edge of the horizon. the valley lay in shadow, while above it shreds of violet mist drifted slowly against the golden ball of the sun. near at hand the trees were touched with flame, but, as they went on, the brilliant leaves melted gradually into the multi-coloured blend of the distance. "mrs. blackburn must be so beautiful," said caroline presently. as she approached briarlay--the house of darkness and mystery that she had seen in her imagination--she felt that the appeal of this unknown woman deepened in vividness and pathos, that it rushed to meet her and enveloped her with the intensity and sweetness of a perfume. it was as if the name angelica were not a sound, but a thing composed of colour and fragrance--sky-blue like a cloud and as sweet-scented as lilies. "she was the most beautiful girl who ever came out in richmond," replied mrs. colfax. "the family was so poor that her mother couldn't do anything for her--she didn't even have a coming-out party--but with a girl like that nothing matters. david blackburn saw her at some reception, and lost his head completely. i won't say his heart because i've never believed that he had one. of course he was far and away the best chance she was ever likely to have down here, for it wasn't as if they could have sent her to the white sulphur. they couldn't afford anything, and they were even educating angelica to be a teacher. what she would have done if david blackburn hadn't come along when he did, i cannot imagine--though, as i wrote you, i'd have taught school to my dying day before i'd have married him." "but didn't she care anything for him?" asked caroline, for it was incredible to her that such a woman should have sold herself. mrs. colfax sniffed at her smelling-salts. "of course i haven't the right to an opinion," she rejoined, after a pause, "but as i always reply to charles when he tells me i am talking too much, 'well, i can't help having eyes.' i remember as well as if it were yesterday the way angelica looked when she told me of her engagement. 'i have decided to marry david blackburn, cousin lucy,' she said, and then she added, just as if the words were wrung out of her, 'i loathe the thought of teaching!' it doesn't sound a bit like angelica, but those were her very words. and now, my dear, tell me something about your mother. does she still keep up her wonderful spirits?" after this she asked so many questions that caroline was still answering them when the car turned out of the road and sped up a long, narrow lane, which was thickly carpeted with amber leaves. at the end of the lane, the vista broadened into an ample sweep of lawn surrounding a red brick house with white columns and low wings half hidden in virginia creeper. it was a beautiful house--so beautiful that caroline held her breath in surprise. under the october sky, in the midst of clustering elms, which shed a rain of small bronze leaves down on the bright grass and the dark evergreens, the house appeared to capture and imprison the mellow light of the sunset. it was so still, except for a curving flight of swallows over the roof, and the elm leaves, which fell slowly and steadily in the soft air, that the gleaming windows, the red walls, and the white columns, borrowed, for a moment, the visionary aspect of a place seen in a dream. "there is a formal garden at the back, full of box-borders and cypresses--only they are really red cedars," said mrs. colfax. "from the terrace there is a good view of the river, and lower down angelica has made an old-fashioned garden, with grass walks and rose arbours and mixed flower beds. i never saw such canterbury bells as she had last summer." as they entered the circular drive, a touring car passed them slowly on the way out, and a man leaned forward and bowed to mrs. colfax. from her casual glance caroline received an impression of a strong, sunburned face, with heavy brows and dark hair going a little grey on the temples. "what searching eyes that man has," she observed carelessly, and added immediately, "you know him?" "why, that was david blackburn. i forgot you had never seen him." "he isn't at all what i expected him to be." while caroline spoke she felt an inexplicable sense of disappointment. she scarcely knew what she had expected; yet she realized that he was different from some vague image she had had in her mind. "his face looked so set i'm afraid he has been quarrelling with angelica," said the old lady. "poor child, i feel so distressed." they had reached the house, and as they were about to alight, the door opened, and a girl in a riding habit, with two airedale terriers at her heels, strolled out on the porch. at sight of mrs. colfax, she came quickly forward, and held out her hand. she had a splendid figure, which the riding habit showed to advantage, and though her face was plain, her expression was pleasant and attractive. without the harsh collar and the severe arrangement of her hair, which was braided and tied up with a black ribbon, caroline imagined that she might be handsome. mrs. colfax greeted her as "miss blackburn" and explained immediately that she lived at briarlay with her brother. "she is a great lover of dogs," added the old lady, "and it is a pity that angelica doesn't like to have them about." "oh, they don't mind, they're such jolly beggars," replied the girl in a cheerful, slangy manner, "and besides they get all they want of me. i'm so sorry you didn't come in time for tea. now i'm just starting for a ride with alan." while she was speaking a man on horseback turned from the lane into the drive, and caroline saw her face change and brighten until it became almost pretty. "there he is now!" she exclaimed, and then she called out impulsively, "oh, alan, i've waited for ever!" he shouted back some words in a gay voice, but caroline did not catch them, and before he dismounted, mrs. colfax led her through the open door into the hall. "that's alan wythe," said the old lady in a whisper, and she resumed a moment later when they stood within the pink silk walls of angelica's drawing-room, "mary has been engaged to him for a year, and i never in my life saw a girl so much in love. i suppose it's natural enough--he's charming--but in my day young ladies were more reserved. and now we'll go straight upstairs to angelica. she is sure to be lying down at this hour." as they passed through the wide hall, and up the beautiful colonial staircase, caroline felt that the luxury of the place bewildered her. though the house, except in size, was not unlike country homes she had seen in southside virginia, there was nothing in her memory, unless she summoned back stray recollections of photographs in sunday newspapers, that could compare with the decoration of the drawing-room. "it is beautiful, but there is too much of it," she thought, for her eyes, accustomed to bare surfaces and the formal purity of sheraton and chippendale, were beginning to discriminate. "i want you to notice everything when you have time," said mrs. colfax. "i tell angelica that it is a liberal education just to come inside of this house." "it would take weeks to see it," responded caroline; and then, as she moved toward a long mirror in the hall upstairs, it seemed to her that her reflection, in her severe blue serge suit, with the little round blue hat diana had trimmed, looked as grotesquely out of place as if she had been one of the slender sheraton chairs at the cedars. "if i appear a lady i suppose it is as much as i can hope for," she thought, "and besides nobody will notice me." the humour leaped to her eyes, while mrs. colfax, watching her with a side-long glance, reflected that carrie warwick's daughter had distinction. her grace was not merely the grace of a slender body with flowing lines; it was the grace of word, of glance, of smile, of gesture, that indefinable and intangible quality which is shed by a lovely soul as fragrance is shed by a flower. "even if she lives to be as old as i am, she will still keep her poise and her charm of appearance," thought the old lady, "she will never lose it because it isn't a matter of feature--it isn't dependent on outward beauty. years ago she was prettier than she is to-day, but she wasn't nearly so distinguished." aloud she said presently, "your hair grows in such a nice line on your forehead, my dear, just like your mother's. i remember we always made her brush hers straight back as you do, so she could show her 'widow's peak' in the centre. but yours is much darker, isn't it?" "yes, it is almost black. mother's was the loveliest shade of chestnut. i have a lock of it in an old breast-pin." a door at the end of the hall opened, and a thin woman, in rusty black alpaca, came to meet them. "that's the housekeeper--matty timberlake, the very salt of the earth," whispered mrs. colfax. "she is angelica's cousin." when the housekeeper reached them, she stooped and kissed mrs. colfax before she spoke to caroline. she was a long, narrow, neuralgic woman, with near-sighted eyes, thin grey hair which hung in wisps on her forehead, and a look which seemed to complain always that she was poor and dependent and nobody noticed her. "angelica is lying down," she said, "but she would like to speak to miss meade before i take her to her room." caroline's heart gave a bound. "at last i shall see her," she thought, while she followed mrs. timberlake down the hall and across the threshold of angelica's room. the influence that she had felt first in the twilight at the cedars and again in the drive out from richmond, welcomed her like a caress. her first impression was one of blue and ivory and gold. there was a bed, painted in garlands, with a scalloped canopy of blue silk; and caroline, who was accustomed to mahogany testers or the little iron beds in the hospital, was conscious of a thrill of delight as she looked at it. then her eyes fell on the white bear-skin rug before the fire, and from the rug they passed to the couch on which mrs. blackburn was lying. the woman and the room harmonized so perfectly that one might almost have mistaken angelica for a piece of hand-painted furniture. at first she appeared all blue silk and pale gold hair and small delicate features. then she sat up and held out her hand, and caroline saw that she looked not only human, but really tired and frail. there were faint shadows under her eyes, which were like grey velvet, and her hair, parted softly in golden wings over her forehead, showed several barely perceptible creases between her eyebrows. she was so thin that the bones of her face and neck were visible beneath the exquisite texture of her flesh, yet the modelling was as perfect as if her head and shoulders had been chiselled in marble. "you are caroline meade," she said sweetly. "i am so glad you have come." "i am glad, too. i wanted to come." the vibrant voice, full of warmth and sympathy, trembled with pleasure. for once the reality was fairer than the dream; the woman before her was lovelier than the veiled figure of caroline's imagination. it was one of those unforgettable moments when the mind pauses, with a sensation of delight and expectancy, on the edge of a new emotion, of an undiscovered country. this was not only something beautiful and rare; it was different from anything that had ever happened to her before; it was a part of the romantic mystery that surrounded the unknown. and it wasn't only that mrs. blackburn was so lovely! more than her beauty, the sweetness of her look, the appeal of her delicacy, of her feminine weakness, went straight to the heart. it was as if her nature reached out, with clinging tendrils, seeking support. she was like a fragile white flower that could not live without warmth and sunshine. "the other nurse leaves in the morning," mrs. blackburn was saying in her gentle voice, which carried the merest note of complaint, as if she cherished at heart some secret yet ineradicable grievance against destiny, "so you have come at the right moment to save me from anxiety. i am worried about letty. you can understand that she is never out of my thoughts." "yes, i can understand, and i hope she will like me." "she will love you from the first minute, for she is really an affectionate child, if one knows how to take her. oh, miss meade, you have taken a load off my shoulders! you look so kind and so competent, and i feel that i can rely on you. i am not strong, you know, and the doctor won't let me be much with letty. he says the anxiety is too wearing, though, if i had my way, i should never think of myself." "but you must," said caroline quietly. she felt that the child's illness and the terrible cause of it were wrecking mrs. blackburn's health as well as her happiness. "of course, i must try to take care of myself because in the end it will be so much better for letty." as she answered, angelica slipped her feet into a pair of embroidered blue silk _mules_, and rising slowly from her lace pillows, stood up on the white rug in front of the fire. though she was not tall, her extraordinary slenderness gave her the effect of height and the enchanting lines of one of botticelli's graces. "with you in the house i feel that everything will be easier," she added, after a minute in which she gazed down at the new nurse with a thoughtful, appraising look. "it will be as easy as i can make it. i will do everything that i can." the words were not spoken lightly, for the opportunity of service had brought a glow to caroline's heart, and she felt that her reply was more than a promise to do her best--that it was a vow of dedication from which only the future could release her. she had given her pledge of loyalty, and mrs. blackburn had accepted it. from this instant the bond between them assumed the nature and the obligation of a covenant. a smile quivered and died on angelica's lips, while the pathos in her expression drew the other to her as if there were a visible wound to be healed. "you will be a blessing. i can tell that when i look at you," she murmured; and her speech sounded almost empty after the overflowing sympathy of the silence. to caroline it was a relief when the housekeeper called to her from the doorway, and then led her upstairs to a bedroom in the third storey. it was a delightful room overlooking the circular drive, and for a minute they stood gazing down on the lawn and the evergreens. "everything is so lovely!" exclaimed caroline presently. one could rest here, she thought, even with hard work and the constant strain, which she foresaw, on her sympathies. "yes, it is pretty," answered the housekeeper. already mrs. timberlake had proved that, though she might be the salt of the earth, she was a taciturn and depressing companion--a stranded wreck left over from too voluble a generation of women. "and i never saw any one lovelier than mrs. blackburn," said caroline, "she looks like an angel." "well, i reckon there is mighty little you can say against angelica's looks unless your taste runs to a trifle more flesh," responded mrs. timberlake drily. "she ought to be happy," pursued caroline, with a feeling that was almost one of resentment. "anyone as beautiful as that ought to be happy." mrs. timberlake turned slowly toward her, and caroline was aware of a spasmodic stiffening of her figure, as if she were nerving herself for an outburst. when the explosion came, however, it was in the nature of an anti-climax. "i expect you are going to be very useful to her," she said; and in answer to a hurried summons at the door, she made one of her nervous gestures, and went out into the hall. "it would be perfect," thought caroline, "if i didn't have to meet mr. blackburn"; and she concluded, with a flash of her mother's unquenchable optimism, "well, perhaps i shan't see him to-night!" the sun had set, and almost imperceptibly the afterglow had dissolved into the twilight. outside, the lawn and the evergreens were in shadow; but from the house a misty circle of light fell on the drive, and on a narrow strip of turf, from which each separate blade of grass emerged with exaggerated distinctness as if it were illuminated. within this circle, with its mysterious penumbra, human life also seemed exaggerated by the luminous haze which divided it from the partial shadow of the evening. the house stood enclosed in light as in a garden; and beyond it, where the obscurity began, there was the space and silence of the universe. while she stood there, she felt, with a certainty more profound than a mere mental conviction, that this lighted house contained, for her, all the joy and tragedy of human experience; that her life would be interwoven with these other lives as closely as branches of trees in a forest. the appeal of mrs. blackburn had stirred her heart and intensified her perceptions. from the bleakness of the last seven years, she had awakened with revived emotions. "it is just my fancy," she thought, "but i feel as if something wonderful had really happened--as if life were beginning all over again to-night." the words were still in her mind, when a child's laugh rang out from a window below, and the figure of a man passed from the outlying obscurity across the illuminated grass. though he moved so hurriedly out of the light, she caught the suggestion of a smile; and she had a singular feeling that he was the same man, and yet not the same man, that she had seen in the motor. "i do hope i shan't have to meet him to-night," she repeated at the very instant that a knock fell on her door, and an old coloured woman came in to bring a message from mrs. blackburn. she was a benevolent looking, aristocratic negress, with a fine, glossy skin as brown as a chestnut, and traces of indian blood in her high cheekbones. a white handkerchief was bound over her head like a turban, and her black bombazine dress hung in full, stately folds from her narrow waist line. for a minute, before delivering her message, she peered gravely at caroline by the dim light of the window. "ain't you miss carrie warwick's chile, honey? you ax 'er ef'n she's done forgot de fitzhugh chillun's mammy? i riz all er de fitzhugh chillun." "then you must be mammy riah? mother used to tell me about you when i was a little girl. you told stories just like bible ones." "dat's me, honey, en i sutney is glad ter see you. de chillun dey wuz al'ays pesterin' me 'bout dose bible stories jes' exactly de way letty wuz doin' dis ve'y mawnin'." "tell me something about the little girl. is she really ill?" asked caroline; and it occurred to her, as she put the question, that it was strange nobody had mentioned the child's malady. here again the darkness and mystery of the house she had imagined--that house which was so unlike briarlay--reacted on her mind. the old negress chuckled softly. "naw'm, she ain' sick, dat's jes' some er miss angy's foolishness. dar ain' nuttin' in de worl' de matter wid letty 'cep'n de way dey's brung 'er up. you cyarn' raise a colt ez ef'n hit wuz a rabbit, en dar ain' no use'n tryin'." then she remembered her message. "miss angy sez she sutney would be erbleeged ter you ef'n you 'ould come erlong down ter dinner wid de res' un um. miss molly waver's done 'phone she cyarn' come, en dar ain' nobody else in de house ez kin set in her place." for an instant caroline hesitated. "if i go down, i'll have to meet mr. blackburn," she said under her breath. a gleam of humour shot into the old woman's eyes. "marse david! go 'way f'om yer, chile, whut you skeered er marse david fur?" she rejoined. "he ain' gwine ter hu't you." chapter iv angelica at a quarter of eight o'clock, when caroline was waiting to be called, mrs. timberlake came in to ask if she might fasten her dress. "oh, you're all hooked and ready," she remarked. "i suppose nurses learn to be punctual." "they have to be, so much depends on it." "well, you look sweet. i've brought you a red rose from the table. it will lighten up that black dress a little." "i don't often go to dinner parties," said caroline while she pinned on the rose. "will there be many people?" there was no shyness in her voice or manner; and it seemed to mrs. timberlake that the black gown, with its straight, slim skirt, which had not quite gone out of fashion, made her appear taller and more dignified. her hair, brushed smoothly back from her forehead, gave to her clear profile the look of some delicate etching. there was a faint flush in her cheeks, and her eyes were richer and bluer than they had looked in the afternoon. she was a woman, not a girl, and her charm was the charm not of ignorance, but of intelligence, wisdom, and energy. "only twelve," answered the housekeeper, "sometimes we have as many as twenty." there was an expression of pain in her eyes, due to chronic neuralgia, and while she spoke she pressed her fingers to her temples. "is mr. wythe coming?" asked caroline. "he always comes. it is so hard to find unattached men that the same ones get invited over and over. then there are mr. and mrs. chalmers. they are from new york and the dinner is given to them--and the ashburtons and robert colfax and his wife--who was daisy carter--she is very good looking but a little flighty--and mr. peyton, old mrs. colfax's brother." "i know--'brother charles'--but who are the ashburtons?" "colonel ashburton is very amusing. he is on mr. blackburn's side in politics, and they are great friends. his wife is dull, but she means well, and she is useful on committees because she is a good worker and never knows when she is put upon. well, it's time for you to go down, i reckon. i just ran up from the pantry to see if i could help you." a minute later, when caroline left her room, mary blackburn joined her, and the two went downstairs together. mary was wearing a lovely gown of amber silk, and she looked so handsome that caroline scarcely recognized her. her black hair, piled on the crown of her head, gave her, in spite of her modern dash and frankness, a striking resemblance to one of the old portraits at the cedars. she was in high spirits, for the ride with alan had left her glowing with happiness. "we'd better hustle. they are waiting for us," she said. "i was late getting in, so i tossed on the first dress i could find." then she ran downstairs, and caroline, following her more slowly, found herself presently shaking hands with the dreaded david blackburn. he was so quiet and unassuming that only when he had taken her hand and had asked her a few conventional questions about her trip, did she realize that she was actually speaking to him. in evening clothes, surrounded by the pink silk walls of angelica's drawing-room, his face looked firmer and harder than it had appeared in the motor; but even in this extravagant setting, he impressed her as more carefully dressed and groomed than the average virginian of her acquaintance. she saw now that he was younger than she had at first thought; he couldn't, she surmised, be much over forty. there were deep lines in his forehead; his features had settled into the granite-like immobility that is acquired only through grim and resolute struggle; and his dark, carefully brushed hair showed a silvery gloss on the temples--yet these things, she realized, were the marks of battles, not of years. what struck her most was the quickness with which the touch of arrogance in his expression melted before the engaging frankness of his smile. "i'm glad you've come. i hope you will get on with letty," he said; and then, as he turned away, the vision of angelica, in white chiffon and pearls, floated toward her from a group by the fireplace. "colonel ashburton is an old friend of your mother's, miss meade. he took her to her first cotillion, and he is eager to meet her daughter." there followed swift introductions to the ashburtons, the chalmers, and the colfaxes; and not until caroline was going into the dining-room on the arm of mrs. colfax's "brother charles," was she able to distinguish between the stranger from new york, who looked lean and wiry and strenuous, and the white-haired old gentleman who had taken her mother to the cotillion. she was not confused; and yet her one vivid impression was of angelica, with her pale madonna head, her soft grey eyes under thick lashes, and her lovely figure in draperies of chiffon that flowed and rippled about her. though the house was an inappropriate setting for david blackburn, it was, for all its newness and ornate accessories, the perfect frame for his wife's beauty. she reminded caroline of the allegorical figure of spring in one of the tapestries on the dining-room walls--only she was so much softer, so much more ethereal, as if the floral image had come to life and been endowed with a soul. it was the rare quality of mrs. blackburn's beauty that in looking at her one thought first of her spirit--of the sweetness and goodness which informed and animated her features. the appeal she made was the appeal of an innocent and beautiful creature who is unhappy. against the background of an unfortunate marriage, she moved with the resigned and exalted step of a christian martyr. sitting silently between the flippant "brother charles" and the imposing colonel ashburton, who was still talking of her mother, caroline tried to follow the conversation while she studied the faces and the dresses of the women. mrs. chalmers, who was large and handsome in a superb gown of green velvet, appeared heavy and indifferent, and mrs. ashburton, an over-earnest middle-aged woman, with a classic profile and a look of impersonal yet hungry philanthropy, was so detached that she seemed, when she spoke, to be addressing an invisible audience. in spite of her regular features and her flawless complexion, she was as devoid of charm as an organized charity. on her right sat allan wythe, a clean-cut, good-looking chap, with romantic eyes and the air of a sportsman. though caroline had heard that he wrote plays, she thought that he needed only a gun and a dog to complete his appearance. "he is the only good-looking man here," she concluded. "some people might think mr. blackburn good-looking, but i suppose i know too much about him." and she remembered that her father had said a man's character always showed in his mouth. next to alan there was mrs. robert colfax--a beautiful spanish-looking creature, straight as a young poplar, and as full of silvery lights and shadows. she had no sooner sat down than she began to ask angelica, with an agreeable though flighty animation, if she had seen somebody since he had come back from his wedding trip? for the next quarter of an hour they kept up an excited interchange of gossip, while mr. chalmers listened with polite attention, and caroline tried in vain to discover who the unknown person was, and why his wedding trip should interest anybody so profoundly. "well, i never thought he'd get another wife after his last misadventure," rippled mrs. colfax, "but they tell me he had only to wink an eyelash. i declare i don't know a more discouraging spectacle than the men that some women will marry." at the other end of the table, mrs. blackburn was talking in a low voice to mr. chalmers, and the broken clauses of her conversation were punctuated by the laughter of the irrepressible daisy, who was never silent. though angelica was not brilliant, though she never said anything clever enough for one to remember, she had what her friends called "a sweet way of talking," and a flattering habit, when she was with a man, of ending every sentence with a question. "i'm sure i don't see how we are to keep out of this war, do you, mr. chalmers?" or "i think the simplest way to raise money would be by some tableaux, don't you, colonel ashburton?"; and still a little later there floated to caroline, "i tell mary she rides too much. don't you think it is a pity for a woman to spend half her life in the saddle? of course if she hasn't anything else to do--but in this age, don't you feel, there are so many opportunities of service?" "oh, when it comes to that," protested mrs. colfax, in the tone of airy banter she affected, "there are many more of us trying to serve than there are opportunities of service. i was telling mother only the other day that i couldn't see a single war charity because the vice-presidents are so thick." a lull fell on the table, and for the first time caroline heard blackburn's voice. mrs. chalmers was asking him about the house, and he was responding with a smile that made his face almost young and sanguine. his mouth, when he was not on guard, was sensitive and even emotional, and his eyes lost the sharpness that cut through whatever they looked at. "why, yes, i built it before my marriage," he was saying. "dodson drew the plans. you know dodson?" mrs. chalmers nodded. "he has done some good things in new york. and this lovely furniture," she was plainly working hard to draw him out. "where did you find it?" he met the question lightly. "oh, i had a lot of stuff here that angelica got rid of." from the other end of the table mrs. blackburn's voice floated plaintively, "there isn't a piece of it left," she said. "it made the house look exactly like an italian hotel." the remark struck caroline as so unfortunate that she turned, with a start of surprise, to glance at her hostess. could it be that mrs. blackburn was without tact? could it be that she did not realize the awkwardness of her interruption? yet a single glance at angelica was sufficient to answer these questions. a woman who looked like that couldn't be lacking in social instinct. it must have been a casual slip, nothing more. she was probably tired--hadn't old mrs. colfax said that she was delicate?--and she did not perceive the effect of her words. glancing again in blackburn's direction, caroline saw that his features had hardened, and that the hand on the tablecloth was breaking a piece of bread into crumbs. the change in his manner was so sudden that caroline understood, even before she saw the twitching of his eyebrows, and the gesture of irritation with which he pushed the bread crumbs away, that, in spite of his reserve and his coldness, he was a bundle of over-sensitive nerves. "he was behaving really well," she thought. "it is a pity that she irritated him." though she disliked blackburn, she was just enough to admit that he had started well with mrs. chalmers. of course, no one expected him to appear brilliant in society. a man who had had no education except the little his mother had taught him, and who had devoted his life to making a fortune, was almost as much debarred from social success as a woman who knew only trained nursing. yet, in spite of these defects, she realized that he appeared to advantage at his own table. there was something about him--some latent suggestion of force--which distinguished him from every other man in the room. he looked--she couldn't quite define the difference--as if he could do things. the recollection of his stand in politics came to her while she watched him, and turning to mr. peyton, who was a trifle more human than colonel ashburton, she asked: "what is this new movement mr. blackburn is so much interested in? i've seen a great deal about it in the papers." there was a bluff, kind way about charles peyton, and she liked the natural heartiness of the laugh with which he answered. "you've seen a great deal more than you've read, young lady, i'll warrant. no, it isn't exactly a new movement, because somebody in the north got ahead of him--you may always count on a yankee butting in just before you--but he is organizing the independent voters in virginia, if that's what you mean. at least he thinks he is, though even way down here i've a suspicion that those yankees have been meddling. between you and me, miss meade, it is all humbug--pure humbug. haven't we got one party already, and doesn't that one have a hard enough time looking after the negroes? why do we want to go and start up trouble just after we've got things all nicely settled? why does david want to stir up a hornet's nest among the negroes, i'd like to know?" on the other side of caroline, colonel ashburton became suddenly audible. "ask that rip van winkle, miss meade, if he was asleep while we made a new constitution and eliminated the vote of the negroes? you can't argue with these stand-patters, you know, because they never read the signs of the times." "well, there isn't a better way of proving it's all humbug than by asking two questions," declared the jovial charles--a plethoric, unwieldy old man, with a bald head, and a figure that was continually brimming over his waistcoat. "what i want to know, billy ashburton, is just this--wasn't your father as good a man as you are, and wasn't the democratic party good enough for your father? i put the same to you, miss meade, wasn't the democratic party good enough for your father?" "ah, you're driven to your last trench," observed the colonel, with genial irony, while caroline replied slowly: "yes, it was good enough for father, but i remember he used to be very fond of quoting some lines from pope about 'principles changing with the times.' i suppose the questions are different from what they were in his day." "i'd like to see any questions the democrats aren't able to handle," persisted charles. "they always have handled them to my satisfaction, and i reckon they always will, in spite of blackburn and ashburton." "i wish blackburn could talk to you, miss meade," said colonel ashburton. "he doesn't care much for personalities. he has less small talk than any man i know, but he speaks well if you get him started on ideas. by-the-way, he is the man who won me over. i used to be as strongly prejudiced against any fresh departure in virginia politics as our friend charles there, but blackburn got hold of me, and convinced me, as he has convinced a great many others, against my will. he proved to me that the old forms are worn out--that they can't do the work any longer. you see, blackburn is an idealist. he sees straight through the sham to the truth quicker than any man i've ever known----" "an idealist!" exclaimed caroline, and mentally she added, "is it possible for a man to have two characters? to have a public character that gives the lie to his private one?" "yes, i think you might call him that, though, like you, i rather shy at the word. but it fits blackburn, somehow, for he is literally on fire with ideas. i always say that he ought to have lived in the glorious days when the republic was founded. he belongs to the pure breed of american." "but i understood from the papers that it was just the other way--that he was--that he was----" "i know, my child, i know." he smiled indulgently, for she looked very charming with the flush in her cheeks, and after thirty years of happy companionship with an impeccable character, he preferred at dinner a little amiable weakness in a woman. "you have seen in the papers that he is a traitor to the faith of his fathers. you have even heard this asserted by the logical charles on your right." she lifted her eyes, and to his disappointment he discovered that earnestness, not embarrassment, had brought the colour to her cheeks. "but i thought that this new movement was directed at the democratic party--that it was attempting to undo all that had been accomplished in the last fifty years. it seems the wrong way, but of course there must be a right way toward better things." for a minute he looked at her in silence; then he said again gently, "i wish blackburn could talk to you." since she had come by her ideas honestly, not merely borrowed them from charles colfax, it seemed only chivalrous to treat them with the consideration he accorded always to the fair and the frail. she shook her head. the last thing she wanted was to have mr. blackburn talk to her. "i thought all old-fashioned virginians opposed this movement," she added after a pause. "not that i am very old-fashioned. you remember my father, and so you will know that his daughter is not afraid of opinions." "yes, i remember him, and i understand that his child could not be afraid either of opinions or armies." she smiled up at him, and he saw that her eyes, which had been a little sad, were charged with light. while he watched her he wondered if her quietness were merely a professional habit of reserve which she wore like a uniform. was the warmth and fervour which he read now in her face a glimpse of the soul which life had hidden beneath the dignity of her manner? "but blackburn isn't an agitator," he resumed after a moment. "he has got hold of the right idea--the new application of eternal principles. if we could send him to washington he would do good work." "to washington?" she looked at him inquiringly. "you mean to the senate? not in the place of colonel acton?" "ah, that touches you! you wouldn't like to see the 'odysseus of democracy' dispossessed?" laughter sparkled in her eyes, and he realized that she was more girlish than he had thought her a minute ago. after all, she had humour, and it was a favourite saying of his that ideas without humour were as bad as bread without yeast. "only for another ajax," she retorted merrily. "i prefer the strong to the wise. but does mr. blackburn want the senatorship?" "perhaps not, but he might be made to take it. there is a rising tide in virginia." "is it strong enough to overturn the old prejudices?" "not yet--not yet, but it is strengthening every hour." his tone had lost its gallantry and grown serious. "the war in europe has taught us a lesson. we aren't satisfied any longer, the best thought isn't satisfied, with the old clutter and muddle of ideas and sentiments. we begin to see that what we need in politics is not commemorative gestures, but constructive patriotism." as he finished, caroline became aware again that blackburn was speaking, and that for the first time mrs. chalmers looked animated and interested. "why, that has occurred to me," he was saying with an earnestness that swept away his reserve. "but, you see, it is impossible to do anything in the south with the republican party. the memories are too black. we must think in new terms." "and you believe that the south is ready for another party? has the hour struck?" "can't you hear it?" he looked up as he spoke. "the war abroad has liberated us from the old sectional bondage. it has brought the world nearer, and the time is ripe for the national spirit. the demand now is for men. we need men who will construct ideas, not copy them. we need men strong enough to break up the solid south and the solid north, and pour them together into the common life of the nation. we want a patriotism that will overflow party lines, and put the good of the country before the good of a section. the old phrases, the old gestures, are childish to-day because we have outgrown them----" he stopped abruptly, his face so enkindled that caroline would not have known it, and an instant later the voice of mrs. blackburn was heard saying sweetly but firmly, "david, i am afraid that mrs. chalmers is not used to your melodramatic way of talking." in the hush that followed it seemed as if a harsh light had fallen over blackburn's features. a moment before caroline had seen him inspired and exalted by feeling--the vehicle of the ideas that possessed him--and now, in the sharp flash of angelica's irony, he appeared insincere and theatrical--the claptrap politician in motley. "it is a pity she spoke just when she did," thought caroline, "but i suppose she sees through him so clearly that she can't help herself. she doesn't want him to mislead the rest of us." blackburn's guard was up again, and though he made no reply, his brow paled slowly and his hand--the nervous, restless hand of the emotional type--played with the bread crumbs. "yes, it is a pity," repeated caroline to herself. "it makes things very uncomfortable." it was evident to her that mrs. blackburn watched her husband every instant--that she was waiting all the time to rectify his mistakes, to put him in the right again. then, swiftly as an arrow, there flashed through caroline's mind, "only poor, lovely creature, she achieves exactly the opposite result. she is so nervous she can't see that she puts him always in the wrong. she makes matters worse instead of better every time." from this moment the dinner dragged on heavily to its awkward end. blackburn had withdrawn into his shell; mrs. chalmers looked depressed and bored; while the giddy voice of mrs. colfax sounded as empty as the twitter of a sparrow. it was as if a blight had fallen over them, and in this blight angelica made charming, futile attempts to keep up the conversation. she had tried so hard, her eyes, very gentle and pensive, seemed to say, and all her efforts were wasted. suddenly, in the dull silence, mrs. colfax began asking, in her flightiest manner, about angelica's family. for at least five minutes she had vacillated in her own mind between the weather and roane fitzhugh, who, for obvious reasons, was not a promising topic; and now at last, since the weather was too perfect for comment, she recklessly decided to introduce the unsavoury roane. "we haven't seen your brother recently, angelica. what do you hear from him?" for an instant mrs. blackburn's eyes rested with mute reproach on her husband. then she said clearly and slowly, "he has been away all summer, but we hope he is coming next week. david," she added suddenly in a louder tone, "i was just telling daisy how glad we are that roane is going to spend the autumn at briarlay." it was at that instant, just as mrs. blackburn, smiling amiably on her husband, was about to rise from the table, that the astounding, the incredible thing happened, for blackburn looked up quickly, and replied in a harsh, emphatic manner, "he is not coming to briarlay. you know that we cannot have him here." then before a word was uttered, before mrs. colfax had time to twitter cheerfully above the awkwardness, mrs. blackburn rose from her chair, and the women trailed slowly after her out of the dining-room. as caroline went, she felt that her heart was bursting with sympathy for angelica and indignation against her husband. "how in the world shall i ever speak to him after this?" she thought. "how shall i ever stay under the same roof with him?" and glancing pityingly to where mrs. blackburn's flower-like head drooped against the rosy shade of a lamp, she realized that angelica never looked so lovely as she did when she was hurt. chapter v the first night when the last guest had gone, caroline went upstairs to her room, and sitting down before the little ivory and gold desk, began a letter to her mother. for years, ever since her first night in the hospital, she had poured out her heart after the day's work and the day's self-control and restraint were over. it was a relief to be free sometimes, to break through the discipline of her profession, to live and love for oneself, not for others. the house was very still--only from the darkness outside, where the wind had risen, a few yellow leaves fluttered in through the window. * * * * * i am here, at last, dearest mother, and i have been longing to tell you about it. first of all, i had a good trip, my train was exactly on time, and mrs. colfax met me in the most beautiful car i ever saw, and brought me out to briarlay. she was very nice and kind, but she looks ever so much older than you do, and i cannot help feeling that, in spite of the loss of so many children and father's dreadful disappointments, your life has been happier than hers. as i get older, and see more of the world--and heaven knows i have seen anything but the best of it these last seven or eight years--i understand better and better that happiness is something you have to find deep down in yourself, not in other people or outside things. it shines through sometimes just as yours does and lights up the world around and the dark places, but it never, _never_ comes from them--of this i am very sure. i wish i could describe this house to you, but i cannot--i simply cannot, the words will not come to me. it is big and beautiful, but i think it is too full of wonderful things--there are rooms that make me feel as if i were in a museum because of the tapestries and crowded rugs and french furniture. i like english mahogany so much better, but that may be just because i am used to it. i suppose it is natural that mrs. blackburn should prefer surroundings that are opulent and florid, since they make her look like a lovely flower in a greenhouse. she is even more beautiful than i thought she would be, and she does not seem the least bit snobbish or spoiled or arrogant. i have always said, you remember, that nursing has taught me not to rely on mere impressions whether they are first or last ones--but i have never in my life met any one who attracted me so strongly in the beginning. it is years since i have felt my sympathy so completely drawn out by a stranger. i feel that i would do anything in the world that i could for her; and though i cannot write frankly about what i have observed here, i believe that she needs help and understanding as much as any one i ever saw. the situation seems worse even than we were led to expect. of course i have seen only the surface so far, but my heart has been wrung for her ever since i have been in the house, and this evening there was a very painful scene at the dinner table. i shall not write any more about it, though i imagine it will be spread all over richmond by young mrs. colfax. about mr. blackburn i have not quite made up my mind. i do not doubt that everything mrs. colfax wrote us is true, and i know if i stay on here that i shall make no attempt to conceal from him how much i dislike him. that will be no secret. i simply could not pretend even to him that i was not heart and soul on the side of his wife. it is so perfectly dreadful when one has to take sides with a husband or wife, isn't it? when i think how wonderful a marriage like yours and father's can be, it makes me feel sorry and ashamed for human nature as i see it here. but you cannot become a nurse and keep many illusions about love. the thing that remains after years of such work is no illusion at all--but the clear knowledge of the reality. a nurse sees the best and the worst of humanity--and the very best of it is the love that some people keep to the end. as for this marriage, there is not a person in richmond, nor a servant in the house, who does not know that it is an unhappy one. mrs. blackburn cannot be at fault--one has only to look at her to realize that she is too gentle and sweet to hurt any one--and yet i discovered to-night that she does not know how to treat him, that she says the wrong thing so often without meaning to, and that unconsciously she irritates him whenever she speaks. it is impossible to blame her, for she must have suffered a great many things that no one knows of, and i suppose her nerves are not always under control. but nothing could be more unfortunate than her manner to him at times. strange to say (i do not understand why) some people appear to admire him tremendously. i went down to dinner to-night because one of the guests did not come, and colonel ashburton--he said he used to know you--talked in the most extravagant fashion about mr. blackburn's abilities. the air here is heavy with politics because of the elections, and i tried to listen as closely as i could. i thought how intensely interested father would have been in the discussion. as far as i can understand mr. blackburn's way of thinking is not unlike father's, and but for his behaviour to his wife, this would give me a sympathetic feeling for him. i forgot to tell you that he looked very well to-night--not in the least rough or common. his face is not ugly, only he wears his hair brushed straight back, and this makes his features look sterner than they really are. his eyes are the keenest i ever saw--grey, i think, and yet, funny as it sounds, there are times when they are almost pathetic--and his smile is very nice and reminds me in a way of father's. this may have been why i thought of father all the time i was at dinner--this and the political talk which went on as long as we were at the table. well, i started to tell you about the elections, and i know you are thinking i shall never go on. it seems that mr. blackburn intends to vote for hughes--though i heard him tell mr. chalmers that if he lived in the north he should probably vote with the democrats. voting for a man, he feels, is not nearly so important as voting against a section--at least this is what i gathered. there was a great deal said about the war, but nobody, except mrs. colfax's brother charles, who does not count, seemed to think there was the faintest chance of our being in it. mr. chalmers told me afterwards that if wilson should be re-elected, it would be mainly because of the slogan "he kept us out of war." as far as i could discover mr. chalmers stands firmly by the president, but i heard mr. blackburn tell colonel ashburton that what he hoped for now was conduct so flagrant, on germany's part, that the public conscience would demand a more vigorous policy. by the way, mr. chalmers said that the feeling was so strong in new york that he expected the state to go to the republicans because there was a general impression that to vote with them meant to vote for war. of course, he added, this was mere german propaganda--but that was only another way of saying he did not agree with it. opinions change every hour, and just as soon as a new one begins to be popular, people forget all that they believed just as ardently a few weeks before. don't you remember how complacent we were about our splendid isolation and our pluperfect pacifism and our being "too proud to fight" such a very short while ago? well, nobody remembers now the way we crowed over europe and patted one another on the back, and congratulated ourselves because we could stand aside and wait until history showed who was right. that is over and gone now, and "i didn't raise my boy to be a soldier" has joined the dust of all the other rag-time. if the slow coach of history ever does come up with us, it may find us in the thick of the fight after all, and not waiting by the roadside. mr. chalmers believes that if the president is re-elected, and can get the country behind him, the government will declare that a state of war exists--but mr. blackburn, on the other hand, is convinced that both wilson and hughes are pledged to fulfil their promises of "peace and prosperity." he insists that there was more war spirit over the whole country the week after the _lusitania_ was sunk, than there has ever been since, and that we were as ready to fight then as we shall be after the elections. it is like being in the midst of electric currents to sit still and listen to these men argue. can you imagine anything more unlike father's day when all virginians, except those whom nobody knew, thought exactly alike? now, though the vote is solid still, and the great majority accepts the policies of the democrats as uncritically as it accepts scripture, opinions about secondary issues vary as much as they do anywhere else. there are some who regard the president as greater than george washington--and others who say that the moment is great, not the man. mr. colfax believes that he is a generation ahead of his country, and colonel ashburton believes just as strongly that he is a generation behind it--that it is a case where a wave of destiny is sweeping a man on to greatness. i suppose here again we shall have to wait until history shows who is right. i have not seen the little girl yet--her name is letty. they have to be careful not to excite her in the evening, and the other nurse is still with her. now i must go to bed. your devoted child, caroline. * * * * * she had finished her letter and glanced at her watch on the bureau--it was one o'clock--when a cry or moan reached her from the darkness and silence of the house, and a few minutes afterwards there came the sound of running footsteps on the stairs, and a hasty knock fell on her door. "miss meade, will you please come as quickly as you can?" opening the door, she met the frightened face of a maid. "what has happened? is mrs. blackburn ill?" "i don't know. she hasn't undressed and she is too ill to speak. i left her on the couch, and ran upstairs to call you." they were already in the hall, and while they hurried to the staircase, caroline asked a few questions in a whisper. "is there any medicine that she is accustomed to take?" "i give her ammonia sometimes, but to-night it didn't do any good." "does she faint often?" "i'm not sure. she has these attacks, but only after--after----" the woman paused in confusion, and before she could recover herself, caroline had opened the door and walked swiftly to the prostrate figure, in white chiffon, on the couch in front of the fire. bending over she felt angelica's pulse and lowered her head, with its loosened amber hair, on the pillows. "your pulse is good. do you feel better now?" she asked tenderly, for, in spite of the quiet competence of her professional attitude, her heart was aching with pity. "i was sure i could count on your sympathy." as she answered, mrs. blackburn stretched out her hands until they rested on caroline's arm. "has mary gone out of the room?" "your maid? yes, she has just gone. what can i do for you?" even in the midst of the emotional crisis, angelica's manner had not lost a trace of its charming self-possession, its rather colourless sweetness. her grey eyes, drenched in tears which left no redness on the firm white lids, were as devoid of passion as the eyes of a child. "i cannot tell you--i cannot tell any one," she said after a moment, not in answer to the other's question, but with a plaintive murmur. then she began to cry very gently, while she clung to caroline with her lovely hands which were as soft and fragrant as flowers. "i think i know without your telling me," responded caroline soothingly. "let me help you." all her years of nursing had not enabled her to watch suffering, especially the suffering of helpless things, without a pang of longing to comfort. she was on her knees now by the couch, her smooth dark head bending over angelica's disarranged fair one, her grave, compassionate face gazing down on the other's delicate features, which were softened, not disfigured, by tears. "the worst is about roane--my brother," began angelica slowly. "he came here to-night, but they--" she lingered over the word, "sent him away before i could talk to him. he is downstairs now on the terrace because he is not allowed to come into the house--my brother. i must get this cheque to him, but i do not like to ask one of the servants----" "you wish me to take it to him?" caroline released herself from the clinging hands, and rose quickly to her feet. here at last was a definite call to action. "oh, miss meade, if you would!" already angelica's eyes were dry. "i will go at once. is the cheque written?" "i carried it down with me, but i could not get a chance to give it to roane. poor boy," she added in a low rather than a soft tone, "poor boy, after all, he is more sinned against than sinning!" drawing the cheque from under the lace pillows, she gave it into caroline's hand with a gesture of relief. "go through the dining-room to the terrace, and you will find him outside by the windows. tell him that i will see him as soon as i can, and ask him please not to trouble me again." she had rung for her maid while she was speaking, and when the woman appeared, she rose and waited, with a yawn, for her dress to be unfastened. then suddenly, as if she had forgotten something, she gave caroline a smile full of beauty and pathos. "thank you a thousand tunes, dear miss meade," she exclaimed gratefully. it was dark downstairs, except for a nebulous glow from the hall above and a thin reddish line that ran beneath the closed door of the library. not until she reached the dining-room did caroline dare turn on the electric light, and as soon as she did so, the terrace and the garden appeared by contrast to be plunged in blackness. when she opened one of the long french windows, and stepped out on the brick terrace, her eyes became gradually accustomed to the starlight, and she discerned presently the shrouded outlines of the juniper trees and a marble fountain which emerged like a ghost from the quivering spray of water. as she went quickly down the steps to the lower terrace, she felt as much alone in her surroundings as if the house and mrs. blackburn had receded into a dream. overhead there was the silvery glitter of stars, and before her she divined the simplicity and peace of an autumn garden, where the wind scattered the faint scent of flowers that were already beginning to drop and decay. when she approached the fountain, the figure of a man detached itself from the vague shape of an evergreen, and came toward her. "well, i've waited awhile, haven't i?" he began airily, and the next instant exclaimed with scarcely a change of tone, "who are you? did anna jeannette send you?" "i am letty's new nurse--miss meade." "what! a spirit yet a woman too!" his voice was full of charm. "mrs. blackburn sent me with this." as she held out the cheque, he took it with a gesture that was almost hungry. "she asked me to say that she would see you very soon, and to beg you not to trouble her again." "does she imagine that i do it for pleasure!" he placed the cheque in his pocket book. "she cannot suppose that i came here to-night for the sake of a row." though he was unusually tall, he carried his height with the ease of an invincible dignity and self-possession; and she had already discerned that his sister's pathos had no part in the tempestuous ardour and gaiety of his nature. "she didn't tell me," answered caroline coldly. "there is nothing else, is there?" her features were like marble beneath the silken dusk of her hair which was faintly outlined against the cloudier darkness. "there is a great deal--since you ask me." "nothing, i mean, that i may say to your sister?" "you may say to her that i thank her for her message--and her messenger." he was about to add something more, when caroline turned away from him and moved, without haste, as if she were unaware that he followed her, up the shallow steps of the terrace. when she reached the window, she passed swiftly, like a dissolving shadow, from the darkness into the light of the room. nothing had been said that she found herself able to resent, and yet, in some indefinable way, roane's manner had offended her. "for a trained nurse you are entirely too particular," she said to herself, smiling, as she put out the light and went through the wide doorway into the hall. "you have still a good deal of haughtiness to overcome, miss meade, if you expect every man to treat you as if you wore side curls and a crinoline." the hall, when she entered it, was very dim, but as she approached the door of the library, it opened, and blackburn stood waiting for her on the threshold. behind him the room was illuminated, and she saw the rich sheen of leather bindings and the glow of firelight on the old persian rug by the hearth. "you have been out, miss meade?" "yes, i have been out." as she threw back her head, the light was full on her face while his was in shadow. "do you need anything?" "nothing, thank you." for an instant their eyes met, and in that single glance, charged with an implacable accusation, she made angelica's cause her own. grave, remote, dispassionate, her condemnation was as impersonal as a judgment of the invisible powers. "that is all, then, good-night," he said. "good-night." while he watched her, she turned as disdainfully as she had turned from roane, and ascended the stairs. chapter vi letty in the breakfast room next morning, caroline found the little girl in charge of miss miller, the nurse who was leaving that day. letty was a fragile, undeveloped child of seven years, with the dark hair and eyes of her father, and the old, rather elfish look of children who have been ill from the cradle. her soft, fine hair hung straight to her shoulders, and framed her serious little face, which was charming in spite of its unhealthy pallor. caroline had questioned miss miller about the child's malady, and she had been reassured by the other nurse's optimistic view of the case. "we think she may outgrow the trouble, that's why we are so careful about all the rules she lives by. the doctor watches her closely, and she isn't a difficult child to manage. if you once gain her confidence you can do anything with her, but first of all you must make her believe in you." "was she always so delicate?" "i believe she was born this way. she is stunted physically, though she is so precocious mentally. she talks exactly like an old person sometimes. the things she says would make you laugh if it wasn't so pathetic to know that a child thinks them." yes, it was pathetic, caroline felt, while she watched letty cross the room to her father, who was standing before one of the french windows. as she lifted her face gravely, blackburn bent over and kissed her. "i'm taking a new kind of medicine, father." he smiled down on her. "then perhaps you will eat a new kind of breakfast." "and i've got a new nurse," added letty before she turned away and came over to caroline. "i'm so glad you wear a uniform," she said in her composed manner. "i think uniforms are much nicer than dresses like aunt matty's." mrs. timberlake looked up from the coffee urn with a smile that was like a facial contortion. "anything might be better than my dresses, letty." "but you ought to get something pretty," said the child quickly, for her thoughts came in flashes. "if you wore a uniform you might look happy, too. are all nurses happy, miss miller?" "we try to be, dear," answered miss miller, a stout, placid person, while she settled the little girl in her chair. "it makes things so much easier." blackburn, who had been looking out on the terrace and the formal garden, turned and bowed stiffly as he came to the table. it was evident that he was not in a talkative mood, and as caroline returned his greeting with the briefest acknowledgment, she congratulated herself that she did not have to make conversation for him. mary had not come in from her ride, and since mrs. timberlake used language only under the direct pressure of necessity, the sound of letty's unembarrassed childish treble rippled placidly over the constrained silence of her elders. "can you see the garden?" asked the child presently. "i don't mean the box garden, i mean the real garden where the flowers are?" caroline was helping herself to oatmeal, and raising her eyes from the dish, she glanced through the window which gave on the brick terrace. beyond the marble fountain and a dark cluster of junipers there was an arch of box, which framed the lower garden and a narrow view of the river. "that's where my garden is, down there," letty was saying. "i made it all by myself--didn't i, miss miller?--and my verbenas did better than mother's last summer. would you like to have a garden, father?" she inquired suddenly, turning to blackburn, who was looking over the morning paper while he waited for his coffee. "it wouldn't be a bit more trouble for me to take care of two than one. i'll make yours just like mine if you want me to." blackburn put down his paper. "well, i believe i should like one," he replied gravely, "if you are sure you have time for it. but aren't there a great many more important things you ought to do?" "oh, it doesn't take so much time," returned the child eagerly, "i work all i can, but the doctor won't let me do much. i'll make yours close to mine, so there won't be far to go with the water. i have to carry it in a very little watering-pot because they won't let me lift a big one." a smile quivered for an instant on her father's lips, and caroline saw his face change and soften as it had done the evening before. it was queer, she thought, that he should have such a sensitive mouth. she had imagined that a man of that character would have coarse lips and a brutal expression. "now, it's odd, but i've always had a fancy for a garden of that sort," he responded, "if you think you can manage two of them without over-taxing yourself. i don't want to put you to additional trouble, you know. after all, that's just what i hire peter for, isn't it?" while the child was assuring him that peter had neither the time nor the talent for miniature gardening, miss miller remarked pleasantly, as if she were visited by a brilliant idea, "you ought to make one for your mother also, letty." "oh, mother doesn't want one," returned the child: "the big ones are hers, aren't they, father?" then, as blackburn had unfolded his paper again, she added to caroline, with one of the mature utterances miss miller had called pathetic, "when you have big things you don't care for little things, do you?" as they were finishing breakfast, mary blackburn dashed in from the terrace, with the airedale terriers at her heels. "i was afraid you'd have gone before i got back, david," she said, tossing her riding-crop and gloves on a chair, and coming over to the table. "patrick, put the dogs out, and tell peter to give them their breakfast." then turning back to her brother, she resumed carelessly, "that man stopped me again--that foreman you discharged from the works." blackburn's brow darkened. "ridley? i told him not to come on the place. is he hanging about?" "i met him in the lane. he asked me to bring a message to you. it seems he wants awfully to be reinstated. he is out of work; and he doesn't want to go north for a job." "it's a pity he didn't think of that sooner. he has made more trouble in the plant than any ten men i've ever had. it isn't his fault that there's not a strike on now." "i know," said mary, "but i couldn't refuse to hear him. there's alan now," she added. "ask him about it." she looked up, her face flushing with pride and happiness, as alan wythe opened the window. there was something free and noble in her candour. all the little coquetries and vanities of women appeared to shrivel in the white blaze of her sincerity. "so you've been held up by ridley," remarked blackburn, as the young man seated himself between mary and mrs. timberlake. "did he tell you just what political capital he expects to make out of my discharging him? it isn't the first time he has tried blackmail." alan was replying to mrs. timberlake's question about his coffee--she never remembered, caroline discovered later, just how much sugar one liked--and there was a pause before he turned to blackburn and answered: "i haven't a doubt that he means to make trouble sooner or later--he has some pull, hasn't he?--but at the moment he is more interested in getting his job back. he talked a lot about his family--tried to make mary ask you to take him on again----" blackburn laughed, not unpleasantly, but with a curious bluntness and finality, as if he were closing a door on some mental passage. "well, you may tell him," he rejoined, "that i wouldn't take him back if all the women in creation asked me." alan received this with his usual ease and flippancy. "the fellow appears to have got the wrong impression. he told me that mrs. blackburn was taking an interest in his case, and had promised to speak to you." "he told you that?" said blackburn, and stopped abruptly. for a minute alan looked almost disconcerted. in his riding clothes he was handsomer and more sportsmanlike than he had been the evening before, and caroline told herself that she could understand why mary blackburn had fallen so deeply in love with him. what she couldn't understand--what puzzled her every instant--was the obvious fact that alan had fallen quite as deeply in love with mary. of course the girl was fine and sensible and high-spirited--any one could see that--but she appeared just the opposite of everything that alan would have sought in a woman. she was neither pretty nor feminine; and alan's type was the one of all others to which the pretty and feminine would make its appeal. "he must love her for her soul," thought caroline. "he must see how splendid she is at heart, and this has won him." in a few minutes blackburn left the table, while letty caught caroline's hand and drew her through the window out on the terrace. the landscape, beyond the three gardens, was golden with october sunlight, and over the box maze and the variegated mist of late blooming flowers, they could see the river and the wooded slopes that folded softly into the sparkling edge of the horizon. it was one of those autumn days when the only movement of the world seems to be the slow fall of the leaves, and the quivering of gauzy-winged insects above the flower-beds. perfect as the weather was, there was a touch of melancholy in its brightness that made caroline homesick for the cedars. "it is hard to be where nobody cares for you," she thought. "where nothing you feel or think matters to anybody." then her stronger nature reasserted itself, and she brushed the light cloud away. "after all, life is mine as much as theirs. the battle is mine, and i will fight it. it is just as important that i should be a good nurse as it is that mrs. blackburn should be beautiful and charming and live in a house that is like fairyland." letty called to her, and running down the brick steps from the terrace, the two began a gentle game of hide-and-seek in the garden. the delighted laughter of the child rang out presently from the rose-arbours and the winding paths; and while caroline passed in and out of the junipers and the young yew-trees, she forgot the loneliness she had felt on the terrace. "i'll not worry about it any more," she thought, pursuing letty beyond the marble fountain, where a laughing cupid shot a broken arrow toward the sun. "mother used to say that all the worry in the world would never keep a weasel out of the hen-house." then, as she twisted and doubled about a tall cluster of junipers, she ran directly across the shadow of blackburn. as her feet came to a halt the smile died on her lips, and the reserve she had worn since she reached briarlay fell like a veil over her gaiety. while she put up her hand to straighten her cap, all the dislike she felt for him showed in her look. only the light in her eyes, and the blown strands of hair under her cap, belied her dignity and her silence. "miss meade, i wanted to tell you that the doctor will come about noon. i have asked him to give you directions." "very well." against the dark junipers, in her white uniform, she looked like a statue except for her parted lips and accusing eyes. "letty seems bright to-day, but you must not let her tire herself." "i am very careful. we play as gently as possible." "will you take her to town? i'll send the car back for you." for an instant she hesitated. "mrs. blackburn has not told me what she wishes." he nodded. "letty uses my car in the afternoon. it will be here at three o'clock." in the sunlight, with his hat off, he looked tanned and ruddy, and she saw that there was the power in his face which belongs to expression--to thought and purpose--rather than to feature. his dark hair, combed straight back from his forehead, made his head appear distinctive and massive, like the relief of a warrior on some ancient coin, and his eyes, beneath slightly beetling brows, were the colour of the sea in a storm. though his height was not over six feet, he seemed to her, while he stood there beside the marble fountain, the largest and strongest man she had ever seen. "i know he isn't big, and yet he appears so," she thought: "i suppose it is because he is so muscular." and immediately she added to herself, "i can understand everything about him except his mouth--but his mouth doesn't belong in his face. it is the mouth of a poet. i wonder he doesn't wear a moustache just to hide the way it changes." "i shall be ready at three o'clock," she said. "mrs. colfax asked me to bring letty to play with her children." "she will enjoy that," he answered, "if they are not rough." then, as he moved away, he observed indifferently, "it is wonderful weather." as he went back to the house letty clung to him, and lifting her in his arms, he carried her to the terrace and round the corner where the car waited. for the time at least the play was spoiled, and caroline, still wearing her professional manner, stood watching for letty to come back to her. "i could never like him if i saw him every day for years," she was thinking, when one of the french windows of the dining-room opened, and mary blackburn came down the steps into the garden. "i am so glad to find you alone," she said frankly, "i want to speak to you--and your white dress looks so nice against those evergreens." "it's a pity i have to change it then, but i am going to take letty to town after luncheon. the doctor wants her to be with other children." "i know. she is an odd little thing, isn't she? i sometimes think that she is older and wiser than any one in the house." her tone changed abruptly. "i want to explain to you about last night, miss meade. david seemed so dreadfully rude, didn't he?" caroline gazed back at her in silence while a flush stained her cheeks. after all, what could she answer? she couldn't and wouldn't deny that mr. blackburn had been inexcusably rude to his wife at his own table. "it is so hard to explain when one doesn't know everything," pursued mary, with her unfaltering candour. "if you had ever seen roane fitzhugh, you would understand better than i can make you that david is right. it is quite impossible to have roane in the house. he drinks, and when he was here last summer, he was hardly ever sober. he was rude to everyone. he insulted me." "so that was why----" began caroline impulsively, and checked herself. "yes, that was why. david told him that he must never come back again." "and mrs. blackburn did not understand." mary did not reply, and glancing at her after a moment, caroline saw that she was gazing thoughtfully at a red and gold leaf, which turned slowly in the air as it detached itself from the stem of a maple. "if you want to get the best view of the river you ought to go down to the end of the lower garden," she said carelessly before she went back into the house. in the afternoon, when caroline took letty to mrs. colfax's, a flickering light was shed on the cause of mary's reticence. "oh, miss meade, wasn't it perfectly awful last evening?" began the young woman as soon as the children were safely out of hearing in the yard. "i feel so sorry for angelica!" even in a southern woman her impulsiveness appeared excessive, and when caroline came to know her better, she discovered that daisy colfax was usually described by her friends as "kind-hearted, but painfully indiscreet." "it was my first dinner party at briarlay. as far as i know they may all end that way," responded caroline lightly. "of course i know that you feel you oughtn't to talk," replied mrs. colfax persuasively, "but you needn't be afraid of saying just what you think to me. i know that i have the reputation of letting out everything that comes into my mind--and i do love to gossip--but i shouldn't dream of repeating anything that is told me in confidence." her wonderful dusky eyes, as vague and innocent as a child's, swept caroline's face before they wandered, with their look of indirection and uncertainty, to her mother-in-law, who was knitting by the window. before her marriage daisy had been the acknowledged beauty of three seasons, and now, the mother of two children and as lovely as ever, she managed to reconcile successfully a talent for housekeeping with a taste for diversion. she was never still except when she listened to gossip, and before caroline had been six weeks in richmond, she had learned that the name of mrs. robert colfax would head the list of every dance, ball, and charity of the winter. "if you ask me what i think," observed the old lady tartly, with a watchful eye on the children, who were playing ring-around-the-rosy in the yard. "it is that david blackburn ought to have been spanked and put to bed." "well, of course, angelica had been teasing him about his political views," returned her daughter-in-law. "you know how she hates it all, but she didn't mean actually to irritate him--merely to keep him from appearing so badly. it is as plain as the nose on your face that she doesn't know how to manage him." they were sitting in the library, and every now and then the younger woman would take up the receiver of the telephone, and have a giddy little chat about the marketing or a motor trip she was planning. "but all i've got to say," she added, turning from one of these breathless colloquies, "is that if you have to manage a man, you'd better try to get rid of him." "well, i'd like to see anybody but a bear-tamer manage david blackburn," retorted the old lady. "with angelica's sensitive nature she ought never to have married a man who has to be tamed. she never dares take her eyes off him, poor thing, for fear he'll make some sort of break." "i wonder," began caroline, and hesitated an instant. "i wonder if it wouldn't be better just to let him make his breaks and not notice them? of course, i know how trying it must be for her--she is so lovely and gentle that it wrings your heart to see him rude to her--but it makes every little thing appear big when you call everybody's attention to it. i don't know much about dinner parties," she concluded with a desire to be perfectly fair even to a man she despised, "but i couldn't see that he was doing anything wrong last night. he was getting on very well with mrs. chalmers, who was interested in politics----" she broke off and asked abruptly, "is mrs. blackburn's brother really so dreadful?" "i've often wondered," said the younger mrs. colfax, "if roane fitzhugh is as bad as people say he is?" "well, he has always been very polite to me," commented the old lady. "though brother charles says that you cannot judge a man's morals by his manners. was alan wythe there last night?" "yes, i sat by him," answered daisy. "i wish that old uncle of his in chicago would let him marry mary." this innocent remark aroused caroline's scorn. "to think of a man's having to ask his uncle whom he shall marry!" she exclaimed indignantly. "you wouldn't say that, my dear," replied old mrs. colfax, "if you knew alan. he is a charming fellow, but the sort of talented ne'er-do-well who can do anything but make a living. he has an uncle in chicago who is said to be worth millions--one of the richest men, i've heard, in the west--but he will probably leave his fortune to charity. as it is he doles out a pittance to alan--not nearly enough for him to marry on." "isn't it strange," said caroline, "that the nice people never seem to have enough money and the disagreeable ones seem to have a great deal too much? but i despise a man," she added sweepingly, "who hasn't enough spirit to go out into the world and fight." the old lady's needles clicked sharply as she returned to her work. "i've always said that if the good lord would look after my money troubles, i could take care of the others. now, if angelica's people had not been so poor she would have been spared this dreadful marriage. as it is, i am sure, the poor thing makes the best of it--i don't want you to think that i am saying a word against angelica--but when a woman runs about after so many outside interests, it is pretty sure to mean that she is unhappy at home." "it's a pity," said the younger woman musingly, "that so many of her interests seem to cross david's business. look at this ridley matter, for instance--of course everyone says that angelica is trying to make up for her husband's injustice by supporting the family until the man gets back to work. it's perfectly splendid of her, i know. there isn't a living soul who admires angelica more than i do, but with all the needy families in town, it does seem that she might just as well have selected some other to look after." the old lady, having dropped some stitches, went industriously to work to pick them up. "for all we know," she observed piously, "it may be god's way of punishing david." chapter vii caroline makes discoveries at four o'clock daisy colfax rushed off to a committee meeting at briarlay ("something very important, though i can't remember just which one it is"), and an hour later caroline followed her in blackburn's car, with letty lying fast asleep in her arms. "i am going to do all i can to make it easier for mrs. blackburn," she thought. "i don't care how rude he is to me if he will only spare her. i am stronger than she is, and i can bear it better." already it seemed to her that this beautiful unhappy woman filled a place in her life, that she would be willing to make any sacrifice, to suffer any humiliation, if she could only help her. suddenly letty stirred and put up a thin little hand. "i like you, miss meade," she said drowsily. "i like you because you are pretty and you laugh. mammy says mother never laughs, that she only smiles. why is that?" "i suppose she doesn't think things funny, darling." "when father laughs out loud she tells him to stop. she says it hurts her." "well, she isn't strong, you know. she is easily hurt." "i am not strong either, but i like to laugh," said the child in her quaint manner. "mammy says there isn't anybody's laugh so pretty as yours. it sounds like music." "then i must laugh a great deal for you, letty, and the more we laugh together the happier we'll be, shan't we?" as the car turned into the lane, where the sunlight fell in splinters over the yellow leaves, a man in working clothes appeared suddenly from under the trees. for an instant he seemed on the point of stopping them; then lowering the hand he had raised, he bowed hurriedly, and passed on at a brisk walk toward the road. "his name is ridley, i know him," said letty. "mother took me with her one day when she went to see his children. he has six children, and one is a baby. they let me hold it, but i like a doll better because dolls don't wriggle." then, as the motor raced up the drive and stopped in front of the porch, she sat up and threw off the fur robe. "there are going to be cream puffs for tea, and mammy said i might have one. do you think mother will mind if i go into the drawing-room? she is having a meeting." "i don't know, dear. is it a very important meeting?" "it must be," replied letty, "or mother wouldn't have it. everything she has is important." as the door opened, she inquired of the servant, "moses, do you think this is a very important meeting?" moses, a young light-coloured negro, answered solemnly, "hit looks dat ar way ter me, miss letty, caze patrick's jes' done fotched up de las' plate uv puffs. dose puffs wuz gwine jes' as fast ez you kin count de las' time i tuck a look at um, en de ladies dey wuz all a-settin' roun' in va' yous attitudes en eatin' um up like dey tasted moughty good." "then i'm going in," said the child promptly. "you come with me, miss meade. mother won't mind half so much if you are with me." and grasping caroline's hand she led the way to the drawing-room. "i hope they have left one," she whispered anxiously, "but meetings always seem to make people so hungry." in the back drawing-room, where empty cups and plates were scattered about on little tables, angelica was sitting in a pink and gold chair that vaguely resembled a throne. she wore a street gown of blue velvet, and beneath a little hat of dark fur, her hair folded softly on her temples. at the first glance caroline could see that she was tired and nervous, and her pensive eyes seemed to plead with the gaily chattering women about her. "of course, if you really think it will help the cause," she was saying deprecatingly; then as letty entered, she broke off and held out her arms. "did you have a good time, darling?" the child went slowly forward, shaking hands politely with the guests while her steady gaze, so like her father's, sought the tea table. "may i have a puff and a tart too, mother?" she asked as she curtseyed to mrs. ashburton. "no, only one, dear, but you may choose." "then i'll choose a puff because it is bigger." she was a good child, and when the tart was forbidden her, she turned her back on the plate with a determined gesture. "i saw the man, mother--the one with the baby. he was in the lane." "i know, dear. he came to ask your father to take him back in the works. perhaps if you were to go into the library and ask him very gently, he would do it. it is the case i was telling you about, a most distressing one," explained angelica to mrs. ashburton. "of course david must have reason on his side or he wouldn't take the stand that he does. i suppose the man does drink and stir up trouble, but we women have to think of so much besides mere justice. we have to keep close to the human part that men are so apt to overlook." there was a writing tablet on her knee, and while she spoke, she leaned earnestly forward, and made a few straggling notes with a yellow pencil which was blunt at the point. even her efficiency--and as a chairman she was almost as efficient as mrs. ashburton--was clothed in sweetness. as she sat there, holding the blunt pencil in her delicate, blue-veined hand, she appeared to be bracing herself, with a tremendous effort of will, for some inexorable demand of duty. the tired droop of her figure, the shadow under her eyes, the pathetic little lines that quivered about her mouth--these things, as well as the story of her loveless marriage, awakened caroline's pity. "she bears it so beautifully," she thought, with a rush of generous emotion. "i have never seen any one so brave and noble. i believe she never thinks of herself for a minute." "i always feel," observed mrs. ashburton, in her logical way which was trying at times, "that a man ought to be allowed to attend to his own business." a pretty woman, with a sandwich in her hand, turned from the tea table and remarked lightly, "heaven knows it is the last privilege of which i wish to deprive him!" her name was mallow, and she was a new-comer of uncertain origin, who had recently built a huge house, after the italian style, on the three chopt road. she was very rich, very smart, very dashing, and though her ancestry was dubious, both her house and her hospitality were authentic. alan had once said of her that she kept her figure by climbing over every charity in town; but alan's wit was notoriously malicious. "in a case like this, don't you think, dear mrs. ashburton, that a woman owes a duty to humanity?" asked angelica, who liked to talk in general terms of the particular instance. "miss meade, i am sure, will agree with me. it is so important to look after the children." "but there are so many children one might look after," replied caroline gravely; then feeling that she had not responded generously to angelica's appeal, she added, "i think it is splendid of you, perfectly splendid to feel the way that you do." "that is so sweet of you," murmured angelica gratefully, while mrs. aylett, a lovely woman, with a face like a magnolia flower and a typically southern voice, said gently, "i, for one, have always found angelica's unselfishness an inspiration. with her delicate health, it is simply marvellous the amount of good she is able to do. i can never understand how she manages to think of so many things at the same moment." she also held a pencil in her gloved hand, and wrote earnestly, in illegible figures, on the back of a torn envelope. "of course, we feel that!" exclaimed the other six or eight women in an admiring chorus. "that is why we are begging her to be in these tableaux." it was a high-minded, unselfish group, except for mrs. mallow, who was hungry, and daisy colfax, who displayed now and then an inclination to giddiness. not until caroline had been a few minutes in the room did she discover that the committee had assembled to arrange an entertainment for the benefit of the red cross. though mrs. blackburn was zealous as an organizer, she confined her activities entirely to charitable associations and disapproved passionately of women who "interfered" as she expressed it "with public matters." she was disposed by nature to vague views and long perspectives, and instinctively preferred, except when she was correcting an injustice of her husband's, to right the wrongs in foreign countries. "don't you think she would make an adorable peace?" asked mrs. aylett of caroline. "i really haven't time for it," said angelica gravely, "but as you say, milly dear, the cause is everything, and then david always likes me to take part in public affairs." a look of understanding rippled like a beam of light over the faces of the women, and caroline realized without being told that mrs. blackburn was overtaxing her strength in deference to her husband's wishes. "i suppose like most persons who haven't always had things he is mad about society." "i've eaten it all up, mother," said letty in a wistful voice. "it tasted very good." "did it, darling? well, now i want you to go and ask your father about poor ridley and his little children. you must ask him very sweetly, and perhaps he won't refuse. you would like to do that, wouldn't you?" "may i take miss meade with me?" "yes, she may go with you. there, now, run away, dear. mother is so busy helping the soldiers she hasn't time to talk to you." "why are you always so busy, mother?" "she is so busy because she is doing good every minute of her life," said mrs. aylett. "you have an angel for a mother, letty." the child turned to her with sudden interest. "is father an angel too?" she inquired. a little laugh, strangled abruptly in a cough, broke from daisy colfax, while mrs. mallow hastily swallowed a cake before she buried her flushed face in her handkerchief. only mrs. aylett, without losing her composure, remarked admiringly, "that's a pretty dress you have on, letty." "now run away, dear," urged angelica in a pleading tone, and the child, who had been stroking her mother's velvet sleeve, moved obediently to the door before she looked back and asked, "aren't you coming too, miss meade?" "yes, i'm coming too," answered caroline, and while she spoke she felt that she had never before needed so thoroughly the discipline of the hospital. as she put her arm about letty's shoulders, and crossed the hall to blackburn's library, she hoped passionately that he would not be in the room. then letty called out "father!" in a clear treble, and almost immediately the door opened, and blackburn stood on the threshold. "do you want to come in?" he asked. "i've got a stack of work ahead, but there is always time for a talk with you." he turned back into the room, holding letty by the hand, and as caroline followed silently, she noticed that he seemed abstracted and worried, and that his face, when he glanced round at her, looked white and tired. the red-brown flush of the morning had faded, and he appeared much older. "won't you sit down," he asked, and then he threw himself into a chair, and added cheerfully, "what is it, daughter? have you a secret to tell me?" against the rich brown of the walls his head stood out, clear and fine, and something in its poise, and in the backward sweep of his hair, gave caroline an impression of strength and swiftness as of a runner who is straining toward an inaccessible goal. for the first time since she had come to briarlay he seemed natural and at ease in his surroundings--in the midst of the old books, the old furniture, the old speckled engravings--and she understood suddenly why colonel ashburton had called him an idealist. with the hardness gone from his eyes and the restraint from his thin-lipped, nervous mouth, he looked, as the colonel had said of him, "on fire with ideas." he had evidently been at work, and the fervour of his mood was still visible in his face. "father, won't you please give ridley his work again?" said the child. "i don't want his little children to be hungry." as she stood there at his knee, with her hands on his sleeve and her eyes lifted to his, she was so much like him in every feature that caroline found herself vaguely wondering where the mother's part in her began. there was nothing of angelica's softness in that intense little face, with its look of premature knowledge. bending over he lifted her to his knee, and asked patiently, "if i tell you why i can't take him back, letty, will you try to understand?" she nodded gravely. "i don't want the baby to be hungry." for a moment he gazed over her head through the long windows that opened on the terrace. the sun was just going down, and beyond the cluster of junipers the sky was turning slowly to orange. "miss meade," he said abruptly, looking for the first time in caroline's face, "would you respect a man who did a thing he believed to be unjust because someone he loved had asked him to?" for an instant the swiftness of the question--the very frankness and simplicity of it--took caroline's breath away. she was sitting straight and still in a big leather chair, and she seemed to his eyes a different creature from the woman he had watched in the garden that morning. her hair was smooth now under her severe little hat, her face was composed and stern, and for the moment her look of radiant energy was veiled by the quiet capability of her professional manner. "i suppose not," she answered fearlessly, "if one is quite sure that the thing is unjust." "in this case i haven't a doubt. the man is a firebrand in the works. he drinks, and breeds lawlessness. there are men in jail now who would be at work but for him, and they also have families. if i take him back there are people who would say i do it for a political reason." "does that matter? it seems to me nothing matters except to be right." he smiled, and she wondered how she could have thought that he looked older. "yes, if i am right, nothing else matters, and i know that i am right." then looking down at letty, he said more slowly, "my child, i know another family of little children without a father. wouldn't you just as soon go to see these children?" "is there a baby? a very small baby?" "yes, there is a baby. i am sending the elder children to school, and one of the girls is old enough to learn stenography. the father was a good man and a faithful worker. when he died he asked me to look after his family." "then why doesn't mrs. blackburn know about them?" slipped from caroline's lips. "why hasn't any one told her?" the next instant she regretted the question, but before she could speak again blackburn answered quietly, "she is not strong, and already she has more on her than she should have undertaken." "her sympathy is so wonderful!" almost in spite of her will, against her instinct for reticence where she distrusted, against the severe code of her professional training, she began by taking mrs. blackburn's side in the household. "yes, she is wonderful." his tone was conventional, yet if he had adored his wife he could scarcely have said more to a stranger. there was a knock at the door, and mammy riah inquired querulously through the crack, "whar you, letty? ain't you comin' ter git yo' supper?" "i'm here, i'm coming," responded letty. as she slid hurriedly from her father's knees, she paused long enough to whisper in his ear, "father, what shall i tell mother when she asks me?" "tell her, letty, that i cannot do it because it would not be fair." "because it would not be fair," repeated the child obediently as she reached for caroline's hand. "miss meade is going to have supper with me, father. we are going to play that it is a party and let all the dolls come, and she will have bread and milk just as i do." "will she?" said blackburn, with a smile. "then i'd think she'd be hungry before bed-time." though he spoke pleasantly, caroline was aware that his thoughts had wandered from them, and that he was as indifferent to her presence as he was to the faint lemon-coloured light streaming in at the window. it occurred to her suddenly that he had never really looked at her, and that if they were to meet by accident in the road he would not recognize her. she had never seen any one with so impersonal a manner--so encased and armoured in reserve--and she began to wonder what he was like under that impenetrable surface? "i should like to hear him speak," she thought, "to know what he thinks and feels about the things he cares for--about politics and public questions." he stood up as she rose, and for a minute before letty drew her from the room, he smiled down on the child. "if i were miss meade, i'd demand more than bread and milk at your party, letty." then he turned away, and sat down again at his writing table. an hour or two later, when letty's supper was over, angelica came in to say good-night before she went out to dinner. she was wearing an evening wrap of turquoise velvet and ermine, and a band of diamonds encircled the golden wings on her temples. her eyes shone like stars, and there was a misty brightness in her face that made her loveliness almost unearthly. the fatigue of the afternoon had vanished, and she looked as young and fresh as a girl. "i hope you are comfortable, miss meade," she said, with the manner of considerate gentleness which had won caroline from the first. "i told fanny to move you into the little room next to letty's." "yes, i am quite comfortable. i like to sleep where she can call me." the child was undressing, and as her mother bent over her, she put up her bare little arms to embrace her. "you smell so sweet, mother, just like lilacs." "do i, darling? there, don't hug me so tight or you'll rumple my hair. did you ask your father about ridley?" "he won't do it. he says he won't do it because it wouldn't be fair." as letty repeated the message she looked questioningly into mrs. blackburn's face. "why wouldn't it be fair, mother?" "he will have to tell you, dear, i can't." drawing back from the child's arms, she arranged the ermine collar over her shoulders. "we must do all we can to help them, letty. now, kiss me very gently, and try to sleep well." she went out, leaving a faint delicious trail of lilacs in the air, and while caroline watched mammy riah slip the night-gown over letty's shoulders, her thoughts followed angelica down the circular drive, through the lane, and on the road to the city. she was fascinated, yet there was something deeper and finer than fascination in the emotion mrs. blackburn awakened. there was tenderness in it and there was romance; but most of all there was sympathy. in caroline's narrow and colourless life, so rich in character, so barren of incident, this sympathy was unfolding like some rare and exquisite blossom. "did you ever see any one in your life look so lovely?" she asked enthusiastically of mammy riah. the old woman was braiding letty's hair into a tight little plait, which she rolled over at the end and tied up with a blue ribbon. "i wan' bawn yestiddy, en i reckon i'se done seen er hull pa'cel un um," she replied. "miss angy's de patte'n uv whut 'er ma wuz befo' 'er. dar ain' never been a fitzhugh yit dat wan't ez purty ez a pictur w'en dey wuz young, en miss angy she is jes' like all de res' un um. but she ain' been riz right, dat's de gospel trufe, en i reckon ole miss knows hit now way up yonder in de kingdom come. dey hed a w'ite nuss to nuss 'er de same ez dey's got for letty heah, en dar ain' never been a w'ite nuss yit ez could raise a chile right, nairy a one un um." "but i thought you nursed all the fitzhughs? why did they have a white nurse for mrs. blackburn?" "dy wuz projeckin', honey, like dey is projeckin' now wid dis yer chile. atter i done nuss five er dem chillun ole miss begun ter git sort er flighty in her haid, en ter go plum 'stracted about sto' physick en real doctahs. stop yo' foolishness dis minute, letty. you git spang out er dat baid befo' i mek you, en say yo' pray'rs. yas'm, hit's de gospel trufe, i'se tellin' you," she concluded as letty jumped obediently out of bed and prepared to kneel down on the rug. "ef'n dey hed lemme raise miss angy de fambly wouldn't hev run ter seed de way hit did atter old marster died, en dar 'ouldn't be dese yer low-lifeted doin's now wid marse david." later in the night, lying awake and restless in the little room next to letty's, caroline recalled the old woman's comment. though she had passionately taken angelica's side, it was impossible for her to deny that both mrs. timberlake and mammy riah appeared to lean sympathetically at least in the direction of blackburn. there was nothing definite--nothing particularly suggestive even--to which she could point; yet, in spite of her prejudice, in spite of the sinister stories which circulated so freely in richmond, she was obliged to admit that the two women who knew angelica best--the dependent relative and the old negress--did not espouse her cause so ardently as did the adoring committee. "the things they say must be true. such dreadful stories could never have gotten out unless something or somebody had started them. it is impossible to look in mrs. blackburn's face and not see that she is a lovely character, and that she is very unhappy." then a reassuring thought occurred to her, for she remembered that her mother used to say that a negro mammy always took the side of the father in any discussion. "it must be the same thing here with mrs. timberlake and mammy riah. they are so close to mrs. blackburn that they can't see how lovely she is. it is like staying too long in the room with an exquisite perfume. one becomes at last not only indifferent, but insensible to its sweetness." closing her eyes, she resolutely put the question away, while she lived over again, in all its varied excitement, her first day at briarlay. the strangeness of her surroundings kept her awake, and it seemed to her, as she went over the last twenty-four hours, that she was years older than she had been when she left the cedars. simply meeting mrs. blackburn, she told herself again, was a glorious adventure; it was like seeing and speaking to one of the heroines in the dingy old volumes in her father's library. and the thought that she could really serve her, that she could understand and sympathize where mrs. timberlake and mammy riah failed, that she could, by her strength and devotion, lift a share of the burden from angelica's shoulders--the thought of these things shed an illumination over the bare road of the future. she would do good, she resolved, and in doing good, she would find happiness. the clock struck eleven; she heard the sound of the returning motor; and then, with her mind filled with visions of usefulness, she dropped off to sleep. it might have been a minute later, it might have been hours, when she was awakened by letty's voice screaming in terror. jumping out of bed, caroline slipped into the wrapper of blue flannel diana had made for her, and touching the electric button, flooded the nursery with light. sitting very erect, with wide-open vacant eyes, and outstretched arms, letty was uttering breathless, distracted shrieks. her face was frozen into a mask, and the bones of her thin little body quivered through the cambric of her night-gown. as the shadows leaped out on the walls, which were covered with garlands of pink and blue flowers, she shuddered and crouched back under the blankets. "i am here, letty! i am here, darling!" cried caroline, kneeling beside the bed, and at the same instant the door opened, and mammy riah, half dressed, and without wig or turban, came in muttering, "i'se coming, honey! i'se coming, my lamb!" without noticing them, the child cried out in a loud, clear voice, "where is father? i want father to hold me! i want my father!" then the terror swept over her again like some invisible enemy, and her cries became broken and inarticulate. "is she often like this?" asked caroline of the old woman. "i can't hold her. i am afraid she will have a convulsion." with her arms about letty, who moaned and shivered in her grasp, she added, "letty, darling, shall i send for your mother?" "dar ain' but one thing dat'll quiet dis chile," said the old negress, "en dat is marse david. i'se gwine atter marse david." she hobbled out in her lint slippers, while the girl held letty closer, and murmured a hundred soothing words in her ear. "you may have father and mother too," she said, "you may have everyone, dear, if only you won't be frightened." "i don't want everyone. i want father," cried the child, with a storm of sobs. "i want father because i am afraid. i want him to keep me from being afraid." then, as the door opened, and blackburn came into the room, she held out her arms, and said in a whisper, like the moan of a small hurt animal, "i thought you had gone away, father, and i was afraid of the dark." without speaking, blackburn crossed the room, and dropping into a chair by the bed, laid his arm across the child's shoulders. at his touch her cries changed into shivering sobs which grew gradually fainter, and slipping back on the pillows, she looked with intent, searching eyes in his face. "you haven't gone away, father?" "no, i haven't gone anywhere. you were dreaming." clasping his hand, she laid her cheek on it, and nestled under the cover. "i am afraid to go to sleep because i dream such ugly dreams." "dreams can't hurt you, letty. no matter how ugly they are, they are only dreams." his voice was low and firm, and at the first sound of it the pain and fear faded from letty's face. "were you asleep, father?" "no, i was at work. i am writing a speech. it is twelve o'clock, but i had not gone to bed." he spoke quite reasonably as if she were a grown person, and caroline asked herself if this explained his power over the child. there was no hint of stooping, no pretense of childish words or phrases. he looked very tired and deep lines showed in his face, but there was an inexhaustible patience in his manner. for the first time she thought of him as a man who carried a burden. his very shadow, which loomed large and black on the flowered wall paper, appeared, while she watched it, to bend beneath the pressure of an invisible weight. "has mother come in?" asked letty in a still whisper. "yes, she has gone to bed. you must not wake your mother." "i'll try not to," answered the child, and a minute afterwards she said with a yawn, "i feel sleepy now, father. i'd like to go to sleep, if you'll sit by me." he laughed. "i'll sit by you, if you'll let miss meade and mammy riah go to bed." as if his laugh had driven the last terror from her mind, letty made a soft, breathless sound of astonishment. "miss meade has got on a wrapper," she said, "and her hair is plaited just like mine only there isn't any ribbon. mammy riah, do you think my hair would stay plaited like that if it wasn't tied?" the old woman grunted. "ef'n you don' shet yo' mouf, i'se gwine ter send marse david straight down agin whar he b'longs." "well, i'll go to sleep," replied letty, in her docile way; and a minute later, she fell asleep with her cheek on her father's hand. for a quarter of an hour longer blackburn sat there without stirring, while caroline put out the high lights and turned on the shaded lamp by the bed. then, releasing himself gently, he stood up and said in a whisper, "i think she is all right now." his back was to the lamp, and caroline saw his face by the dim flicker of the waning fire. "i shall stay with her," she responded in the same tone. "it is not necessary. after an attack like this she sleeps all night from exhaustion. she seems fast asleep, but if you have trouble again send for me." he moved softly to the door, and as caroline looked after him, she found herself asking resentfully, "i wonder why letty cried for her father?" chapter viii blackburn a week later, on an afternoon when the october sunshine sparkled like wine beneath a sky that was the colour of day-flowers, caroline sat on the terrace waiting for mrs. blackburn to return from a rehearsal. in the morning angelica had promised letty a drive if she were good, and as soon as luncheon was over the child had put on a new hat and coat of blue velvet, and had come downstairs to listen for the sound of the motor. with a little white fur muff in her hands, she was now marching sedately round the fountain, while she counted her circuits aloud in a clear, monotonous voice. under the velvet hat she was looking almost pretty, and as caroline gazed at her she seemed to catch fleeting glimpses of angelica in the serious little face. "i believe she is going to be really lovely when she grows up. it is a pity she hasn't her mother's colouring, but she gets more like her every day." leaning over, she called in a low, admonishing tone, "letty, don't go too near the fountain. you will get your coat splashed." obedient as she always was, letty drew away from the water, and caroline turned to pick up the knitting she had laid aside while she waited. angelica had promised a dozen mufflers to the war relief association, and since it made her nervous to knit, she gracefully left the work for others to do. now, while caroline's needles clicked busily, and the ball of yarn unwound in her lap, her eyes wandered from the dying beauty of the garden to the wreaths of smoke that hung over the fringed edge of the river. on the opposite side, beyond the glittering band of the water, low grey-green hills melted like shadows into the violet haze of the distance. a roving fragrance of wood-smoke was in the air, and from the brown and russet sweep of the fields rose the chanting of innumerable insects. all the noise and movement of life seemed hushed and waiting while nature drifted slowly into the long sleep of winter. so vivid yet so evanescent was the light on the meadows that caroline stopped her work, lest a stir or a sound might dissolve the perfect hour into darkness. growing suddenly tired of play, letty came to caroline's side and leaned on her shoulder. the child's hat had slipped back, and while she nestled there she sank gradually into the pensive drowsiness of the afternoon. "do you think she has forgotten to come for us?" "no, dear, it is early yet. it can't be much after three o'clock." up through the golden-rod and life-everlasting, along the winding pathway across the fields, alan and mary were strolling slowly toward the lower garden. "they are so happy," mused caroline. "i wonder if she is ever afraid that she may lose him? he doesn't look as if he could be constant." suddenly one of the nearest french windows opened, and the scent of cigar smoke floated out from the library. a moment later she heard the words, "let's get a bit of air," and blackburn, followed by two callers, came out on the terrace. while the three stood gazing across the garden to the river, she recognized one of the callers as colonel ashburton, but the other was a stranger--a tall, slender man, with crisp iron-grey hair and thin, austere features. afterwards she learned that he was joseph sloane of new york, a man of wide political vision, and a recognized force in the industrial life of america. he had a high, dome-like forehead, which vaguely reminded caroline of a tower, and a mouth so tightly locked that it looked as if nothing less rigid than a fact had ever escaped it. yet his voice, when it came, was rich and beautifully modulated. "it is a good view," he remarked indifferently, and then looking at blackburn, as if he were resuming a conversation that had been broken off, he said earnestly, "a few years ago i should have thought it a sheer impossibility, but i believe now that there is a chance of our winning." "with the chance strengthening every hour," observed colonel ashburton, and as he turned his back to the view, his mild and innocent gaze fell on caroline's figure. "it is good to see you, miss meade," he said gallantly, with a bow in which his blue eyes and silvery hair seemed to mingle. "i hope the sound of politics will not frighten you?" caroline looked up with a smile from her knitting. "not at all. i was brought up in the midst of discussions. but are we in the way?" the colonel's gallantry was not without romantic flavour. "it is your eden, and we are the intruders," he answered softly. it was a pity, thought caroline, while she looked at him over letty's head, that a velvet manner like that had almost vanished from the world. it went with plumes and lace ruffles and stainless swords. "i am going to drive, father," called letty, "if mother ever comes." "that's good." blackburn smiled as he responded, and then moving a step or two nearer the garden, drew several deep wicker chairs into the sunshine. for a few minutes after they had seated themselves, the men gazed in silence at the hazy hills on the horizon, and it seemed to caroline that blackburn was drawing strength and inspiration from the radiant, familiar scene. "i have never wanted anything like this," he said at last, speaking very slowly, as if he weighed each separate word before it was uttered. "not for yourself, but for the country," replied the colonel in his musical voice, which sounded always as if it were pitched to arouse sleeping enthusiasm. he had once been in congress, and the habit of oratorical phrasing had never entirely left him. "do you know, blackburn, i sometimes think that you are one of the few statesmen we have left. the others are mixtures of so many ingredients--ambition, prejudice, fanaticism, self-interest--everything but the thought of the country, and the things for which the country should stand. it's the difference, i suppose, between a patriot and a politician." "it is not that i am less selfish," blackburn laughed with embarrassment as he answered, "but perhaps i have had a harder time than the others, and have learned something they haven't. i've seen how little material things or their acquisition matter in life. after all, the idea is the only thing that really counts--an idea big enough to lift a man out of his personal boundaries, big enough to absorb and possess him completely. a man's country may do this, but not a man's self, nor the mere business of living." as he paused, though his head was turned in caroline's direction, she had a queer impression that he was looking beyond her at some glowing vision that was imperceptible to the others. she knew that he was oblivious of her presence, and that, if he saw her at all, she was scarcely more to him than an image painted on air. the golden light of the afternoon enveloped his figure, yet she realized that the illumination in his face was not due to the shifting rays of the sun. she did not like him--the aversion she felt was too strong for her to judge him tolerantly--but she was obliged to admit that his straight, firm figure, with its look of arrested energy, of controlled power, made colonel ashburton and the stranger from the north appear almost commonplace. even his rough brown clothes possessed a distinction apart from the cut of his tailor; and though it was impossible for her to define the quality which seemed to make him stand alone, to put him in a class by himself, she was beginning to discern that his gift of personality, of intellectual dominance, was a kind of undeveloped genius. "he ought to have been a writer or a statesman," she thought, while she looked at his roughened hair, which would never lie flat, at his smoky grey eyes, and his thin, almost colourless lips. it was a face that grew on her as she watched it, a face, she realized, that one must study to understand, not attempt to read by erring flashes of insight. she remembered that colonel ashburton had told her that blackburn had no small talk, but that he spoke well if he were once started on a current of ideas. "it is true. he speaks just as if he had thought it all out years ago," she said to herself while she listened, "just as if every sentence, every word almost, was crystallized." she felt a mild curiosity about his political convictions--a desire to know what he really believed, and why his opinions had aroused the opposition of men like charles peyton and robert colfax. "i used to believe, not long ago, that these things counted supremely," blackburn said presently, with his eyes on the river--those intense grey eyes which seemed always searching for something. "i held as firmly as any man by the gospel of achievement--by the mad scramble to acquire things. i had never had them, and what a man hasn't had, he generally wants. perhaps i travelled the historic road through materialism to idealism, the road america is following this very hour while we are talking. i am not saying that it isn't all for the best, you know. you may call me an optimist, i suppose, down beneath the eternal muddle of things; but i feel that the ambition to acquire is good only as a process, and not as a permanent condition or the ultimate end of life. i haven't a doubt that the frantic struggle in america to amass things, to make great fortunes, has led to discoveries of incalculable benefit to mankind, and has given a splendid impetus to the development of our country. we wanted things so passionately that we were obliged to create them in order to satisfy our desires. this spirit, this single phase of development, is still serving a purpose. we have watched it open the earth, build railroads, establish industries, cut highways over mountains, turn deserts into populous cities; and through these things lay the foundation of the finer and larger social order--the greater national life. we are fond of speaking of the men who have made this possible as money-grubbers or rank materialists. some of them were, perhaps, but not the guiding spirits, the real builders. no man can do great constructive work who is not seeking to express an imperishable idea in material substance. no man can build for to-morrow who builds only with bricks and mortar." he leaned forward to flick the ashes from his cigar, while the sunshine sprinkling through the junipers deepened the rapt and eager look in his face. "it all comes back to this--the whole problem of life," he pursued after a moment. "it all comes back to the builders. we are--with apologies for the platitude--a nation of idealists. it is our ability to believe in the incredible, to dream great dreams, not our practical efficiency, that has held our body politic together. because we build in the sky, i believe we are building to last----" "but our mistakes, our follies, our insanities----?" as blackburn paused the voice of colonel ashburton fell like music on the stillness. "even our fairest dreams--the dream of individual freedom--what has become of it? show me the man who is free among us to-day?" with his bowed white head, his blanched aristocratic features, and his general air of having been crushed and sweetened by adversity, he reminded caroline of one of the perpetual mourners, beside the weeping willow and the classic tomb, on the memorial brooch her great-grandmother used to wear. "i believe you are wrong," replied blackburn slowly, "for, in spite of the voice of the demagogue, america is a land of individual men, not of classes, and the whole theory of the american state rests upon the rights and obligations of the citizen. if the american republic survives, it will be because it is founded upon the level of conscience--not upon the peaks of inspiration. we have no sovereign mind, no governing class, no body of men with artificial privileges and special obligations. every american carries in his person the essential elements of the state, and is entrusted with its duties. to this extent at least, colonel, your man is free." "free to sink, or to swim with the current?" blackburn smiled as he answered. "well, i suppose your pessimism is natural. in colonel ashburton, sloane, you behold a sorrowful survivor of the age of heroes. by jove, there were giants in those days!" then he grew serious again, and went on rapidly, with the earnest yet impersonal note in his voice: "of course, we know that as long as a people is striving for its civil rights, for equality of right before the law, there is a definite objective goal. now, in theory at least, these things have been attained, and we are confronted to-day with the more difficult task of adjusting the interests, without impairing the rights, of the individual man. the tangled skeins of social and economic justice must be unravelled before we can weave them into the fabric of life." "and for the next fifty years this is our business," said sloane, speaking suddenly in the rich, strong voice which seemed to strike with unerring blows at the root of the question. "yes, this is our business for the next fifty years. i believe with you, sloane, that this may be done. i believe that this work will be accomplished when, and only when, the citizen recognizes that he is the state, and is charged with the duties and the obligations of the state to his fellowmen. to reach this end we must overthrow class prejudice, and realize that justice to all alike is the cornerstone of democracy. we must put aside sectional feeling and create a national ideal by merging the state into the nation. we must learn to look beyond the material prosperity of america and discern her true destiny as the champion of the oppressed, the giver of light. it is for us to do this. after all, we are america, you and i and ashburton and the man who works in my garden. when all is said, a nation is only an organized crowd, and can rise no higher, or sink no lower, than its source--the spirit of the men who compose it. as a man thinketh in his heart so his country will be." for a moment there was silence, and then sloane said sharply: "there is one thing that always puzzles me in you southerners, and that is the apparent conflict between the way you think and the way you act, or to put it a trifle more accurately, between your political vision and your habit of voting. you see i am a practical man, an inveterate believer in the fact as the clinching argument in any question, and i confess that i have failed so far to reconcile your theory with your conduct. you are nationalists and idealists in theory, you virginians, yet by your votes you maintain the solid south, as you call it, as if it were not a part of the american republic. you cherish and support this heresy regardless of political issues, and often in defiance of your genuine convictions. i like you virginians. your history fascinates me like some brilliantly woven tapestry; but i can never understand how this people, whose heroic qualities helped to create the union, can remain separated, at least in act, from american purposes and ideals. you give the lie to your great statesmen; you shatter their splendid dream for the sake of a paradox. your one political party battens on the very life of the south--since you preserve its independence in spite of representatives whom you oppose, and, not infrequently, in spite even of principles that you reject. however broad may be our interpretation of recent events, as long as this heresy prevails, the people of the south cannot hope to recover their historic place in the councils of the nation. and this condition," he concluded abruptly, "retards the development of our future. a short while ago--so short a while, indeed, as the year --the security of the nation was endangered by the obsession of a solid and unbreakable south. this danger passed yesterday, but who knows when it may come again?" as he finished, blackburn leaned eagerly forward as if he were bracing himself to meet an antagonist. to the man whose inner life is compacted of ideas, the mental surgery of the man of facts must always appear superficial--a mere trick of technique. a new light seemed to have fallen over him, and, through some penetrating sympathy, caroline understood that he lived in a white blaze not of feeling, but of thought. it was a passion of the mind instead of the heart, and she wondered if he had ever loved angelica as he loved this fugitive, impersonal image of service? "i sometimes doubt," he said gravely, "if a man can ever understand a country unless he was born in it--unless its sun and dust have entered into his being." "and yet we southerners, even old-fashioned ones like myself, see these evils as clearly as you northerners," interposed colonel ashburton while blackburn hesitated. "the difference between us is simply that you discern the evils only, and we go deep enough to strike the root of the trouble. if you want really to understand us, sloane, study the motive forces in english and american history, especially the overpowering influence of racial instinct, and the effect of an injustice on the mind of the anglo-saxon." with the colonel's voice the old sense of familiarity pervaded caroline's memory like a perfume, and she seemed to be living again through one of her father's political discussions at the cedars--only the carefully enunciated phrases of sloane and blackburn were more convincing than the ringing, colloquial tones of the country orators. as she listened she told herself that these men were modern and constructive while her father and his group of confederate soldiers had been stationary and antiquated. they had stood like crumbling landmarks of history, while blackburn and his associates were building the political structure of the future. "of course i admit," sloane was saying frankly, "that mistakes were made in the confusion that followed the civil war. nobody regrets these things more than the intelligent men of the north; but all this is past; a new generation is springing up; and none of us desires now to put your house in order, or force any government upon you. the north is perfectly willing to keep its hands off your domestic affairs, and to leave the race problem to you, or to anybody else who possesses the ability to solve it. it seems to me, therefore, that the time has come to put these things behind us, and to recognize that we are, and have been, at least since , a nation. there are serious problems before us to-day, and the successful solution of these demands unity of thought and purpose." there was a slight ironic twist to his smile as he finished, and he sat perfectly still, with the burned-out cigar in his hand, watching blackburn with a look that was at once sympathetic and merciless. "colonel ashburton has pointed out the only way," rejoined blackburn drily. "you must use the past as a commentary before you can hope clearly to interpret the present." "that is exactly what i am trying to do." the irony had vanished, and a note of solemnity had passed into sloane's voice. "i am honestly trying to understand the source of the trouble, to discover how it may be removed. i see in the solid south not a local question, but a great national danger. there is no sanctity in a political party; it is merely an instrument to accomplish the ends of government through the will of the people. i realize how men may follow one party or another under certain conditions; but no party can always be right, and i cannot understand how a people, jealous of its freedom, intensely patriotic in spirit, can remain through two generations in bondage to one political idea, whether that idea be right or wrong. this seems to me to be beyond mere politics, to rise to the dignity of a national problem. i feel that it requires the best thought of the country for its adjustment. it is because we need your help that i am speaking so frankly. if we go into this war--and there are times when it seems to me that it will be impossible for us to keep out of it--it must be a baptism of fire from which we should emerge clean, whole, and united." "ashburton is fond of telling me," said blackburn slowly, "that i live too much in the next century, yet it does not seem to me unreasonable to believe that the chief end of civilization is the development of the citizen, and of a national life as deeply rooted in personal consciousness as the life of the family. the ideal citizen, after all, is merely a man in whom the patriotic nerve has become as sensitive as the property nerve--a man who brings his country in touch with his actual life, who places the public welfare above his private aims and ambitions. it is because i believe the southern character is rich in the material for such development that i entered this fight two years ago. as you know i am not a democrat. i have broken away from the party, and recently, i have voted the republican ticket at presidential elections----" "this is why i am here to-day," continued sloane. "i am here because we need your help, because we see an opportunity for you to aid in the great work ahead of us. with a nation the power to survive rests in the whole, not in the parts, and america will not become america until she has obliterated the sections." blackburn was gazing at the hills on the horizon, while there flickered and waned in his face a look that was almost prophetic. "well, of course i agree with you," he said in a voice which was so detached and contemplative that it seemed to flow from the autumnal stillness, "but before you can obliterate the sections, the north as well as the south must cease to be sectional--especially must the north, which has so long regarded its control of the federal government as a proprietary right, cease to exclude the south from participation in national affairs and movements. before you can obliterate the sections, you must, above all, understand why the solidarity of the south exists as a political issue--you must probe beneath the tissue of facts to the very bone and fibre of history. truth is sometimes an inconvenient thing, but experience has found nothing better to build on. first of all--for we must clear the ground--first of all, you must remember that we virginians are anglo-saxons, and that we share the sporting spirit which is ready to fight for a principle, and to accept the result whether it wins or loses. when the war was over--to dig no deeper than the greatest fact in our past--when the war was over we virginians, and the people of the south, submitted, like true sportsmen, to the logic of events. we had been beaten on the principle that we had no right to secede from the union, and therefore were still a part of the union. we accepted this principle, and were ready to resume our duties and discharge our obligations; but this was not to be permitted without the harsh provisions of the reconstruction acts. then followed what is perhaps the darkest period in american history, and one of the darkest periods in the history of the english-speaking race----" "i admit all this," interrupted sloane quickly, "and yet i cannot understand----" "you must understand before we work together," replied blackburn stubbornly. "i shall make you understand if it takes me all night and part of to-morrow. politics, after all, is not merely a store of mechanical energy; even a politician is a man first and an automaton afterwards. you can't separate the way a man votes from the way he feels; and the way he feels has its source in the secret springs of his character, in the principles his parents revered, in the victories, the shames, the sufferings and the evasions of history. until you realize that the south is human, you will never understand why it is solid. people are ruled not by intellect, but by feeling; and in a democracy mental expediency is no match for emotional necessity. virginia proved this philosophical truth when she went into the war--when she was forced, through ties of blood and kinship, into defending the institution of slavery because it was strangely associated with the principle of self-government--and she proved it yet again when she began slowly to rebuild the shattered walls of her commonwealth." for a moment he was silent, and colonel ashburton said softly with the manner of one who pours oil on troubled waters with an unsteady hand, "i remember those years more clearly than i remember last month or even yesterday." his voice trailed into silence, and blackburn went on rapidly, without noticing the interruption: "the conditions of the reconstruction period were worse than war, and for those conditions you must remember that the south has always held the republican party responsible. not content with the difficulties which would inevitably result from the liberation of an alien population among a people who had lost all in war, and were compelled to adjust themselves to new economic and social conditions, the federal government, under the influence of intemperate leaders, conferred upon the negroes full rights of citizenship, while it denied these rights to a large proportion of the white population--the former masters. state and local governments were under the control of the most ignorant classes, generally foreign adventurers who were exploiting the political power of the negroes. the south was overwhelmed with debts created for the private gain of these adventurers; the offices of local governments were filled either by alien white men or by negroes; and negro justices of the peace, negro legislators, and even negro members of congress were elected. my own county was represented in the legislature of virginia by a negro who had formerly belonged to my father." "all this sounds now like the ancient history of another continent," remarked sloane with anxious haste, "fifty years can change the purpose of a people or a party!" "often in the past," resumed blackburn, "men who have taken part in revolutions or rebellions have lost their lives as the punishment of failure; but there are wrongs worse than death, and one of these is to subject a free and independent people to the rule of a servile race; to force women and children to seek protection from magistrates who had once been their slaves. the republican party was then in control, and its leaders resisted every effort of the south to re-establish the supremacy of the white race, and to reassert the principles of self-government. we had the civil rights act, and the federal election laws, with federal supervisors of elections to prevent the white people from voting and to give the vote to the negroes. even when thirty years had passed, and the south had gained control of its local governments, the republicans attempted to pass an election law which would have perpetuated negro dominance. you have only to stop and think for a minute, and you will understand that conditions such as i have suggested are the source of that national menace you are trying now to remove." "it is all true, but it is the truth of yesterday," rejoined sloane eagerly. "if we have made mistakes in the past, we wish the more heartily to do right in the present. what can prove this more clearly than the fact that i am here to ask your help in organizing the independent vote in virginia? there is a future for the man who can lead the new political forces." the sun was dropping slowly in the direction of the wooded slopes on the opposite shore; the violet mist on the river had become suddenly luminous; and the long black shadows of the junipers were slanting over the grass walks in the garden. in the lower meadows the chanting rose so softly that it seemed rather a breath than a sound; and this breath, which was the faint quivering stir of october, stole at last into the amber light on the terrace. "if i had not known this," answered blackburn, and again there flickered into his face the look of prophecy and vision which seemed to place him in a separate world from sloane and colonel ashburton, "i should have spoken less frankly. as you say the past is past, and we cannot solve future problems by brooding upon wrongs that are over. the suffrage is, after all, held in trust for the good of the present and the future; and for this reason, since virginia limited her suffrage to a point that made the negro vote a negligible factor, i have felt that the solid south is, if possible, more harmful to the southern people than it is to the nation. this political solidarity prevents constructive thought and retards development. it places the southern states in the control of one political machine; and the aim of this machine must inevitably be self-perpetuation. offices are bestowed on men who are willing to submit to these methods; and freedom of discussion is necessarily discouraged by the dominant party. in the end a governing class is created, and this class, like all political cliques, secures its privileges by raising small men to high public places, and thereby obstructs, if it does not entirely suppress, independent thought and action. i can imagine no more dangerous condition for any people under a republican form of government, and for this reason, i regard the liberation of the south from this political tyranny as the imperative duty of every loyal southerner. as you know, i am an independent in politics, and if i have voted with the republicans, it is only because i saw no other means of breaking the solidarity of the south. yet--and i may as well be as frank at the end as i was at the beginning of our discussion, i doubt the ability of the republican party to win the support of the southern people. the day will come, i believe, when another party will be organized, national in its origin and its purposes; and through this new party, which will absorb the best men from both the republican and the democratic organizations, i hope to see america welded into a nation. in the meantime, and only until this end is clearly in sight," he added earnestly, "i am ready to help you by any effort, by any personal sacrifice. i believe in america not with my mind only, but with my heart--and if the name america means anything, it must mean that we stand for the principle of self-government whatever may be the form. this principle is now in danger throughout the world, and just as a man must meet his responsibilities and discharge his obligations regardless of consequences, so a nation cannot shirk its duties in a time of international peril. we have now reached the cross-roads--we stand waiting where the upward and the downward paths come together. i am willing to cast aside all advantage, to take any step, to face misunderstanding and criticism, if i can only help my people to catch the broader vision of american opportunity and american destiny----" the words were still in the air, when there was a gentle flutter of pink silk curtains, and angelica came out, flushed and lovely, from a successful rehearsal. an afternoon paper was in her hand, and her eyes were bright and wistful, as if she were trying to understand how any one could have hurt her. "letty, dear, i am waiting!" she called; and then, as her gaze fell on sloane, she went toward him with outstretched hand and a charming manner of welcome. "oh, mr. sloane, how very nice to see you in richmond!" the next instant she added seriously, "david, have you seen the paper? you can't imagine what dreadful things they are saying about you." "well, they can call him nothing worse than a traitor," retorted colonel ashburton lightly before blackburn could answer. "surely, the word traitor ought to have lost its harshness to southern ears!" "but robert colfax must have written it!" though she was smiling it was not because the colonel's rejoinder had seemed amusing to her. "i know i am interrupting," she said after a moment. "it will be so nice if you will dine with us, mr. sloane--only you must promise me not to encourage david's political ideas. i couldn't bear to be married to a politician." as she stood there against a white column, she looked as faultless and as evanescent as the sunbeams, and for the first time sloane's face lost its coldness and austerity. "i think your husband could never be a politician," he answered gently, "though he may be a statesman." chapter ix angelica's charity as the car turned into the lane it passed alan and mary, and mrs. blackburn ordered the chauffeur to stop while she leaned out of the window and waited, with her vague, shimmering look, for the lovers to approach. "i wanted to ask you, mr. wythe, about that article in the paper this morning," she began. "do you think it will do david any real harm?" her voice was low and troubled, and she gazed into alan's face with eyes that seemed to be pleading for mercy. "well, i hardly think it will help him if he wants an office," replied alan, reddening under her gaze. "i suppose everything is fair in politics, but it does seem a little underhand of colfax doesn't it? a man has a right to expect a certain amount of consideration from his friends." for the first time since she had known him, caroline felt that alan's nimble wit was limping slightly. in place of his usual light-hearted manner, he appeared uncomfortable and embarrassed, and though his eyes never left angelica's face, they rested there with a look which it was impossible to define. admiration, surprise, pleasure, and a fleeting glimpse of something like dread or fear--all these things caroline seemed to read in that enigmatical glance. could it be that he was comparing angelica with mary, and that, for the moment at least, mary's lack of feminine charm, was estranging him? he looked splendidly vigorous with the flush in his cheeks and a glow in his red-brown eyes--just the man, caroline fancied, with whom any woman might fall in love. "but don't you think," asked angelica hesitatingly, as if she dared not trust so frail a thing as her own judgment, "that it may be a matter of principle with robert? of course i know that david feels that he is right, and there can't be a bit of truth in what people say about the way he runs his works, but, after all, isn't he really harming the south by trying to injure the democratic party? we all feel, of course, that it is so important not to do anything to discredit the democrats, and with robert i suppose there is a great deal of sentiment mixed with it all because his grandfather did so much for virginia. oh, if david could only find some other ambition--something that wouldn't make him appear disloyal and ungrateful! i can't tell you how it distresses me to see him estrange his best friends as he does. i can't feel in my heart that any political honour is worth it!" there was a flute-like quality in her voice, which was singularly lacking in the deeper and richer tones of passion, like the imperfect chords of some thin, sweet music. though angelica had the pensive eyes and the drooping profile of an early italian madonna, her voice, in spite of its lightness and delicacy, was without softness. at first it had come as a surprise to caroline, and even now, after three weeks at briarlay, she was aware of a nervous expectancy whenever mrs. blackburn opened her lips--of a furtive hope that the hard, cold tones might melt in the heat of some ardent impulse. "it isn't ambition with david," said mary, speaking bluntly, and with an arrogant conviction. "he doesn't care a rap for any political honour, and he is doing this because he believes it to be his duty. his country is more to him, i think, than any living creature could be, even a friend." "well, as far as that goes, he has made more friends by his stand than he has lost," observed alan, with unnatural diffidence. "i shouldn't let that worry me a minute, mrs. blackburn. david is a big man, and his influence grows every hour. the young blood is flowing toward him." "oh, but don't you see that this hurts me most of all?" responded angelica. "i wouldn't for the world say this outside, but you are david's friend and almost one of the family, and i know you will understand me." she lifted her eyes to his face--those large, shining eyes as soft as a dove's breast--and after a moment in which he gazed at her without speaking, alan answered gently, "yes, i understand you." "it would grieve me if you didn't because i feel that i can trust you." "yes, you can trust me--absolutely." he looked at mary as he spoke, and she smiled back at him with serene and joyous confidence. "that is just what i tell mary," resumed angelica. "you are so trustworthy that it is a comfort to talk to you, and then we both feel, don't we, dear?" she inquired turning to the girl, "that your wonderful knowledge of human nature makes your judgment of such value." alan laughed, though his eyes sparkled with pleasure. "i don't know about that," he replied, "though my opinion, whatever it may be worth, is at your service." "that is why i am speaking so frankly because i feel that you can help me. if you could only make david see his mistake--if you could only persuade him to give up this idea. it can't be right to overturn all the sacred things of the past--to discredit the principles we virginians have believed in for fifty years. surely you agree with me that it is a deplorable error of judgment?" as she became more flattering and appealing, alan recovered his gay insouciance. "if you want a candid answer, mrs. blackburn," he replied gallantly, "there isn't an ambition, much less a principle on earth, for which i would disagree with you." angelica smiled archly, and she was always at her loveliest when her face was illumined by the glow and colour of her smile. was it possible, caroline wondered while she watched her, that so simple a thing as the play of expression--as the parting of the lips, the raising of the eyebrows--could make a face look as if the light of heaven had fallen over it? "if you get impertinent, i'll make mary punish you!" exclaimed angelica reproachfully; and a minute later the car passed on, while she playfully shook her finger from the window. "how very handsome he is," said caroline as she looked back in the lane. "i didn't know that a man could be so good-looking." angelica was settling herself comfortably under the robe. "yes, he is quite unusual," she returned, and added after a pause, "if his uncle ever dies, and they say he is getting very feeble, alan will inherit one of the largest fortunes in chicago." "i'm so glad. that's nice for miss blackburn." "it's nice for mary--yes." her tone rather than her words, which were merely conventional, made caroline glance at her quickly; but angelica's features were like some faultless ivory mask. for the first time it struck the girl that even a beautiful face could appear vacant in repose. "where are we going now, mother?" asked letty, who had been good and quiet during the long wait in the lane. "to the ridleys', dear. i've brought a basket." there was a moment's delay while she gave a few directions to the footman, and then, as letty snuggled closely against caroline's arm, the car went on rapidly toward the city. the ridleys lived in a small frame house in pine street; and when the car stopped before the door, where a number of freshly washed children were skipping rope on the pavement, angelica alighted and held out her hand to letty. "do you want to come in with me, letty?" "i'd rather watch these children skip, mother. miss meade, may i have a skipping-rope?" behind them the footman stood waiting with a covered basket, and for an instant, while mrs. blackburn looked down on it, a shadow of irritation rippled across her face. "take that up to the second floor, john, and ask mrs. ridley if she got the yarn i sent for the socks?" then, changing her mind as john disappeared into the narrow hall, from which a smell of cabbage floated, she added firmly, "we won't stay a minute, letty, but you and miss meade must come up with me. i always feel," she explained to caroline, "that it does the child good to visit the poor, and contrast her own lot with that of others. young minds are so impressionable, and we never know when the turning-point comes in a life." grasping letty's hand she stepped over the skipping-rope, which the children had lowered in awe to the pavement. "letty has a cold. i'm afraid she oughtn't to go in," said caroline hastily, while the child, rescued in the last extremity, threw a grateful glance at her. "you really think so? well, perhaps next time. ah, there is mr. ridley now! we can speak to him without seeing his wife to-day." instinctively, before she realized the significance of her action, she had drawn slightly aside. a tall man, with a blotched, irascible face and a wad of tobacco in his mouth, lurched out on the porch, and stopped short at the sight of his visitors. he appeared surly and unattractive, and in her first revulsion, caroline was conscious of a sudden sympathy with blackburn's point of view. "he may be right, after all," she admitted to herself. "kind as mrs. blackburn is, she evidently doesn't know much about people. i suppose i shouldn't have known anything either if i hadn't been through the hospital." "i am glad to see you down, mr. ridley," said angelica graciously. "i hope you are quite well again and that you have found the right kind of work." "yes, 'm, i'm well, all right, but there ain't much doing now except down at the works, and you know the way mr. blackburn treats me whenever i go down there." he was making an effort to be ingratiating, and while he talked his appearance seemed to change and grow less repelling. the surliness left his face, his figure straightened from the lurching walk, and he even looked a shade cleaner. "it is wonderful the power she has over people," reflected the girl. "i suppose it comes just from being so kind and lovely." "you mustn't give up hope," mrs. blackburn replied encouragingly. "we never know at what moment some good thing may turn up. it is a pity there isn't more work of the kind in richmond." "well, you see, ma'am, mr. blackburn has cornered the whole lot. that's the way capital treats labour whenever it gets the chance." his face assumed an argumentative expression. "to be sure, mr. blackburn didn't start so very high himself, but that don't seem to make any difference, and the minute a man gets to the top, he tries to stop everybody else that's below him. if he hadn't had the luck to discover that cheap new way to make steel, i reckon he wouldn't be very far over my head to-day. it was all accident, that's what i tell the men down at the works, and luck ain't nothing but accident when you come to look at it." mrs. blackburn frowned slightly. it was plain that she did not care to diminish the space between blackburn and his workmen, and ridley's contemptuous tone was not entirely to her liking. she wanted to stoop, not to stand on a level with the objects of her charity. "the war abroad has opened so many opportunities," she observed, amiably but vaguely. "it's shut down a sight more than it's opened," rejoined ridley, who possessed the advantage of knowing something of what he was talking about. "all the works except the steel and munition plants are laying off men every hour. it's easy enough on men like mr. blackburn, but it's hard on us poor ones, and it don't make it any easier to be sending all of this good stuff out of the country. let the folks in europe look after themselves, that's what i say. there are hungry mouths enough right here in this country without raising the price of everything we eat by shipping the crops over the water. i tell you i'll vote for any man, i don't care what he calls himself, who will introduce a bill to stop sending our provisions to the folks over yonder who are fighting when they ought to be working----." "but surely we must do our best to help the starving women and children of europe. it wouldn't be human, it wouldn't be christian----" angelica paused and threw an appealing glance in the direction of caroline, who shook her head scornfully and looked away to the children on the pavement. why did she stoop to argue with the man? couldn't she see that he was merely the cheapest sort of malcontent? "the first thing you know we'll be dragged into this here war ourselves," pursued ridley, rolling the wad of tobacco in his mouth, "and it's the men like mr. blackburn that will be doing it. there's a lot of fellows down at the works that talk just as he does, but that's because they think they know which side their bread is buttered on! some of 'em will tell you the boss is the best friend they have on earth; but they are talking through their hats when they say so. as for me, i reckon i've got my wits about me, and as long as i have they ain't going to make me vote for nobody except the man who puts the full dinner pail before any darn squabble over the water. i ain't got anything against you, ma'am, but mr. blackburn ain't treated me white, and if my turn ever comes, i'm going to get even with him as sure as my name is james ridley." "i think we'd better go," said caroline sternly. she had suspected from the first that ridley had been drinking, and his rambling abuse was beginning to make her angry. it seemed not only foolish, but wicked to make a martyr of such a man. "yes, we must go," assented mrs. blackburn uneasily. "i won't see mrs. ridley to-day," she added. "tell her to let me know when she has finished the socks, and i will send for them. i am giving her some knitting to do for the war relief." "all right, she may do what she pleases as long as she's paid for it," rejoined ridley with a grin. "i ain't interfering." then, as the procession moved to the car, with the footman and the empty basket making a dignified rear-guard, he added apologetically, "i hope you won't bear me a grudge for my plain speaking, ma'am?" "oh, no, for i am sure you are honest," replied mrs. blackburn, with the manner of affable royalty. at last, to caroline's inexpressible relief, they drove away amid the eager stares of the children that crowded the long straight street. "i always wonder how they manage to bring up such large families," remarked angelica as she gazed with distant benignity out of the window. "oh, i quite forgot. i must speak to mrs. macy about some pillow cases. john, we will stop at mrs. macy's in the next block." in a dark back room just beyond the next corner, they found an elderly woman hemstitching yards of fine thread cambric ruffling. as they entered, she pinned the narrow strip of lawn over her knee, and looked up without rising. she had a square, stolid face, which had settled into the heavy placidity that comes to those who expect nothing. her thin white hair was parted and brushed back from her sunken temples, and her eyes, between chronically reddened lids, gazed at her visitors with a look of passive endurance. "my hip is bad to-day," she explained. "i hope you won't mind my not getting up." she spoke in a flat, colourless voice, as if she had passed beyond the sphere of life in which either surprises or disappointments are possible. suffering had moulded her thought into the plastic impersonal substance of philosophy. "oh, don't think of moving, mrs. macy," returned angelica kindly. "i stopped by to bring you the lace edging you needed, and to ask if you have finished any of the little pillow slips? now, that your son is able to get back to work, you ought to have plenty of spare time for hemstitching." "yes, there's plenty of time," replied mrs. macy, without animation, "but it's slow work, and hard on weak eyes, even with spectacles. you like it done so fine that i have to take twice the trouble with the stitches, and i was just thinking of asking you if you couldn't pay me twenty cents instead of fifteen a yard? it's hard to make out now, with every mouthful you eat getting dearer all the time, and though tom is a good son, he's got a large family to look after, and his eldest girl has been ailing of late, and had to have the doctor before she could keep on at school." a queer look had crept into angelica's face--the prudent and guarded expression of a financier who suspects that he is about to be over-matched, that, if he is not cautious, something will be got from him for nothing. for the instant her features lost their softness, and became sharp and almost ugly, while there flashed through caroline's mind the amazing thought, "i believe she is stingy! yet how could she be when she spends such a fortune on clothes?" then the cautious look passed as swiftly as it had come, and mrs. blackburn stooped over the rocking-chair, and gathered the roll of thread cambric into her gloved hands. "i can have it done anywhere for fifteen cents a yard," she said slowly. "well, i know, ma'am, that used to be the price, but they tell me this sort of work is going up like everything else. when you think i used to pay eight and ten cents a pound for middling, and yesterday they asked me twenty-six cents at the store. flour is getting so high we can barely afford it, and even corn meal gets dearer every day. if the war in europe goes on, they say there won't be enough food left in america to keep us alive. it ain't that i'm complaining, mrs. blackburn, i know it's a hard world on us poor folks, and i ain't saying that anybody's to blame for it, but it did cross my mind, while i was thinking over these things a minute ago, that you might see your way to pay me a little more for the hemstitching." while she talked she went on patiently turning the hem with her blunted thumb, and as she finished, she raised her head for the first time and gazed stoically, not into angelica's face, but at a twisted ailantus tree which grew by the board fence of the backyard.' "i am glad you look at things so sensibly, mrs. macy," observed angelica cheerfully. she had dropped the ruffling to the floor, and as she straightened herself, she recovered her poise and amiability. "one hears so many complaints now among working people, and at a time like this, when the country is approaching a crisis, it is so important"--this was a favourite phrase with her, and she accented it firmly--"it is so important that all classes should stand together and work for the common good. i am sure i try to do my bit. there is scarcely an hour when i am not trying to help, but i do feel that the well-to-do classes should not be expected to make all the sacrifices. the working people must do their part, and with the suffering in europe, and the great need of money for charities, it doesn't seem quite fair, does it, for you to ask more than you've been getting? it isn't as if fifteen cents a yard wasn't a good price. i can easily get it done elsewhere for that, but i thought you really needed the work." "i do," said mrs. macy, with a kind of dry terror. "it's all i've got to live on." "then i'm sure you ought to be thankful to get it and not complain because it isn't exactly what you would like. all of us, mrs. macy, have to put up with things that we wish were different. if you would only stop to think of the suffering in belgium, you would feel grateful instead of dissatisfied with your lot. why, i can't sleep at night because my mind is so full of the misery in the world." "i reckon you're right," mrs. macy replied humbly, and she appeared completely convinced by the argument. "it's awful enough the wretchedness over there, and tom and i have tried to help the little we could. we can't give much, but he has left off his pipe for a month in order to send what he spent in tobacco, and i've managed to do some knitting the last thing at night and the first in the morning. i couldn't stint on food because there wasn't any to spare, so i said to myself, 'well, i reckon there's one thing you can give and that's sleep.' so mrs. miller, she lets me have the yarn, and i manage to go to bed an hour later and get up an hour sooner. when you've got to my age, the thing you can spare best is sleep." "you're right, and i'm glad you take that rational view." mrs. blackburn's manner was kind and considerate. "every gift is better that includes sacrifice, don't you feel? tell your son that i think it is fine his giving up tobacco. he has his old place at the works, hasn't he?" "i wrote straight to mr. blackburn, ma'am, and he made the foreman hold it for him. heaven only knows how we'd have managed but for your husband. he ain't the sort that talks unless he is on the platform, but i don't believe he ever forgets to be just when the chance comes to him. there are some folks that call him a hard man, but tom says it ain't hardness, but justice, and i reckon tom knows. tom says the boss hasn't any use for idlers and drunkards, but he's fair enough to the ones who stand by him and do their work--and all the stuff they are putting in the papers about trouble down at the works ain't anything on earth but a political game." "well, we must go," said mrs. blackburn, who had been growing visibly restless. on her way to the door she paused for an instant and asked, "your son is something of a politician himself, isn't he, mrs. macy?" "yes, 'm, tom has a good deal to do with the federation of labour, and in that way he comes more or less into politics. he has a lot of good hard sense if i do say it, and i reckon there ain't anybody that stands better with the workers than he does." "of course he is a democrat?" "well, he always used to be, ma'am, but of late i've noticed that he seems to be thinking the way mr. blackburn does. it wouldn't surprise me if he voted with him when the time came, and the way tom votes," she added proudly, "a good many others will vote, too. he says just as mr. blackburn does that the new times take new leaders--that's one of tom's sayings--and that both the democratic and republican parties ain't big enough for these days. tom says they are both hitched tight, like two mules, to the past." by this time angelica had reached the door, and as she passed out, with letty's hand in hers, she glanced back and remarked, "i should think the working people would be grateful to any party that keeps them out of the war." mrs. macy looked up from her needle. "well, war is bad," she observed shortly, "but i've lived through one, and i ain't saying that i haven't seen things that are worse." the air was fresh and bracing after the close room, and a little later, as they turned into franklin street, angelica leaned out of the window as if she were drinking deep draughts of sunlight. "the poor are so unintelligent," she observed when she had drawn in her head again. "they seem never able to think with any connection. the war has been going on for a long time now, and yet they haven't learned that it is any concern of theirs." letty had begun coughing, and caroline drew her closer while she asked anxiously, "do you think it is wise to take a child into close houses?" "well, i meant to stay only a moment, but i thought mrs. macy would never stop talking. do you feel badly, darling? come closer to mother." "oh, no, i'm well," answered the child. "it is just my throat that tickles." then her tone changed, and as they stopped at the corner of the park, she cried out with pleasure, "isn't that uncle roane over there? uncle roane, do you see us?" a handsome, rather dissipated looking young man, with a mop of curly light hair and insolent blue eyes, glanced round at the call, and came quickly to the car, which waited under the elms by the sidewalk. the street was gay with flying motors, and long bars of sunshine slanted across the grass of the park, where groups of negro nurses gossiped drowsily beside empty perambulators. "why, anna jeannette!" exclaimed the young man, with genial mockery. "this is a pleasure which i thought your worthy bluebeard had forbidden me!" "get in, and i'll take you for a little drive. this is miss meade. you met her that night at briarlay." "the angel in the house! i remember." he smiled boldly into caroline's face. "well, letty, i'd like to trade my luck for yours. look at your poor uncle, and tell me honestly if i am not the one who needs to be nursed. lend her to me?" "i can't lend you miss meade, uncle roane," replied the child seriously, "because she plays with me; but if you really need somebody, i reckon i can let you have mammy riah for a little while." roane laughed while he bent over and pinched letty's cheek. that he had a bad reputation, caroline was aware, and though she was obliged to admit that he looked as if he deserved it, she could not deny that he possessed the peculiar charm which one of the old novels at the cedars described as "the most dangerous attribute of a rake." "i could never like him, yet i can understand how some women might fall in love with him," she thought. "no, i decline, with thanks, your generous offer," roane was saying. "if i cannot be nursed by an angel, i will not be nursed by a witch." beneath his insolent, admiring gaze a lovely colour flooded caroline's cheeks. in the daylight his manner seemed to her more offensive than ever, and her impulsive recognition of his charm was followed by an instantaneous recoil. "i don't like witches," said letty. "do you think miss meade is an angel, uncle roane?" "from first impressions," retorted roane flippantly, "i should say that she might be." as caroline turned away indignantly, angelica leaned over and gently patted her hand. "you mustn't mind him, my dear, that's just roane's way," she explained. "but i do mind," replied caroline, with spirit. "i think he is very impertinent." "think anything you please, only think of me," rejoined roane, with a gallant air. "you bad boy!" protested angelica. "can't you see that miss meade is provoked with you?" "no woman, anna jeannette, is provoked by a sincere and humble admiration. are you ignorant of the feminine heart?" "if you won't behave yourself, roane, you must get out of the car. and for heaven's sake, stop calling me by that name!" "my dear sister, i thought it was yours." "it is not the one i'm known by." she was clearly annoyed. "by the way, have you got your costume for the tableaux? you were so outrageous at mrs. miller's the other night that if they could find anybody else, i believe that they would refuse to let you take part. why are you so dreadful, roane?" "they require me, not my virtue, sister. go over the list of young men in your set, and tell me if there is another saint george of england among them?" his air of mocking pride was so comic that a smile curved caroline's lips, while angelica commented seriously, "well, you aren't nearly so good-looking as you used to be, and if you go on drinking much longer, you will be a perfect fright." "how she blights my honourable ambition!" exclaimed roane to caroline. "even the cherished career of a tableau favourite is forbidden me." "mother is going to be peace," said letty, with her stately manner of making conversation, "and she will look just like an angel. her dress has come all the way from new york, uncle roane, and they sent a wreath of leaves to go on her head. if i don't get sick, miss meade is going to take me to see her friday night." "well, if i am brother to peace, letty, i must be good. miss meade, how do you like richmond?" "i love it," answered caroline, relieved by his abrupt change of tone. "the people are so nice. there is mrs. colfax now. isn't she beautiful?" they were running into monument avenue, and daisy colfax had just waved to them from a passing car. "yes, i proposed to her twice," replied roane, gazing after daisy's rose-coloured veil which streamed gaily behind her. "but she could not see her way, unfortunately, to accept me. i am not sure, between you and me, that she didn't go farther and fare worse with old robert. i might have broken her heart, but i should never have bored her. speaking of robert, anna jeannette, was he really the author of that slashing editorial in the _free-press_?" "everybody thinks he wrote it, but it doesn't sound a bit like him. wasn't it dreadful, roane?" "oh, well, nothing is fair in politics, but the plum," he returned. "by the way, is it true about blackburn's vaulting ambition, or is it just newspaper stuff?" "of course i know nothing positively, roane, for david never talks to me about his affairs; but he seems to get more and more distracted about politics every day that he lives. i shouldn't like to have it repeated, yet i can't help the feeling that there is a great deal of truth in what the article says about his disloyalty to the south." "well, i shouldn't lose any sleep over that if i were you. no man ever took a step forward on this earth that he didn't move away from something that the rest of the world thought he ought to have stood by. there isn't much love lost between your husband and me, but it isn't a political difference that divides us. he has the bad taste not to admire my character." "i know you never feel seriously about these things," said angelica sadly, "but i always remember how ardently dear father loved the democratic party. he used to say that he could forgive a thief sooner than a traitor." "great scott! what is there left to be a traitor to?" demanded roane, disrespectfully. "a political machine that grinds out jobs isn't a particularly patriotic institution. i am not taking sides with blackburn, my dear sister, only i'd be darned before i'd have acted the part of your precious colfax. it may be good politics, but it's pretty bad sport, i should think. it isn't playing the game." "i suppose robert feels that things are really going too far," observed angelica feebly, for her arguments always moved in a circle. "he believes so strongly, you know, in the necessity of keeping the south solid. of course he may not really have attacked david," she added quickly. "there are other editors." "i am sure there is not one bit of truth in that article," said caroline suddenly, and her voice trembled with resentment. "i know mr. blackburn doesn't oppress his men because we've just been talking with the mother of a man who works in his plant. as for the rest, i was listening to him this afternoon, and i believe he is right." her eyes were glowing as she finished, and her elusive beauty--the beauty of spirit, not of flesh--gave her features the rare and noble grace of a marble diana. her earnestness had suddenly lifted her above them. though she was only a dark, slender woman, with a gallant heart, she seemed to roane as remote and royal as a goddess. he liked the waving line of hair on her clear forehead, where the light gathered in a benediction; he liked her firm red lips, with their ever-changing play of expression, and he liked above all the lovely lines of her figure, which was at once so strong and so light, so feminine and so spirited. it was the beauty of character, he told himself, and, by jove, in a woman, he liked character! "well, he has a splendid champion, lucky dog!" he exclaimed, with his eyes on her face. for an instant caroline wavered as angelica's gaze, full of pained surprise, turned toward her; then gathering her courage, she raised her lashes and met roane's admiring stare with a candid and resolute look. "no, it is not that," she said, "but i can't bear to see people unjust to any one." "you are right," ejaculated roane impulsively, and he added beneath his breath, "by george, i hope you'll stand up for me like that when i am knocked." chapter x other discoveries in the morning letty awoke with a sore throat, and before night she had developed a cold which spent itself in paroxysms of coughing. "oh, miss meade, make me well before friday," she begged, as caroline undressed her. "isn't friday almost here now?" "in three days, dear. you must hurry and get over this cold." "do you think i am going to be well, mammy?" they were in the nursery at letty's bedtime, and mammy riah was heating a cup of camphorated oil over the fire. "you jes' wait twel i git dish yer' red flan'l on yo' chist, en hit's gwinter breck up yo' cough toreckly," replied mammy riah reassuringly. "i'se done soused hit right good in dis hot ile." "i'll do anything you want. i'll swallow it right down if it will make me well." "dar ain't nuttin dat'll breck up a cole quick'n hot ile," said the old woman, "lessen hit's a hot w'iskey toddy." "well, you can't give her that," interposed caroline quickly, "if she isn't better in the morning i'm going to send for doctor boland. i've done everything i could think of. now, jump into bed letty, dear, and let me cover you up warm before i open the window. i am going to sleep on the couch in the corner." "hit pears to me like you en marse david is done gone clean 'stracted 'bout fresh a'r," grumbled mammy riah, as she drew a strip of red flannel out of the oil. "dar ain' nuttin in de worl' de matter wid dis chile but all dis night a'r you's done been lettin' in on 'er w'ile she wuz sleepin'. huh! i knows jes ez much about night a'r ez enny er yo' reel doctahs, en i ain' got er bit er use fur hit, i ain't. hit's a woner to me you all ain' done kilt 'er betweenst you, you and marse david en miss angy, 'en yo' reel doctah. ef'n you ax me, i 'ud let down all dem winders, en stuff up de chinks wid rags twel letty was peart enuff ter be outer dat baid." the danger in night air had been a source of contention ever since the first frost of the season, and though science had at last carried its point, caroline felt that the victory had cost her both the respect and the affection of the old negress. "i ain' never riz noner my chillun on night a'r," she muttered rebelliously, while she brought the soaked flannel over to letty's bed. "i hope it will cure me," said the child eagerly, and she added after a moment in which mammy riah zealously applied the oil and covered her with blankets, "do you think i'd better have all the night air shut out as she says, miss meade?" "no, darling," answered caroline firmly. "fresh air will cure you quicker than anything else." but, in spite of the camphorated oil and the wide-open windows, letty was much worse in the morning. her face was flushed with fever, and she refused her breakfast, when mammy riah brought it, because as she said, "everything hurt her." even her passionate interest in the tableaux had evaporated, and she lay, inert and speechless, in her little bed, while her eyes followed caroline wistfully about the room. "i telephoned for doctor boland the first thing," said caroline to the old woman, "and now i am going to speak to mrs. blackburn. will you sit with letty while i run down for a cup of coffee?" "ef'n i wuz you, i wouldn't wake miss angy," replied the negress. "hit'll mek 'er sick jes ez sho' ez you live. you'd better run along down en speak ter marse david." "i'll tell him at breakfast, but oughtn't letty's mother to know how anxious i am?" "she's gwine ter know soon enuff," responded mammy riah, "but dey don' low none un us ter rouse 'er twell she's hed 'er sleep out. miss angy is one er dem nervous sort, en she gits 'stracted moughty easy." in the dining-room, which was flooded with sunshine, caroline found the housekeeper and blackburn, who had apparently finished his breakfast, and was glancing over a newspaper. there was a pile of half-opened letters by his plate, and his face wore the look of animation which she associated with either politics or business. "i couldn't leave letty until mammy riah came," she explained in an apologetic tone. "her cold is so much worse that i've telephoned for the doctor." at this blackburn folded the paper and pushed back his chair. "how long has she had it?" he inquired anxiously. "i thought she wasn't well yesterday." there was the tender, protecting sound in his voice that always came with the mention of letty. "she hasn't been herself for several days, but this morning she seems suddenly worse. i am afraid it may be pneumonia." "have you said anything to angelica?" asked mrs. timberlake, and her tone struck caroline as strained and non-committal. "mammy riah wouldn't let me wake her. i am going to her room as soon as her bell rings." "well, she's awake. i've just sent up her breakfast." the housekeeper spoke briskly. "she has to be in town for some rehearsals." blackburn had gone out, and caroline sat alone at the table while she hastily swallowed a cup of coffee. it was a serene and cloudless day, and the view of the river had never looked so lovely as it did through the falling leaves and over the russet sweep of autumn grasses. october brooded with golden wings over the distance. "i had noticed that letty had a sort of hacking cough for three days," said mrs. timberlake from the window, "but i didn't think it would amount to anything serious." "yes, i tried to cure it, and last night mammy riah doctored her. the child is so delicate that the slightest ailment is dangerous. it seems strange that she should be so frail. mr. blackburn looks strong, and his wife was always well until recently, wasn't she?" for a moment mrs. timberlake stared through the window at a sparrow which was perched on the topmost branch of a juniper. "i never saw any one hate to have a child as much as angelica did," she said presently in her dry tones. "she carried on like a crazy woman about it. some women are like that, you know." "yes, i know, but she is devoted to letty now." the housekeeper did not reply, and her face grew greyer and harsher than ever. "no one could be sweeter than she is with her," said caroline, after a moment in which she tried to pierce mentally the armour of mrs. timberlake's reserve. "she isn't always so silent," she thought. "i hear her talking by the hour to mammy riah, but it is just as if she were afraid of letting out something if she opened her lips. i wonder if she is really so prejudiced against mrs. blackburn that she can't talk of her?" though caroline's admiration for angelica had waned a little on closer acquaintance, she still thought her kind and beautiful, except in her incomprehensible attitude to the old sewing woman in pine street. the recollection of that scene, which she had found it impossible to banish entirely, was a sting in her memory; and as she recalled it now, her attitude toward angelica changed insensibly from that of an advocate to a judge. "oh, angelica is sweet enough," said the housekeeper suddenly, with a rasping sound, as if the words scraped her throat as she uttered them, "if you don't get in her way." then facing caroline squarely, she added in the same tone, "i'm not saying anything against angelica, miss meade. our grandmothers were sisters, and i am not the sort to turn against my own blood kin, but you'll hear a heap of stories about the way things go on in this house, and i want you to take it from me in the beginning that there are a plenty of worse husbands than david blackburn. he isn't as meek as moses, but he's been a good friend to me, and if i wanted a helping hand, i reckon i'd go to him now a sight quicker than i would to angelica, though she's my kin and he isn't." rising hurriedly, as she finished, she gave a curt little laugh and exclaimed, "well, there's one thing david and i have in common. we're both so mortal shutmouthed because when we once begin to talk, we always let the cat out of the bag. now, if you're through, you can go straight upstairs and have a word with angelica before she begins to dress." she went over to the sideboard, and began counting the silver aloud, while caroline pushed back her chair, and ran impatiently upstairs to mrs. blackburn's room. at her knock the maid, mary, opened the door, and beyond her angelica's voice said plaintively, "oh, miss meade, mary tells me that letty's cold is very bad. i am so anxious about her." a breakfast tray was before her, and while she looked down at the china coffee service, which was exquisitely thin and fragile, she broke off a piece of toast, and buttered it carefully, with the precise attention she devoted to the smallest of her personal needs. it seemed to caroline that she had never appeared so beautiful as she did against the lace pillows, in her little cap and dressing sack of sky-blue silk. "i came to tell you," said caroline. "she complains of pain whenever she moves, and i'm afraid, unless something is done at once, it may turn into pneumonia." "well, i'm coming immediately, just as soon as i've had my coffee. i woke up with such a headache that i don't dare to stir until i've eaten. you have sent for the doctor, of course?" "i telephoned very early, but i suppose he won't be here until after his office hours." having eaten the piece of toast, angelica drank her coffee, and motioned to mary to remove the tray from her knees. "i'll get up at once," she said. "mary, give me my slippers. you told me so suddenly that i haven't yet got over the shock." she looked distressed and frightened, and a little later, when she followed caroline into the nursery and stooped over letty's bed, her attitude was that of an early italian madonna. the passion of motherhood seemed to pervade her whole yearning body, curving the soft lines to an ineffable beauty. "letty, darling, are you better?" the child opened her eyes and stared, without smiling, in her mother's face. "yes, i am better," she answered in a panting voice, "but i wish it didn't hurt so." "the doctor is coming. he will give you some medicine to cure it." "mammy says that it is the night air that makes me sick, but father says that hasn't anything to do with it." from the fire which she was tending, mammy riah looked up moodily. "huh! i reckon marse david cyarn' teach me nuttin' 'bout raisin chillun," she muttered under her breath. "ask the doctor. he will tell you," answered angelica. "do you think it is warm enough in here, miss meade?" "yes, i am careful about the temperature." almost unconsciously caroline had assumed her professional manner, and as she stood there in her white uniform beside letty's bed, she looked so capable and authoritative that even mammy riah was cowed, though she still grumbled in a deep whisper. "of course you know best," said angelica, with the relief she always felt whenever any one removed a responsibility from her shoulders, or assumed a duty which naturally belonged to her. "has she fallen asleep so quickly?" "no, it's stupor. she has a very high fever." "i don't like that blue look about her mouth, and her breathing is so rapid. do you think she is seriously ill, miss meade?" angelica had withdrawn from the bed, and as she asked the question, she lowered her voice until her words were almost inaudible. her eyes were soft and anxious under the drooping lace edge of her cap. "i don't like her pulse," caroline also spoke in a whisper, with an anxious glance at the bed, though letty seemed oblivious of their presence in the room. "i am just getting ready to sponge her with alcohol. that may lower her temperature." for a moment mrs. blackburn wavered between the bed and the door. "i wish i didn't have to go to town," she said nervously. "if it were for anything else except these tableaux i shouldn't think of it. but in a cause like this, when there is so much suffering to be relieved, i feel that one ought not to let personal anxieties interfere. don't you think i am right, miss meade?" "i haven't thought about it," replied caroline with her usual directness. "but i am sure you are the best judge of what you ought to do." "i have the most important part, you see, and if i were to withdraw, it would be such a disappointment to the committee. there isn't any one else they could get at the last moment." "i suppose not. there is really nothing that you can do here." "that is what i thought." angelica's tone was one of relief. "of course if i were needed about anything it would be different; but you are better able than i am to decide what ought to be done. i always feel so helpless," she added sadly, "when there is illness in the house." with the relinquishment of responsibility, she appeared to grow almost cheerful. if she had suddenly heard that letty was much better, or had discovered, after harrowing uncertainty, the best and surest treatment for pneumonia, her face would probably have worn just such a relieved and grateful expression. in one vivid instant, with a single piercing flash of insight, the other woman seemed to look straight through that soft feminine body to mrs. blackburn's thin and colourless soul. "i know what she is now--she is thin," said caroline to herself. "she is thin all through, and i shall never feel the same about her again. she doesn't want trouble, she doesn't want responsibility because it makes her uncomfortable--that is why she turns letty over to me. she is beautiful, and she is sweet when nothing disturbs her, but i believe she is selfish underneath all that softness and sweetness which costs her so little." and she concluded with a merciless judgment, "that is why she wasn't kind to that poor old woman in pine street. it would have cost her something, and she can't bear to pay. she wants to get everything for nothing." the iron in her soul hardened suddenly, for she knew that this moment of revelation had shattered for her the romance of briarlay. she might still be fascinated by mrs. blackburn; she might still pity her and long to help her; she might still blame blackburn bitterly for his hardness--but she could never again wholly sympathize with angelica. "there isn't anything in the world that you can do," she repeated gravely. "i knew you'd say that, and it is so good of you to reassure me." mrs. blackburn smiled from the threshold. "now, i must dress, or i shall be late for the rehearsal. if the doctor comes while i am away, please ask him if he thinks another nurse is necessary. david tells me he telephoned for an extra one for night duty; but, dear miss meade, i feel so much better satisfied when i know that letty is in your charge every minute." "oh, she is in my charge. even if the other nurse comes, i shall still sleep in the room next to her." "you are so splendid!" for an instant angelica shone on her from the hall. then the door closed behind her, and an hour afterwards, as caroline sat by letty's bed, with her hand on her pulse, she heard the motor start down the drive and turn rapidly into the lane. at one o'clock the doctor came, and he was still there a quarter of an hour later, when mrs. blackburn rustled, with an anxious face, into the room. she wore a suit of grey cloth, and, with her stole and muff of silver fox, and her soft little hat of grey velvet, she made caroline think of one of the aspen trees, in a high wind, on the lawn at the cedars. she was all delicate, quivering gleams of silver, and even her golden hair looked dim and shadowy, under a grey veil, as if it were seen through a mist. "oh, doctor, she isn't really so ill, is she?" her eyes implored him to spare her, and while she questioned him, she flung the stole of silver fox away from her throat, as if the weight of the furs oppressed her. "well, you mustn't be too anxious. we are doing all we can, you know. in a day or two, i hope, we'll have got her over the worst." he was a young man, the son of mrs. colfax's friend, old doctor boland, and all his eager youth seemed to start from his eyes while he gazed at angelica. "beauty like that is a power," thought caroline almost resentfully. "it hides everything--even vacancy." all the men she had seen with mrs. blackburn, except her husband, had gazed at her with this worshipful and protecting look; and, as she watched it shine now in doctor boland's eyes, she wondered cynically why david blackburn alone should be lacking in this particular kind of chivalry. "he is the only man who looks at her as if she were a human being, not an angel," she reflected. "i wonder if he used to do it once, and if he has stopped because he has seen deeper than any of the others?" "then it isn't really pneumonia?" asked angelica. he hesitated, still trying to answer the appeal in her eyes, and to spare her the truth if it were possible. "it looks now as if it might be, mrs. blackburn, but children pick up so quickly, you know." he reached out his arm as he answered, and led her to the couch in one corner. "have you some aromatic ammonia at hand, miss meade? i think you might give mrs. blackburn a few drops of it." caroline measured the drops from a bottle on the table by letty's bed. "perhaps she had better lie down," she suggested. "yes, i think i'll go to my room," answered angelica, rising from the couch, as she lifted a grateful face to the young doctor. "a shock always upsets me, and ever since mary told me how ill letty was, i have felt as if i couldn't breathe." she looked really unhappy, and as caroline met her eyes, she reproached herself for her harsh criticism of the morning. after all, angelica couldn't help being herself. after all, she wasn't responsible for her limited intelligence and her coldness of nature! perhaps she felt more in her heart than she was able to express, in spite of her perfect profile and her wonderful eyes. "even her selfishness may be due to her bringing up, and the way everyone has always spoiled her," pursued the girl, with a swift reaction from her severe judgment. when angelica had gone out, doctor boland came over to the bed, and stood gazing thoughtfully down on the child, who stirred restlessly and stared up at him with bright, glassy eyes. it was plain to caroline that he was more disturbed than he had admitted; and his grave young features looked old and drawn while he stood there in silence. he was a thickset man, with an ugly, intelligent face and alert, nearsighted eyes behind enormous glasses with tortoise-shell rims. "if we can manage to keep her temperature down," he said, and added as if he were pursuing his original train of thought, "mrs. blackburn is unusually sensitive." "she is not very strong." "for that reason it is better not to alarm her unnecessarily. i suppose mr. blackburn can always be reached?" "oh, yes, i have his telephone number. he asked me to call him up as soon as i had seen you." after this he gave a few professional directions, and left abruptly with the remark, "i'll look in early to-morrow. there is really nothing we can do except keep up the treatment and have as much fresh air as possible in the room. if all goes well, i hope she will have pulled through the worst by friday--and if i were you," he hesitated and a flush rose to his sandy hair, "i should be careful how i broke any bad news to mrs. blackburn." he went out, closing the door cautiously, as if he feared to make any sound in the house, while caroline sat down to wonder what it was about angelica that made every man, even the doctor, so anxious to spare her? "i believe his chief concern about poor letty is that this illness disturbs her mother," she mused, without understanding. "well, i hope his prophecy will come true, and that the worst will be over by friday. if she isn't, it will be a blow to the entertainment committee." but when friday came, the child was so much worse that the doctor, when he hurried out before his office hours, looked old and grey with anxiety. at eleven o'clock blackburn sent his car back to the garage, and came up, with a book which he did not open, to sit in letty's room. as he entered, angelica rose from the couch on which she had been lying, and laid her hand on his arm. "i am so glad you have come, david. it makes me better satisfied to have you in the house." "i am not going to the works. mayfield is coming to take down some letters, and i shall be here all day." "it is a comfort to know that. i couldn't close my eyes last night, so if you are going to be here, i think i'll try to rest a few minutes." she was pale and tired, and for the first time since she had been in the house, caroline discerned a shade of sympathy in the glances they interchanged. "what a beautiful thing it would be if letty's illness brought them together," she thought, with a wave of happiness in the midst of her apprehension. she had read of men and women who were miraculously ennobled in the crucial moments of life, and her vivid fancy was already weaving a romantic ending to the estrangement of the blackburns. after all, more improbable things had happened, she told herself in one of her mother's favourite phrases. at five o'clock, when doctor boland came, blackburn had gone down to his library, and caroline, who had just slipped into a fresh uniform, was alone in the room. her eyes were unnaturally large and dark; but she looked cool and composed, and her vitality scarcely felt the strain of the three sleepless nights. though the second nurse came on duty at six o'clock, caroline had been too restless and wakeful to stay in her room, and had spent the nights on the couch by the nursery window. "if we can manage to keep up her strength through the night----" the doctor had already looked over the chart, and he held it now in his hand while he waited for a response. "there is a fighting chance, isn't there?" his face was very grave, though his voice still maintained its professional cheerfulness. "with a child there is always a chance, and if she pulls through the night----" "i shall keep my eyes on her every minute." as she spoke she moved back to letty's bed, while the doctor went out with an abrupt nod and the words, "mr. blackburn wishes me to spend the night here. i'll be back after dinner." the door had hardly closed after him, when it opened again noiselessly, and mrs. timberlake thrust her head through the crack. as she peered into the room, with her long sallow face and her look of mutely inviting disaster, there flashed through caroline's mind the recollection of one of her father's freckled engravings of "hecuba gazing over the ruins of troy." "i've brought you a cup of tea. couldn't you manage to drink it?" "yes, i'd like it." there was something touching in the way mrs. timberlake seemed to include her in the distress of the family--to assume that her relation to letty was not merely the professional one of a nurse to a patient. stepping cautiously, as if she were in reality treading on ruins, the housekeeper crossed the room and placed the tray on the table at the bedside. while she leaned over to pour out the tea, she murmured in a rasping whisper, "mammy riah is crying so i wouldn't let her come in. can letty hear us?" "no, she is in a stupor. she has been moaning a good deal, but she is too weak to keep it up. i've just given her some medicine." her gaze went back to the child, who stirred and gave a short panting sob. in her small transparent face, which was flushed with fever, the blue circle about the mouth seemed to start out suddenly like the mark of a blow. she lay very straight and slim under the cover, as if she had shrunken to half her size since her illness, and her soft, fine hair, drawn smoothly back from her waxen forehead, clung as flat and close as a cap. "i'd scarcely know her," murmured the housekeeper, with a catch in her throat. "if she passes the crisis she will pick up quickly. i've seen children as ill as this who were playing about the room a few days afterwards." caroline tried to speak brightly, but in spite of her efforts, there was a note of awe in her voice. "is it really as grave as we fear, miss meade?" caroline met the question frankly. "it is very grave, mrs. timberlake, but with a child, as the doctor told me a minute ago, there is always hope of a sudden change for the better." "have you said anything to angelica?" "she was in here a little while ago, just before the doctor's visit, but i tried not to alarm her. she is so easily made ill." the windows were wide open, and mrs. timberlake went over to the nearest one, and stood gazing out on the lawn and the half-bared elms. a light wind was blowing, and while she stood there, she shivered and drew the knitted purple cape she wore closer about her shoulders. beyond the interlacing boughs the sunlight streamed in a golden shower on the grass, which was still bright and green, and now and then a few sparkling drops were scattered through the broad windows, and rippled over the blanket on letty's bed. "it is hard to get used to these new-fangled ways," observed the housekeeper presently as she moved back to the fire. "in my days we'd have thought a hot room and plenty of whiskey toddy the best things for pneumonia." "the doctor told me to keep the windows wide open." "i heard him say so, but don't you think you had better put on a wrap? it feels chilly." "oh, no, i'm quite warm." caroline finished the cup of tea as she spoke and gave back the tray. "that did me good. i needed it." "i thought so." from the tone in which the words were uttered caroline understood that the housekeeper was gaining time. "are you sure you oughtn't to say something to angelica?" "say something? you mean tell her how ill letty is? why, the doctor gave me my instructions. he said positively that i was not to alarm mrs. blackburn." "i don't think he understood. he doesn't know that she still expects to be in the tableaux to-night." for an instant caroline stared back at her without a word; then she said in an incredulous whisper, "oh, she wouldn't--she couldn't!" "she feels it to be her duty--her sacred duty, she has just told me so. you see, i don't think she in the least realizes. she seems confident that letty is better." "how can she be? she was in here less than an hour ago." "and she said nothing about to-night?" "not a word. i had forgotten about the tableaux, but, of course, i shouldn't have mentioned them. i tried to be cheerful, to keep up her spirit--but she must have seen. she couldn't help seeing." the housekeeper's lips twitched, and she moistened them nervously. "if you knew angelica as well as i do," she answered flatly, "you'd realize that she can help seeing anything on earth except the thing she wants to see." "then you must tell her," rejoined caroline positively. "someone must tell her." "i couldn't." mrs. timberlake was as emphatic as caroline. "and what's more she wouldn't believe me if i did. she'd pretend it was some of my crankiness. you just wait till you try to convince angelica of something she doesn't want to believe." "i'll tell her if you think i ought to--or perhaps it would be better to go straight to mr. blackburn?" mrs. timberlake coughed. "well, i reckon if anybody can convince her, david can," she retorted. "he doesn't mince matters." "the night nurse comes on at six o'clock, and just as soon as she gets here i'll go downstairs to mr. blackburn. that will be time enough, won't it?" "oh, yes, she isn't going until half-past seven. i came to you because i heard her order the car." when she had gone caroline turned back to her watch; but her heart was beating so rapidly that for a moment she confused it with letty's feverish breathing. she reproached herself bitterly for not speaking frankly to mrs. blackburn, for trying to spare her; and yet, recalling the last interview, she scarcely knew what she could have said. "it seemed too cruel to tell her that letty might not live through the night," she thought. "it seemed too cruel--but wasn't that just what mrs. timberlake meant when she said that mr. blackburn 'wouldn't mince matters?'" the night nurse was five minutes late, and during these minutes, the suspense, the responsibility, became almost unbearable. it was as if the whole burden of angelica's ignorance, of her apparent heartlessness, rested on caroline's shoulders. "if she had gone i could never have forgiven myself," she was thinking when miss webster, the nurse, entered with her brisk, ingratiating manner. "i stopped to speak to mrs. blackburn," she explained. "she tells me letty is better." her fine plain face, from which a wealth of burnished red hair was brushed severely back, beamed with interest and sympathy. though she had been nursing private cases for ten years, she had not lost the energy and enthusiasm of a pupil nurse in the hospital. her tall, erect figure, with its tightly confined hips, bent back, like a steel spring, whenever she stooped over the child. caroline shook her head without replying, for letty had opened her eyes and was gazing vacantly at the ceiling. "do you want anything, darling? miss webster is going to sit with you a minute while i run downstairs to speak to father." but the child had closed her eyes again, and it was impossible to tell whether or not the words had penetrated the stupor in which she had been lying for the last two or three hours. a few moments later, as caroline descended the staircase and crossed the hall to blackburn's library, the memory of letty's look floated between her and the object of her errand. "if mrs. blackburn could see that she would know," she told herself while she raised her hand to the panel of the door. "she couldn't help knowing." at the knock blackburn called to her to enter, and when she pushed the door open and crossed the threshold, she saw that he was standing by the window, looking out at the afterglow. beyond the terrace and the dark spires of the junipers, the autumn fields were changing from brown to purple under the flower-like pink of the sky. somewhere in the distance one of the airedale terriers was whining softly. as soon as he caught sight of her, blackburn crossed the floor with a rapid stride, and stood waiting for her to speak. though he did not open his lips, she saw his face grow white, and the corners of his mouth contract suddenly as if a tight cord were drawn. for the first time she noticed that he had a way of narrowing his eyes when he stared fixedly. "there hasn't been any change, mr. blackburn. i wish to speak to you about something else." from the sharp breath that he drew, she could measure the unutterable relief that swept over him. "you say there hasn't been any change?" "not since morning. she is, of course, very ill, but with a child," she had repeated the phrase so often that it seemed to have lost its meaning, "the crisis sometimes comes very quickly. if we can manage to keep up her strength for the next twenty-four hours, i believe the worst will be over." his figure, as he stood there in the dim light, was impressed with a new vividness on her mind, and it was as he looked at this moment that she always remembered him. "do you wish anything?" he asked. "is everything being done that is possible?" "everything. the doctor is coming to spend the night, and i shall sit up with miss webster." "but don't you need rest? can you go without sleep and not lose your strength?" she shook her head. "i couldn't sleep until she is better." a look of gratitude leaped to his eyes, and she became aware, through some subtle wave of perception, that for the first time, she had assumed a definite image in his thoughts. "thank you," he answered simply, but his tone was full of suppressed feeling. while he looked at her the old prejudice, the old suspicion and resentment faded from her face, and she gazed back at him with trusting and friendly eyes. though she was pale and tired, and there were lines of worry and sleeplessness in her forehead, she appeared to him the incarnation of helpfulness. the spirit of goodness and gentleness shone in her smile, and ennobled her slight womanly figure, which drooped a little in its trim uniform. she looked as if she would fight to the death, would wear herself to a shadow, for any one she loved, or for any cause in which she believed. "i came to ask you," she said very quietly, "if it would not be better to tell mrs. blackburn the truth about letty?" he started in amazement. "but she knows, doesn't she?" "she doesn't know everything. she thinks letty is better. miss webster has been talking to her." "and you think she ought to be warned?" her question had evidently puzzled him. "i think it is unfair to leave her in ignorance. she does not in the least realize letty's condition. mrs. timberlake tells me she heard her order the car for half-past seven." "order the car?" he seemed to be groping through a fog of uncertainty. if only heaven had granted intuition to men, thought caroline impatiently, how much time might be saved! "to go to the tableaux. you know the tableaux are to-night." "yes, i had forgotten." his tone changed and grew positive. "of course she must be told. i will tell her." "that is all." she turned away as she spoke, and laid her hand on the knob of the door. "mrs. timberlake and i both felt that i ought to speak to you." "i am glad you did." he had opened the door for her, and following her a step or two into the hall, he added gratefully, "i can never thank you enough." without replying, she hurried to the staircase, and ran up the steps to the second storey. when she reached the door of the nursery, she glanced round before entering, and saw that blackburn had already come upstairs and was on his way to angelica's room. while she watched, she saw him knock, and then open the door and cross the threshold with his rapid step. miss webster was sitting by letty's bed, and after a look at the child, caroline threw herself on the couch and closed her eyes in the hope that she might fall asleep. though she was profoundly relieved by her conversation with blackburn, she was still anxious about angelica, and impatient to hear how she had borne the shock. as the time dragged on, with the interminable passage of the minutes in a sickroom, she found it impossible to lie there in silence any longer, and rising from the couch, she glanced at the clock before going to her room to wash her hands and straighten her hair for dinner. it was exactly half-past seven, and a few minutes later, when she had finished her simple preparations, and was passing the window on her way to the hall, she heard the sound of a motor in the circular drive. "i suppose they forgot to tell john," she thought, "or can it be the doctor so soon?" the hall was empty when she entered it; but before she had reached the head of the stairs, a door opened and shut in the left wing, and the housekeeper joined her. at the bend in the staircase, beneath a copy of the sistine madonna, which had been crowded out of the drawing-room, the elder woman stopped and laid a detaining hand on caroline's arm. even through the starched sleeve her grasp felt dry and feverish. "miss meade, did you get a chance to speak to david?" "why, yes, i spoke to him. i went straight down as soon as miss webster came on duty." "did he say he would tell angelica?" "he came up at once to tell her. i saw him go into her room." mrs. timberlake glanced helplessly up at the sistine madonna. "well, i don't know what he could have said," she answered, "for angelica has gone. that was her motor you heard leaving the door." chapter xi the sacred cult when caroline looked back upon it afterwards, she remembered that dinner as the most depressing meal of her life. while she ate her food, with the dutiful determination of the trained nurse who realizes that she is obliged to keep up her strength, her gaze wandered for diversion to the soft blues and pinks on the wall. the tapestries were so fresh that she wondered if they were modern. more than ever the airy figure of spring, floating in primrose-coloured draperies through a flowery grove, reminded her of angelica. there was the same beauty of line, the same look of sweetness and grace, the same amber hair softly parted under a wreath of pale grey-green leaves. the very vagueness of the features, which left all except the pensive outline to the imagination, seemed to increase rather than diminish this resemblance. "have you ever noticed how much that figure is like mrs. blackburn?" she asked, turning to the housekeeper, for the silence was beginning to embarrass her. mary was away and neither blackburn nor mrs. timberlake had uttered a word during the four short courses, which patrick served as noiselessly as if he were eluding an enemy. mrs. timberlake lifted her eyes to the wall. "yes, it's the living image of her, if you stand far enough off. i reckon that's why she bought it." blackburn, who was helping himself to coffee, glanced up to remark, "i forgot to take sugar, patrick," and when the tray was brought back, he selected a lump of sugar and broke it evenly in half. if he had heard the question, there was no hint of it in his manner. having finished a pear she had been forcing herself to eat, caroline looked inquiringly from blackburn to mrs. timberlake. if only somebody would speak! if only mary, with her breezy chatter, would suddenly return from new york! from a long mirror over the sideboard caroline's reflection, very pale, very grave, stared back at her like a face seen in a fog. "i look like a ghost," she thought. "no wonder they won't speak to me. after all, they are silent because they can think of nothing to say." unlike in everything else, it occurred to her that blackburn and the housekeeper had acquired, through dissimilar experiences, the same relentless sincerity of mind. they might be blunt, but they were undeniably honest; and contrasted with the false values and the useless accessories of the house, this honesty impressed her as entirely admirable. the brooding anxiety in blackburn's face did not change even when he smiled at her, and then rose and stood waiting while she passed before him out of the dining-room. it wasn't, she realized, that he was deliberately inconsiderate or careless in manner; it was merely that the idea of pretending had never occurred to him. the thought was in her mind, when he spoke her name abruptly, and she turned to find that he had followed her to the staircase. "miss meade, i have to see a man on business for a half hour. i shall be in the library. if there is any change, will you send for me?" she bowed. "yes, i shall be with letty all the time." "as soon as baker goes, i'll come up. i asked the doctor to spend the night." "he said he couldn't get here before ten or eleven, but to telephone if we needed him," broke in mrs. timberlake. "mammy riah has gone to the nursery, miss meade. is there any reason why she shouldn't stay?" "none in the world." as caroline turned away and ascended the stairs, she remembered that there had been no question of angelica. "i wish i could understand. i wish i knew what it means," she said to herself in perplexity. she felt smothered by the uncertainty, the coldness, the reserve of the people about her. everybody seemed to speak with tight lips, as if in fear lest something might escape that would help to clear away the obscurity. it was all so different from the cedars, where every thought, every joy, every grief, was lived in a common centre of experience. when she opened the nursery door, mammy riah glanced up from the fire, where she was crouching over the low fender. "i'se mortal feared, honey," she muttered, while she held out her wrinkled palms to the blaze. she had flung a shawl of crimson wool over her shoulders, and the splash of barbaric colour, with her high indian cheek bones and the low crooning sound of her voice, gave her a resemblance to some oriental crooked image of destiny. as the wind rocked the elms on the lawn, she shivered, and rolled her glittering eyes in the direction of letty's bed. "don't give up, mammy riah," said caroline consolingly. "you have nursed children through worse illnesses than this." "yas'm, i know i is, but dar wan' noner dese yer signs dat i see now." the flames leaped up suddenly, illuminating her stooping figure in the brilliant shawl with an intense and sinister glow. "i ain't sayin' nuttin'. naw'm, i ain' lettin' on dat i'se seen whut i'se seen; but dar's somebody done thowed a spell on dis place jes ez sho' ez you live. dar wuz a ring out yonder on de grass de fust thing dis mawnin', en de fros' ain' never so much ez teched it. naw, honey, de fros' hit ain' never come a nigh hit. patrick he seed hit, too, but he ain' let on nuttin' about hit needer, dough de misery is done cotched him in bofe er his feet." "you don't really think we're conjured, mammy?" mammy riah cast a secretive glance over her shoulder, and the dramatic instinct of her race awoke in every fibre of her body as she made a vague, mournful gesture over the ashes. "i 'members, honey, i 'members," she muttered ominously. though caroline had been familiar with such superstitions from infancy, there was a vividness in these mysteries and invocations which excited her imagination. she knew, as she assured herself, that there "wasn't anything in it"; yet, in spite of her reason, the image of the old woman muttering her incantations over the fire, haunted her like a prophetic vision of evil. turning away she went over to letty's bed, and laid her small, cool fingers on the child's pulse. "has there been any change?" miss webster shook her head. "she hasn't stirred." "i don't like her pulse." "it seemed a little stronger after the last medicine, but it was getting more rapid a minute ago. that old woman has been talking a lot of heathen nonsense," she added in a whisper. "she says she found a conjure ball at the front door this morning. i am from the middle west, and it sounds dreadfully uncanny to me." "i know. she thinks we are conjured. that's just their way. don't notice her." "well, i hope she isn't going to sit up all night with me." then, as mammy riah glanced suspiciously round, and began shaking her head until the shadows danced like witches, miss webster added in a more distinct tone, "is mrs. blackburn still hopeful? she is so sweet that i've quite lost my heart to her." "she wasn't at dinner," answered caroline, and going back to the fire, she sat down in a chintz-covered chair, with deep arms, and shaded her eyes from the flames. in some incomprehensible way mammy riah and blackburn and angelica, all seemed to hover in spirit round the glowing hearth. she was still sitting there, and her hand had not dropped from her eyes, when blackburn came in and crossed the floor to a chair at the foot of letty's bed. after a whispered word or two with miss webster, he opened a book he had brought with him, and held it under the night lamp on the candle-stand. when a quarter of an hour had passed caroline noticed that he had not turned a page, and that he appeared to be reading and re-reading the same paragraph, with the dogged determination which was his general attitude toward adversity. his face was worn and lined, and there were heavy shadows under his eyes; but he gave her still the impression of a man who could not be conquered by events. "there is something in him, some vein of iron, that you can't break, you can't even bend," she thought. she remembered that her father had once told her that after the worst had happened you began to take things easier; and this casual recollection seemed to give her a fresh understanding of blackburn. "father knew life," she thought, "i wonder what he would have seen in all this? i wonder how he would have liked mr. blackburn and his political theories?" the profile outlined darkly against the shade of the night lamp, held her gaze in spite of the effort she made, now and then, to avert it. it was a strong face, and seen in this light, with the guard of coldness dropped, it was a noble one. thought and feeling and idealism were there, and the serenity, not of the philosopher, but of the soldier. he had fought hard, she saw, and some deep instinct told her that he had conquered. a phrase read somewhere long ago returned to her as clearly as if it were spoken aloud. "he had triumphed over himself." that was the meaning of his look. that was the thought for which she had been groping. he had triumphed over himself. she started up quickly, and ran with noiseless steps to the bed, for letty had opened her eyes and cried out. "is she awake?" asked blackburn, and closing his book, he moved nearer. caroline's hand was on letty's pulse, and she replied without looking at him, "she is getting restless. miss webster, is it time for the medicine?" "it is not quite half-past ten. that must be the doctor now at the door." rising hurriedly, blackburn went out into the hall, and when he came back, doctor boland was with him. as caroline left the bedside and went to the chair by the fire, she heard blackburn ask sharply, "what does the change mean, doctor?" and doctor boland's soothing response, "wait a while. wait a while." then he stooped to make an examination, while miss webster prepared a stimulant, and letty moaned aloud as if she were frightened. a clock outside was just striking eleven when the doctor said in a subdued tone, too low to be natural, yet too clear to be a whisper, "her pulse is getting weaker." he bent over the bed, and as caroline stood up, she saw letty's face as if it were in a dream--the flat, soft hair, the waxen forehead, the hard, bright eyes, and the bluish circle about the small, quivering mouth. then she crossed the floor like a white shadow, and in a little while the room sank back into stillness. only the dropping of the ashes, and the low crooning of mammy riah, disturbed the almost unendurable silence. for the first hour, while she sat there, caroline felt that the discipline of her training had deserted her, and that she wanted to scream. then gradually the stillness absorbed her, and there swept over her in waves a curious feeling of lightness and buoyancy, as if her mind had detached itself from her body, and had become a part of the very pulse and rhythm of the life that surrounded her. she had always lived vividly, with the complete reaction to the moment of a vital and sensitive nature; and she became aware presently that her senses were responsive to every external impression of the room and the night. she heard the wind in the elms, the whispering of the flames, the muttering of mammy riah, the short, fretful moans that came from letty's bed; and all these things seemed a part, not of the world outside, but of her own inner consciousness. even the few pale stars shining through the window, and the brooding look of the room, with its flickering firelight and its motionless figures, appeared thin and unsubstantial as if they possessed no objective reality. and out of this vagueness and evanescence of the things that surrounded her, there stole over her a certainty, as wild and untenable as a superstition of mammy riah's, that there was a meaning in the smallest incident of the night, and that she was approaching one of the cross-roads of life. a coal dropped on the hearth; she looked up with a start, and found blackburn's eyes upon her. "miss meade, have you the time? my watch has run down." she glanced at the little clock on the mantelpiece. "it is exactly one o'clock." "thank you." his gaze passed away from her, and she leaned back in her chair, while the sense of strangeness and unreality vanished as quickly as it had come. the old negress was mending the fire with kindling wood, and every now and then she paused and shook her head darkly at the flames. "i ain' sayin' nuttin', but i knows, honey," she repeated. "hadn't you better go to bed, mammy riah?" asked caroline pityingly. "naw'm, i 'ouldn't better git to baid. i'se got ter watch." "there isn't anything that you can do, and i'll call you, if there is a change." but the old woman shook her head stubbornly. "i'se got ter watch, honey," she replied. "dat's one er dem ole squitch-owls out dar now. ain't he hollerin' jes like he knows sump'n?" her mind was plainly wandering, and seeing that persuasion was useless, caroline left her to her crooning grief, and went over to letty's bed. as she passed the door, it opened without sound, as if it were pushed by a ghost, and mrs. timberlake looked in with the question, "is she any better, doctor?" the doctor raised his head and glanced round at her. "she is no better," he answered. "her pulse gets worse all the time." unconsciously, while they spoke, they had drawn together around letty's bed, and stooping over, caroline listened with a rapidly beating heart, to the child's breathing. then, dropping on her knees, she laid her arms about the pillow, as if she would hold the fragile little body to life with all her strength. she was kneeling there, it seemed to her hours later, when the door swung wide on its hinges, and angelica, in her white robes, with the wreath of leaves on her hair, paused on the threshold like some luca della robbia angel. her golden hair made a light on her temples; her eyes were deep and starry with triumph; and a glow hung about her that was like the rosy incandescence of the stage. for a minute she stood there; then, flushed, crowned, radiant, she swept into the room. blackburn had not lifted his head; there was no sign in his stooping figure that he heard her when she cried out. "is letty really so ill? is she worse, doctor boland?" the doctor moved a step from the bed, and reached out a protecting hand. "she has been getting weaker." "i'd sit down and wait, if i were you, angelica," said mrs. timberlake, pushing forward a chair. "there isn't anything else that you can do now." but, without noticing her, angelica had dropped to her knees at caroline's side. a cry that was half a sob burst from her lips, and lifting her head, she demanded with passionate reproach and regret, "why did nobody tell me? oh, why did he let me go?" the words seemed driven from her against her will, and when she had uttered them, she fell forward across the foot of the bed, with her bare arms outstretched before her. the doctor bent over her, and instinctively, as he did so, he glanced up at blackburn, who stood, white and silent, looking down on his wife with inscrutable eyes. he uttered no word of defence, he made no movement to help her, and caroline felt suddenly that the sympathy around him had rushed back like an eddying wave to angelica. "if he would only speak, if he would only defend himself," she thought almost angrily. without turning, she knew that angelica was led to the couch by the window, and she heard mrs. timberlake say in unemotional tones, "i reckon we'd better give her a dose of ammonia." the voices were silent, and except for mrs. blackburn's sobs and letty's rapid breathing, there was no sound in the room. suddenly from somewhere outside there floated the plaintive whining of the dog that caroline had heard in the afternoon. "he must be missing mary," she found herself thinking, while mammy riah murmured uneasily from the hearth, "hit's a bad sign, w'en a dawg howls in de daid er night." the hours dragged on like eternity, and without moving, without stirring or lifting her eyes, caroline knelt there, pouring her strength into the life of the unconscious child. every thought, every feeling, every throbbing nerve, was concentrated upon this solitary consuming purpose--"letty must live." science had done all it could; it remained now for hope and courage to fight the losing fight to the end. "i will never give up," she said sternly under her breath, "i will never give up." if hope and courage could save, if it were possible for the human will to snatch the victory from death, she felt, deep down in the passionate depths of her heart, that, while she watched over her, letty could not die. and then gradually, while she prayed, a change as light as a shadow stole over the face of the child. the little features grew less waxen, the glittering eyes melted to a dewy warmth, and it seemed that the blue circles faded slowly, and even the close brown hair looked less dull and lifeless. as the minutes passed, caroline held her breath in torture, lest the faintest sound, the slightest movement, might check the invisible beneficent current. at last, when the change had come, she rose from her knees, and with her hand on letty's pulse, looked up at blackburn. "the crisis is past. her hand is moist, and her pulse is better," she said. he started up, and meeting her joyous eyes, stood for an instant perfectly motionless, with his gaze on her face. "thank god!" he exclaimed in a whisper. as he turned away and went out of the door, caroline glanced over her shoulder, and saw that there was a glimmer of dawn at the window. chapter xii the world's view of an unfortunate marriage on a cloudy morning in december, caroline ran against daisy colfax as she came out of a milliner's shop in broad street. "oh, miss meade, i've been dying to see you and hear news of letty!" exclaimed the young woman in her vivacious manner. she was wearing a hat of royal purple, with a sweeping wing which intensified the brilliant dusk of her hair and eyes. "she is quite well again, though of course we are very careful. i came in to look for some small artificial flowers for a doll's hat. we are dressing a doll." "it must have been a dreadful strain, and cousin matty timberlake told mother she didn't know what they would have done without you. i think it is wonderful the way you keep looking so well." "oh, the work is easy," responded caroline gravely. "i am sure you are a perfect blessing to them all, especially to poor angelica," pursued daisy, in her rippling, shallow voice. then, in the very centre of the crowded street, regardless of the pedestrians streaming by on either side of her, she added on a higher note: "have you heard what everybody is saying about the way david blackburn behaved? robert insists he doesn't believe a word of it; but then robert never believes anything except the bible, so i told him i was going to ask you the very first chance i got. there isn't a bit of use trying to find out anything from cousin matty timberlake because she is so awfully close-mouthed, and i said to robert only this morning that i was perfectly sure you would understand why i wanted to know. it isn't just gossip. i am not repeating a thing that i oughtn't to; but the stories are all over town, and if they aren't true, i want to be in a position to deny them." "what are the stories?" asked caroline, and she continued immediately, before she was submerged again in the bubbling stream of daisy's narrative, "of course it isn't likely that i can help you. this is the first time i have been in town since letty's illness." "but that is exactly why you ought to know." as daisy leaned nearer her purple wing brushed caroline's face. "it is all over richmond, miss meade," her voice rang out with fluting sweetness, "that david blackburn kept letty's condition from angelica because he was so crazy about her being in those tableaux. they say he simply _made_ her go, and that she never knew the child was in danger until she got back in the night. mrs. mallow declares she heard it straight from an intimate friend of the family, and somebody, who asked me not to mention her name, told me she knew positively that doctor boland hadn't any use in the world for david blackburn. she said, of course, he hadn't said anything outright, but she could tell just by the way he looked. everybody is talking about it, and i said to robert at breakfast that i knew you could tell exactly what happened because we heard from cousin matty that you never left letty's room." "but why should mr. blackburn have wanted her to go? why should he care?" though daisy's sprightly story had confused her a little, caroline gathered vaguely that somebody had been talking too much, and she resolved that she would not contribute a single word to the gossip. "oh, he has always been wild about angelica's being admired. don't you remember hearing her say at that committee meeting at briarlay that her husband liked her to take part in public affairs? i happen to know that he has almost forced her to go into things time and again when doctor boland has tried to restrain her. mother thinks that is really why he married angelica, because he was so ambitious, and he believed her beauty and charm would help him in the world. i suppose it must have been a blow to him to find that she couldn't tolerate his views--for she is the most loyal soul on earth--and there are a great many people who think that he voted with the republicans in the hope of an office, and that he got mad when he didn't get one and turned independent----" the flood of words was checked for a moment, while the chauffeur came to ask for a direction, and in the pause caroline remarked crisply, "i don't believe one word--not one single word of these stories." "you mean you think he didn't make her go?" "i know he didn't. i'm perfectly positive." "you can't believe that angelica really knew letty was so ill?" her tone was frankly incredulous. "of course i can't answer that. i don't know anything about what she thought; but i am certain that if she didn't understand, it wasn't mr. blackburn's fault." afterwards, when she recalled it, her indignant defence of david blackburn amused her. why should she care what people said of him? "but they say she didn't know. mrs. mallow told me she heard from someone who was there that angelica turned on her husband when she came in and asked him why he had kept it from her?" the hopelessness of her cause aroused caroline's fighting blood, and she remembered that her father used to say the best battles of the war were fought after defeat. strange how often his philosophy and experience of life came back to inspirit her! "well, perhaps she didn't understand, but mr. blackburn wasn't to blame. i am sure of it," she answered firmly. mrs. colfax looked at her sharply. "do you like david blackburn?" she inquired without malice. caroline flushed. "i neither like nor dislike him," she retorted courageously, and wondered how long it would take the remark to circulate over richmond. mrs. colfax was pretty, amiable, and amusing; but she was one of those light and restless women, as clear as running water, on whose sparkling memories scandals float like straws. nothing ever sank to the depths--or perhaps there were no depths in the luminous shoals of her nature. "well, the reason i asked," daisy had become ingratiating, "is that you talk exactly like cousin matty." "do i?" caroline laughed. "mrs. timberlake is a very sensible woman." "yes, mother insists that she is as sharp as a needle, even if it is so hard to get anything out of her. oh, i've kept you an age--and, good heavens, it is long past my appointment at the dentist's! i can't tell you how glad i am that i met you, and you may be sure that whenever i hear these things repeated, i am going to say that you don't believe one single word of them. it is splendid of you to stand up for what you think, and that reminds me of the nice things i heard roane fitzhugh saying about you at the mallow's the other night. he simply raved over you. i couldn't make him talk about anything else." "i don't like to be disagreeable, but what he thinks doesn't interest me in the least," rejoined caroline coldly. daisy laughed delightedly. "now, that's too bad, because i believe he is falling in love with you. he told me he went motoring with you and angelica almost every afternoon. take my word for it, miss meade, roane isn't half so black as he is painted, and he's just the sort that would settle down when he met the right woman. good-bye again! i have enjoyed so much my little chat with you." she rushed off to her car, while caroline turned quickly into a cross street, and hastened to meet angelica at the office of a new doctor, who was treating her throat. a few drops of rain were falling, and ahead of her, when she reached franklin street, the city, with its church spires and leafless trees, emerged indistinctly out of the mist. here the long street was almost deserted, except for a blind negro beggar, whose stick tapped the pavement behind her, and a white and liver-coloured setter nosing adventurously in the gutter. then, in the middle of the block, she saw angelica's car waiting, and a minute later, to her disgust, she discerned the face of roane fitzhugh at the window. as she recognized him, the anger that mrs. colfax's casual words had aroused, blazed up in her without warning; and she told herself that she would leave briarlay before she would allow herself to be gossiped about with a man she detested. while she approached, roane opened the door and jumped out. "come inside and wait, miss meade," he said. "anna jeannette is still interviewing old skull and cross-bones." "i'd rather wait in the office, thank you." she swept past him with dignity, but before she reached the steps of the doctor's house, he had overtaken her. "oh, i say, don't crush a chap! haven't you seen enough of me yet to discover that i am really as harmless as i look? you don't honestly think me a rotter, do you?" "i don't think about you." "the unkindest cut of all! now, if you only knew it, your thinking of me would do a precious lot of good. by the way, how is my niece?" "very well. you'd scarcely know she'd been ill." "and she didn't see the tableaux, after all, poor kid. well, anna jeannette was a stunner. i suppose you saw her picture in the papers. the washington _examiner_ spoke of her as the most beautiful woman in virginia. that takes old black, i bet!" caroline had ascended the steps, and as she was about to touch the bell, the door opened quickly, and angelica appeared, lowering a net veil which was covered with a large spiral pattern. she looked slightly perturbed, and when she saw roane a frown drew her delicate eyebrows together. her colour had faded, leaving a sallow tone to her skin, which was of the fine, rose-leaf texture that withers early. "i can't take you to-day, roane," she remarked hastily. "we must go straight back to briarlay. miss meade came in to do some shopping for letty." "you'll have to take me as far as monument avenue." he was as ready as ever. "it is a long way, anna jeannette. i cannot walk, to crawl i am ashamed." "well, get in, and please try to behave yourself." "if behaviour is all that you expect, i shall try to satisfy you. the truth is i'm dead broke, and being broke always makes a christian of me. i feel as blue as old black." "oh, roane, stop joking!" her sweetness was growing prickly. "you don't realize that when you run on like this people think you are serious. i have just heard some silly talk about miss meade and you, and it came from nothing in the world except your habit of saying everything that comes into your mind." "in the first place, my dear anna, nothing that you hear of miss meade could be silly, and in the second place, i've never spoken her name except when i was serious." "well, you ought to be more careful how you talk to daisy colfax. she repeats everything in the world that she hears." he laughed shortly. "you'd say that if you'd heard the hot shot she gave me last night about you and blackburn. look here, anna jeannette, hadn't you better call a halt on the thing?" she flushed indignantly. "i haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about." "oh, it's all rot, i know, but how the deuce does such tittle-tattle get started? i beg your pardon, miss meade, i am addressing you not as a woman, but as a fount of justice and equity, and in the presence of anna jeannette, i ask you frankly if you don't think it's a bit rough on old black? we had our quarrel, and i assure you that i have no intention of voting with him; but when it comes to knifing a man in the back, then i must beg the adorable daisy to excuse me. it takes a woman to do that--and, by jove, old black may be a bit of a heavyweight, but he is neither a coward nor a liar." "i think you are right," responded caroline, and it was the first time that she had ever agreed with an opinion of roane's. "i wish i knew what you are talking about," said angelica wearily, "roane, do you get out here?" "i do, with regret." as he glanced back from the pavement, his face, except for the droop of the well-cut lips and the alcoholic puffs under the gay blue eyes, might have been a thicker and grosser copy of angelica's. "will you take me to-morrow?" mrs. blackburn shook her head. "i am obliged to go to a meeting." he appeared to catch at the idea. "then perhaps miss meade and letty may take pity on me?" a worried look sharpened angelica's features, but before she could reply, caroline answered quickly, "we are not going without mrs. blackburn. letty and i would just as soon walk." "ah, you walk, do you? then we may meet some day in the road." though he spoke jestingly, there was an undercurrent of seriousness in his voice. "we don't walk in the road, and we like to go by ourselves. we are studying nature." as she responded she raised her eyes, and swept his face with a careless and indifferent glance. "take your hand from the door, roane," said mrs. blackburn, "and the next time you see daisy colfax, please remember what i told you." the car started while she was speaking, and a minute later, as roane's figure passed out of sight, she observed playfully, "you mustn't let that bad brother of mine annoy you, miss meade. he doesn't mean all that he says." "i am sure that he doesn't mean anything," returned caroline with a smile, "but, if you don't mind, i'd rather not go to drive with him again." the look of sharpness and worry disappeared from angelica's face. "it is such a comfort, the way you take things," she remarked. "one can always count on your intelligence." "i shouldn't have thought that it required intelligence to see through your brother," retorted caroline gaily. "any old common sense might do it!" "can you understand," angelica gazed at her as if she were probing her soul, "what his attraction is for women?" "no, i can't. i hope you don't mind my speaking the truth?" "not in the least." angelica was unusually responsive. "but you couldn't imagine how many women have been in love with him. it isn't any secret that daisy colfax was wild about him the year she came out. the family broke it up because roane was so dissipated, but everybody knows she still cared for roane when she married robert." "she seems happy now with mr. colfax." "well, i don't mean that she isn't. there are some women who can settle down with almost any man, and though i am very fond of dear daisy, there isn't any use pretending that she hasn't a shallow nature. still there are people, you know, who say that she isn't really as satisfied as she tries to make you believe, and that her rushing about as much as she does is a sign that she regrets her marriage. i am sure, whatever she feels or doesn't feel, that she is the love of poor roane's life." it was not angelica's habit to gossip, and while she ran on smoothly, reciting her irrelevant detail as if it were poetry, caroline became aware that there was a serious motive beneath her apparent flippancy. "i suppose she is trying to warn me away from roane," she thought scornfully, "as if there were any need of it!" after this they were both silent until the car turned into the drive and stopped before the white columns. the happiness caroline had once felt in the mere presence of angelica had long ago faded, though she still thought her lovely and charming, and kind enough if one were careful not to cross her desires. she did not judge her harshly for her absence on the night of letty's illness, partly because letty had recovered, and partly because she was convinced that there had been an unfortunate misunderstanding--that blackburn had failed to speak as plainly as he ought to have done. "of course he thought he did," she had decided, in a generous effort to clear everybody from blame, "but the fact remains that there was a mistake--that mrs. blackburn did not take it just as he meant it." this, in the circumstances, was the best she felt that anybody could do. if neither blackburn nor angelica was to blame, then surely she must shift the responsibility to that flimsy abstraction she defined as "the way things happen in life." upstairs in the nursery they broke in upon a flutter of joyous excitement. mary had just returned after a month's absence, and letty was busily arranging a doll's tea party in honour of her aunt's arrival. the child looked pale and thin, but she had on a new white dress, and had tied a blue bow on her hair, which was combed primly back from her forehead. mammy riah had drawn the nursery table in front of the fire, and she was now placing a row of white and blue cups, and some plates of sponge cake and thinly sliced bread and butter, on the embroidered cloth she had borrowed from mrs. timberlake. the dignified old negress, in her full-waisted dress of black bombazine and her spotless white turban, was so unlike the demented figure that had crouched by the hearth on the night of letty's illness, that, if caroline had been less familiar with the impressionable mind of the negro, she would not have recognized her. "so i'm back," said mary, looking at them with her kind, frank glance, as they entered. she was still in her travelling clothes, and caroline thought she had never seen her so handsome as she was in the smartly cut suit of brown homespun. "letty is going to give me a party, only she must hurry, for if i don't get on a horse soon i'll forget how to sit in the saddle. well, angelica, i hear you were the whole show in the tableaux," she pursued in her nice, slangy manner, which was so perfectly in character with her boyish face and her straight, loose-limbed figure. "your picture was in at least six magazines, though, i must say, they made you look a little too spectral for my taste. how are you feeling? you are just a trifle run down, aren't you?" "of course letty's illness was a great strain," replied angelica. "one never realizes how such shocks tell until they are over." "poor lamb! look here, letty, who is coming to this feast of joy? do you mind if i bolt in the midst of it?" "father's coming and aunt matty," replied the child. "i couldn't have anybody else because mammy thought mother wouldn't like me to ask john. i like john, and he's white anyway." "oh, the footman! well, as long as you haven't invited him, i suppose there'll be only home folks. i needn't stand on formality with your father and cousin matty." "and there's mother--you'll come, won't you, mother?--and miss meade," added letty. "yes, i'll come," responded angelica. "i'm dying for my tea, dear, isn't it ready?" "may i pour it for you? i'll be very careful, and i know just how you like it." "yes, you may pour it, but let mammy riah help you. here's your father now, and cousin matty." "hallo, david!" mary's voice rang out clearly. "you look just a bit seedy, don't you? letty's illness seems to have knocked out everybody except the youngster herself. even miss meade looks as if she'd been giving too much medicine." then she turned to embrace mrs. timberlake, while blackburn crossed the room and sat down near the fireplace. "well, daughter, it isn't a birthday, is it?" letty, with her head bent sideways, and her small mouth screwed up very tight, was pouring angelica's tea with the aid of mammy riah. "you mustn't talk to me while i am pouring, father," she answered seriously. "i am so afraid i shall spill it, and mother can't bear to have it spilt." "all right. i'll talk to your aunt mary. any news, mary?" "yes, there's news, david. alan is coming in for his own, and it looks as if his own were enough for us." "you mean the old man in chicago----?" "he died last week, just as he was celebrating his ninetieth birthday. at ninety one couldn't reasonably have asked for very much more, do you think?" "and is alan his heir?" "his one and only. to be sure he wrote a will a few weeks ago and left every cent of it--i can't begin to remember the millions--to some missionary society, but fortunately he had neglected or forgotten to sign it. so alan gets the whole thing, bless his heart, and he's out there now in chicago having legal bouts with a dozen or more lawyers." for the first time angelica spoke. "is it true that alan will be one of the richest men in the west?" she asked slowly. "thank you, letty, darling, my tea is exactly right." "if he gets it all, and he is going to unless another will and a missionary society come to light. my dear angelica, when you see me a year hence," she continued whimsically, "you won't recognize your dependent sister. alan says he is going to give me a string of pearls even finer than yours." she spoke jestingly, yet as caroline watched angelica's face, it occurred to her that mary was not always tactful. the girl ought to have known by this time that angelica had no sense of humour and could not bear to be teased. "it's funny, isn't it, the way life works out?" said mrs. timberlake. "to think of mary's having more things than angelica! it doesn't seem natural, somehow." "no, it doesn't," assented mary, in her habitual tone of boyish chaffing. "but as far as the 'things' go, angelica needn't begin to worry. give me alan and a good horse, and she may have all the pearls that ever came out of the ocean." "i read an account in some magazine of the jewels old mrs. wythe left," remarked angelica thoughtfully. "she owned the finest emeralds in america." her reflections, whatever they were, brought the thin, cold look to her features. "can you imagine me wearing the finest emeralds in america?" demanded mary. "there's a comfort for you, at any rate, in the thought that they wouldn't be becoming to you. green isn't your colour, my dear, and white stones are really the only ones that suit you. now, i am so big and bold that i could carry off rubies." her laughing tone changed suddenly, "why, angelica, what is the matter? have you a headache?" "i feel very tired. the truth is i haven't quite got over the strain of letty's illness. when does alan come back, dear? i suppose you won't put off the wedding much longer? mother used to say that a long engagement meant an unhappy marriage." "alan gets back next week, i hope, and as for the wedding--well, we haven't talked it over, but i imagine we'll settle on the early summer--june probably. it's a pity it has to be so quiet, or i might have miss meade for a bridesmaid. she'd make an adorable bridesmaid in an orchid-coloured gown and a flower hat, wouldn't she, cousin matty?" "i'd rather dress you in your veil and orange blossoms," laughed caroline. "diana or i have pinned on almost every wedding veil of the last five years in southside virginia." "oh, is aunt mary really going to be married at last?" asked letty, with carefully subdued excitement, "and may i go to church? i do hope i shan't have to miss it as i did mother's tableau," she added wistfully. "you shan't miss it, dearie," said mary, "not if i have to be married up here in the nursery." angelica had risen, and she stooped now to pick up her furs which she had dropped. "your tea was lovely, letty dear," she said gently, "but i'm so tired that i think i'll go and lie down until dinner." "you must pick up before alan gets back," remarked mary lightly. "he thinks you the most beautiful woman in the world, you know." "he does? how very sweet of him!" exclaimed angelica, turning in the doorway, and throwing an animated glance back into the room. her face, which had been wan and listless an instant before, was now glowing, while her rare, lovely smile irradiated her features. when she had gone, mary went to change into her riding clothes, and caroline slipped away to take off her hat. a few minutes later, she came back with some brown yarn in her hand, and found that blackburn was still sitting in the big chintz-covered chair by the hearth. letty had dragged a footstool to the rug, and she was leaning against her father's knee while he questioned her about the stories in her reader. "i know miss meade can tell you," said the child as caroline entered. "miss meade, do you remember the story about the little girl who got lost and went to live with the fairies? is it in my reader? father, what is the difference between an angel and a fairy? mrs. aylett says that mother is an angel. is she a fairy too?" "you'd think she was sometimes to look at her," replied blackburn, smiling. "well, if mother is an angel, why aren't you one? i asked mrs. aylett that, but she didn't tell me." "you could scarcely blame her," laughed blackburn. "it is a hard question." "i asked miss meade, too, but she didn't tell me either." "now, i should have thought better of miss meade." as blackburn lifted his face, it looked young and boyish. "is it possible that she is capable of an evasion?" "what does that word mean, father?" "it means everything, my daughter, that miss meade is not." "you oughtn't to tease the child, david," said mrs. timberlake. "she is so easily excited." caroline and the old lady had both unfolded their knitting; and the clicking of their needles made a cheerful undercurrent to the conversation. the room looked homelike and pleasant in the firelight, and leaning back in his chair, blackburn gazed with half-closed eyes at the two women and the child outlined against the shimmering glow of the flames. "you are like the fates," he said presently after a silence in which letty sank drowsily against him. "do you never put down your knitting?" "well, angelica promised so many, and it makes her nervous to hear the needles," rejoined mrs. timberlake. "it is evidently soothing to you and miss meade." "the difference, i reckon, is that we don't stop to think whether it is or not." mrs. timberlake was always curt when she approached the subject of angelica. "i've noticed that when you can't afford nerves, you don't seem to have them." "that's considerate of nature, to say the least." his voice had borrowed the chaffing tone of mary's. as if in response to his words, mrs. timberlake rolled up the half-finished muffler, thrust her long knitting needles through the mesh, and leaned forward until she met blackburn's eyes. "david," she said in a low, harsh voice, "there is something i want to ask you, and miss meade might as well hear it. is letty asleep?" "she is dozing, but speak guardedly. this daughter of mine is a keen one." "well, she won't understand what i am talking about. did you or did you not think that you had spoken plainly to angelica that evening?" he looked at her through narrowed lids. "what does she say?" "she says she didn't understand. it is all over town that she didn't know letty's condition was serious." "then why do you ask me? if she didn't understand, i must have blundered in the telling. that's the only possible answer to your question." he rose as he spoke, and lifting letty from the footstool, placed her gently between the deep arms of the chair. "isn't there anything that you can say, david?" "no, that seems to be the trouble. there isn't anything that i can say." already he was on his way to the door, and as he glanced back, caroline noticed that, in spite of his tenderness with the child, his face looked sad and stern. "there's a man waiting for me downstairs," he added, "but i'll see you both later. wake letty before long or she won't sleep to-night." then he went out quickly, while mrs. timberlake turned to take up her knitting. "if i didn't know that david blackburn had plenty of sense about some things," she remarked grimly while she drew the needle from the roll, "i'd be tempted to believe that he was a perfect fool." chapter xiii indirect influence in january a heavy snow fell, and letty, who had begun to cough again, was kept indoors for a week. after the morning lessons were over, mammy riah amused the child, while caroline put on her hat and coat, and went for a brisk walk down the lane to the road. once or twice mary joined her, but since alan's return caroline saw the girl less and less, and no one else in the house appeared to have the spirit for exercise. blackburn she met only at breakfast and luncheon, and since christmas he seemed to have become completely engrossed in his plans. after the talk she had heard on the terrace, his figure slowly emerged out of the mist of perplexity in her mind. he was no longer the obscure protagonist of a vague political unrest, for the old dishonourable bond which had linked him, in her imagination, to the southern republicans of her father's day, was broken forever. she was intelligent enough to grasp the difference between the forces of reaction and development; and she understood now that blackburn had worked out a definite theory--that his thinking had crystallized into a constructive social philosophy. "he knows the south, he understands it," she thought. "he sees it, not made, but becoming. that is the whole difference between him and father. father was as patriotic as mr. blackburn, but father's patriotism clung to the past--it was grateful and commemorative--and mr. blackburn's strives toward the future, for it is active and creative. father believed that the south was separate from the union, like one of the sacred old graveyards, with bricked-up walls, in the midst of cornfields, while the younger man, also believing it to be sacred, is convinced that it must be absorbed into the nation--that its traditions and ideals must go to enrich the common soil of america." already she was beginning insensibly to associate blackburn with the great group of early virginians, with the men in whom love of country was a vital and living thing, the men who laid the foundation and planned the structure of the american republic. "do you think mr. blackburn feels as strongly as he talks?" she asked mrs. timberlake one afternoon when they were standing together by the nursery window. it had been snowing hard, and caroline, in an old coat with a fur cap on her head, was about to start for a walk. mrs. timberlake was staring intently through her spectacles at one of the snow-laden evergreens on the lawn. a covering of powdery white wrapped the drive and the landscape, and, now and then, when the wind rattled the ice-coated branches of the elms, there was a sharp crackling noise as of breaking boughs. "i reckon he does," she replied after a pause, "though i can't see to save my life what he expects to get out of it." "do you think it is ambition with him? it seems to me, since i heard him talk, that he really believes he has a message, that he can serve his country. until i met him," caroline added, half humorously, "i had begun to feel that the men of to-day loved their country only for what they could get out of it." "well, i expect david is as disinterested as anybody else," observed mrs. timberlake drily, "but that seems to me all the more reason why he'd better let things jog along as they are, and not try to upset them. but there isn't any use talking. david sets more store by those ideas of his than he does by any living thing in the world, unless it's letty. they are his life, and i declare i sometimes think he feels about them as he used to feel about angelica before he married her--the sort of thing you never expect to see outside of poetry." she had long ago lost her reserve in caroline's presence, and the effect of what she called "bottling up" for so many years, gave a crispness and roundness to her thoughts which was a refreshing contrast to angelica's mental vagueness. "i can understand it," said caroline, "i mean i can understand a man's wanting to have some part in moulding the thought of his time. father used to be like that. only it was virginia, not america, that he cared for. he wanted to help steer virginia over the rapids, he used to say. i was brought up in the midst of politics. that's the reason it sounded so natural to me when mr. blackburn was talking." letty, who had been playing with her dolls on the hearthrug, deserted them abruptly, and ran over to the window. "oh, miss meade, do you think i am going to be well for aunt mary's wedding?" "why, of course you are. this is only january, darling, and the wedding won't be till june." "and is that a very long time?" "months and months. the roses will be blooming, and you will have forgotten all about your cold." "well, i hope i shan't miss that too," murmured the child, going gravely back to her dolls. "i never heard anything like the way that child runs on," said mrs. timberlake, turning away from the window. "are you really going out in this cold? there doesn't seem a bit of sense in getting chilled to the bone unless you are obliged to." "oh, i like it. it does me good." "you've stopped motoring with angelica, haven't you?" "yes, we haven't been for several weeks. for one thing the weather has been so bad." "i got an idea it was because of roane fitzhugh," said the old lady, in her tart way. "i hope you won't think i am interfering, but i'm old and you're young, and so you won't mind my giving you a little wholesome advice. if i were you, my dear, i shouldn't pay a bit of attention to anything that roane says to me." "but i don't. i never have," rejoined caroline indignantly. "how on earth could you have got such an idea?" a look of mystification flickered over mrs. timberlake's face. "well, i am sure i don't mean any harm, my child," she responded soothingly. "i didn't think you would mind a word of warning from an old woman, and i know that roane can have a very taking way when he wants to." "i think he's hateful--perfectly hateful," replied caroline. then, drawing on her heavy gloves, she shook her head with a laugh as she started to the door. "if that's all you have to worry about, you may rest easy," she tossed back gaily. "letty, darling, when i come in i'll tell you all about my adventures and the bears i meet in the lane." the terrace and the garden were veiled in white, and the only sound in the intense frozen stillness was the crackling of elm boughs as the wind rocked them. a heavy cloud was hanging low in the west, and beneath it a flock of crows flew slowly in blue-black curves over the white fields. for a minute or two caroline stood watching them, and, while she paused there, a clear silver light streamed suddenly in rays over the hills, and the snow-covered world looked as if it were imprisoned in crystal. every frosted branch, every delicate spiral on the evergreens, was intensified and illuminated. then the wind swept up with a rush of sound from the river, and it was as if the shining landscape had found a melodious voice--as if it were singing. the frozen fountain and the white trees and the half buried shrubs under the mounds of snow, joined in presently like harps in a heavenly choir. "i suppose it is only the wind," she thought, "but it is just as if nature were praising god with music and prayer." in the lane the trees were silvered, and little darting shadows, like violet birds, chased one another down the long white vista to the open road. walking was difficult on the slippery ground, and caroline went carefully, stopping now and then to look up into the swinging boughs overhead, or to follow the elusive flight of the shadows. when she reached the end of the lane, she paused, before turning, to watch a big motor car that was ploughing through the heavy snowdrifts. a moment later the car stopped just in front of her, a man jumped out into a mound of snow, and she found herself reluctantly shaking hands with roane fitzhugh. "tom benton was taking me into town," he explained, "but as soon as i saw you, i told him he'd have to go on alone. so this is where you walk? lucky trees." "i was just turning." as she spoke she moved back into the lane. "it is a pity you got out." "oh, somebody else will come along presently. i'm in no sort of hurry." his face was flushed and mottled, and she suspected, from the excited look in his eyes, that he had been drinking. even with her first impulse of recoil, she felt the pity of his wasted and ruined charm. with his straight fine features, so like angelica's, his conquering blue eyes, and his thick fair hair, he was like the figure of a knight in some early flemish painting. "it's jolly meeting you this way," he said, a trifle thickly. "by jove, you look stunning--simply stunning." "please don't come with me. i'd rather go back alone," she returned, with chill politeness. "your sister went into richmond an hour ago. i think she is at a reception mrs. colfax is giving." "well, i didn't come to see anna jeannette." he spoke this time with exaggerated care as if he were pronouncing a foreign language. "don't hurry, miss meade. i'm not a tiger. i shan't eat you. are you afraid?" "of you?" she glanced at him scornfully. "how could you hurt me?" "how indeed? but if not of me, of yourself? i've seen women afraid of themselves, and they hurried just as you are doing." unconsciously her steps slackened. "i am not afraid of myself, and if i were, i shouldn't run away." "you mean you'd stay and fight it out?" "i mean i'd stay and get the better of the fear, or what caused it. i couldn't bear to be afraid." his careless gaze became suddenly intense, and before the red sparks that glimmered in his eyes, she drew hastily to the other side of the lane. a wave of physical disgust, so acute that it was like nausea, swept over her. even in the hospital the sight of a drunken man always affected her like this, and now it was much worse because the brute--she thought of him indignantly as "the brute"--was actually trying to make love to her--to her, caroline meade! "then if you aren't afraid of me, why do you avoid me?" he demanded. at this she stopped short in order to face him squarely. "since you wish to know," she replied slowly, "i avoid you because i don't like the kind of man you are." he lowered his eyes for an instant, and when he raised them they were earnest and pleading. "then make me the kind of man you like. you can if you try. you could do anything with me if you cared--you are so good." "i don't care." a temptation to laugh seized her, but she checked it, and spoke gravely. the relations between men and women, which had seemed as natural and harmonious as the interdependence of the planets, had become jangled and discordant. something had broken out in her universe which threatened to upset its equilibrium. "i don't doubt that there are a number of good women who would undertake your regeneration, but i like my work better," she added distantly. she was sure now that he had been drinking, and, as he came nearer and the smell of whiskey reached her, she quickened her steps almost into a run over the frozen ground. some deep instinct told her that at her first movement of flight he would touch her, and she thought quite calmly, with the clearness and precision of mind she had acquired in the hospital, that if he were to touch her she would certainly strike him. she was not frightened--her nerves were too robust for fear--but she was consumed with a still, cold rage, which made even the icy branches feel warm as they brushed her cheek. "now, you are running again, miss meade. why won't you be kind to me? can't you see that i am mad about you? ever since the first day i saw you, you've been in my thoughts every minute. honestly you could make a man out of me, if you'd only be a little bit human. i'll do anything you wish. i'll be anything you please, if you'll only like me." for a moment she thought he was going to break down and cry, and she wondered, with professional concern, if a little snow on his forehead would bring him to his senses. this was evidently the way he had talked to mary when blackburn ordered him out of the house. "i wish you would go back," she said in a tone she used to delirious patients in the hospital. "we are almost at the house, and mr. blackburn wouldn't like your coming to briarlay." "well, the old chap's in town, isn't he?" "it is time for him to come home. he may be here any moment." though she tried to reason the question with him, she was conscious of a vague, uneasy suspicion that they were rapidly approaching the state where reasoning would be as futile as flight. then she remembered hearing somewhere that a drunken man would fall down if he attempted to run, and she considered for an instant making an open dash for the house. "i'll go, if you'll let me come back to-morrow. i'm not a bad fellow, miss meade." a sob choked him. "i've got a really good heart--ask anna jeannette if i haven't----" "i don't care whether you are bad or not. i don't want to know anything about you. only go away. nothing that you can do will make me like you," she threw out unwisely under the spur of anger. "women never think that they can cajole or bully a person into caring--only men imagine they have the power to do that, and it's all wrong because they can't, and they never have. bullying doesn't do a bit more good than whining, so please stop that, too. i don't like you because i don't respect you, and nothing you can say or do will have the slightest effect unless you were to make yourself into an entirely different sort of man--a man i didn't despise." her words pelted him like stones, and while he stood there, blinking foolishly beneath the shower, she realized that he had not taken in a single sentence she had uttered. he looked stunned but obstinate, and a curious dusky redness was beating like a pulse in his forehead. "you can't fight me," he muttered huskily. "don't fight me." "i am not fighting you. i am asking you to go away." "i told you i'd go, if you'd let me come back to-morrow." "of course i shan't. how dare you ask me such a thing? can't you see how you disgust me?" as she spoke she made a swift movement toward the turn in the lane, and the next minute, while her feet slipped on the ice, she felt roane's arms about her, and knew that he was struggling frantically to kiss her lips. for years no man had kissed her, and as she fought wildly to escape, she was possessed not by terror, but by a blind and primitive fury. civilization dropped away from her, and she might have been the first woman struggling against attack in the depths of some tropic jungle. "i'd like to kill you," she thought, and freeing one arm, she raised her hand and struck him between the eyes. "i wonder why some woman hasn't killed him before this? i believe i am stronger than he is." the blow was not a soft one, and his arms fell away from her, while he shook his head as if to prevent a rush of blood to the brain. "you hurt me--i believe you wanted to hurt me," he muttered in a tone of pained and incredulous surprise. then recovering his balance with difficulty, he added reproachfully, "i didn't know you could hit like that. i thought you were more womanly. i thought you were more womanly," he repeated sorrowfully, while he put his hand to his head, and then gazed at it, as if he expected to find blood on his fingers. "now, perhaps you'll go," said caroline quietly. while the words were on her lips, she became aware that a shadow had fallen over the snow at her side, and glancing round, she saw blackburn standing motionless in the lane. her first impression was that he seemed enormous as he stood there, with his hands hanging at his sides, and the look of sternness and immobility in his face. his eyelids were half closed with the trick he had when he was gazing intently, and the angry light seemed to have changed his eyes from grey to hazel. "i am sorry to interrupt you," he said in a voice that had a dangerous quietness, "but i think roane is scarcely in a fit state for a walk." "i'd like to know why i am not?" demanded roane, sobered and resentful. "i'm not drunk. who says i am drunk?" "well, if you aren't, you ought to be." then the anger which blackburn had kept down rushed into his voice. "you had better go!" roane had stopped blinking, and while the redness ebbed from his forehead, he stood staring helplessly not at blackburn, but at caroline. "i'll go," he said at last, "if miss meade will say that she forgives me." but there was little of the sister of mercy in caroline's heart. she had been grossly affronted, and anger devoured her like a flame. her blue eyes shone, her face flushed and paled with emotion, and, for the moment, under the white trees, in the midst of the frosted world, her elusive beauty became vivid and dazzling. "i shall not forgive you, and i hope i shall never see you again," she retorted. "you'd better go, roane," repeated blackburn quietly, and as caroline hurried toward the house, he overtook her with a rapid step, and said in a troubled voice, "it is partly my fault, miss meade. i have intended to warn you." "to warn me?" her voice was crisp with anger. "i felt that you did not understand." "understand what?" she looked at him with puzzled eyes. "i may be incredibly stupid, but i don't understand now." for an instant he hesitated, and she watched a deeper flush rise in his face. "in a way you are under my protection," he said at last, "and for this reason i have meant to warn you against roane fitzhugh--against the danger of these meetings." "these meetings?" light burst on her while she stared on him. "is it possible that you think this was a meeting? do you dream that i have been seeing roane fitzhugh of my own accord? have you dared to think such a thing? to imagine that i wanted to see him--that i came out to meet him?" the note of scorn ended in a sob while she buried her face in her hands, and stood trembling with shame and anger before him. "but i understood. i was told----" he was stammering awkwardly. "isn't it true that you felt an interest--that you were trying to help him?" at this her rage swept back again, and dropping her hands, she lifted her swimming eyes to his face. "how dare you think such a thing of me?" "i am sorry." he was still groping in darkness. "you mean you did not know he was coming to-day?" "of course i didn't know. do you think i should have come out if i had known?" "and you have never met him before? never expected to meet him?" "oh, what are you saying? why can't you speak plainly?" a shiver ran through her. "i understood that you liked him." after her passionate outburst his voice sounded strangely cold and detached. "and that i came out to meet him?" "i was afraid that you met him outside because i had forbidden him to come to briarlay. i wanted to explain to you--to protect you----" "but i don't need your protection." she had thrown back her head, and her shining eyes met his bravely. her face had grown pale, but her lips were crimson, and her voice was soft and rich. "i don't need your protection, and after what you have thought of me, i can't stay here any longer. i can't----" as her words stopped, checked by the feeling of helplessness that swept her courage away, he said very gently, "but there isn't any reason---- why, i haven't meant to hurt you. i'm a bit rough, perhaps, but i'd as soon think of hurting letty. no, don't run away until i've said a word to you. let's be reasonable, if there has been a misunderstanding. come, now, suppose we talk it out as man to man." his tone had softened, but in her resentment she barely noticed the change. "no, i'd rather not. there isn't anything to say," she answered hurriedly. then, as she was about to run into the house, she paused and added, "only--only how could you?" he said something in reply, but before it reached her, she had darted up the steps and into the hall. she felt bruised and stiff, as if she had fallen and hurt herself, and the one thought in her mind was the dread of meeting one of the household--of encountering mary or mrs. timberlake, before she had put on her uniform and her professional manner. it seemed impossible to her that she should stay on at briarlay, and yet what excuse could she give angelica for leaving so suddenly? angelica, she surmised, would not look tolerantly upon any change that made her uncomfortable. the dazzling light of the sunset was still in caroline's eyes, and, for the first moment or two after she entered the house, she could distinguish only a misty blur from the open doors of the drawing-room. then the familiar objects started out of the gloom, and she discerned the gilt frame and the softly blended dusk of the sistine madonna over the turn in the staircase. as she reached the floor above, her heart, which had been beating wildly, grew gradually quiet, and she found herself thinking lucidly, "i must go away. i must go away at once--to-night." then the mist of obscurity floated up to envelop the thought. "but what does it mean? could there be any possible reason?" the nursery door was open, and she was about to steal by noiselessly, when mrs. timberlake's long, thin shadow stretched, with a vaguely menacing air, over the threshold. "i wanted to speak to you, my dear. why, what is the matter?" as the housekeeper came out into the hall, she raised her spectacles to her forehead, and peered nervously into caroline's face. "has anybody hurt your feelings?" "i am going away. i can't stay." though caroline spoke clearly and firmly, her lips were trembling, and the marks of tears were still visible under her indignant eyes, which looked large and brilliant, like the eyes of a startled child. "you are going away? what on earth is the reason? has anything happened?" then lowering her voice, she murmured cautiously, "come into my room a minute. letty is playing and won't miss you." putting her lean arm about caroline's shoulders, she led her gently down the hall and to her room in the west wing. not until she had forced her into an easy chair by the radiator, and turned back to close the door carefully, did she say in an urgent tone, "now, my dear, you needn't be afraid to tell me. i am very fond of you--i feel almost as if you were my own child--and i want to help you if you will let me." "there isn't anything except--except there has been a misunderstanding----" caroline looked up miserably from the big chair, with her lips working pathetically. all the spirit had gone out of her. "mr. blackburn seems to have got the idea that i care for roane fitzhugh--that i even went out to meet him." mrs. timberlake, whose philosophy was constructed of the bare bones of experience, stared out of the window with an expression that made her appear less a woman than a cynical point of view. her profile grew sharper and flatter until it gave the effect of being pasted on the glimmering pane. "well, i reckon david didn't make that up in his own mind," she observed with a caustic emphasis. "i met him--i mean roane fitzhugh to-day. of course it was by accident, but he had been drinking and behaved outrageously, and then mr. blackburn found us together," pursued caroline slowly, "and--and he said things that made me see what he thought. he told me that he believed i liked that dreadful man--that i came out by appointment----" "but don't you like him, my dear?" the housekeeper had turned from the sunset and taken up her knitting. "of course i don't. why in the world--how in the world----" "and david told you that he thought so?" the old lady looked up sharply. "he said he understood that i liked him--roane fitzhugh. i didn't know what he meant. he was obliged to explain." after all, the tangle appeared to be without beginning and without end. she realized that she was hopelessly caught in the mesh of it. "well, i thought so, too," said mrs. timberlake, leaning forward and speaking in a thin, sharp voice that pricked like a needle. "you thought so? but how could you?" caroline stretched out her hand with an imploring gesture. "why, i've never seen him alone until to-day--never." "and yet david believed that you were meeting him?" "that is what he said. it sounds incredible, doesn't it?" for a few minutes mrs. timberlake knitted grimly, while the expression, "i know i am a poor creature, but all the same i have feelings" seemed to leap out of her face. when at last she spoke it was to make a remark which sounded strangely irrelevant. "i've had a hard time," she said bluntly, "and i've stood things, but i'm not one to turn against my own blood kin just because they haven't treated me right." then, after another and a longer pause, she added, as if the words were wrung out of her, "if i didn't feel that i ought to help you i'd never say one single word, but you're so trusting, and you'd never see through things unless somebody warned you." "see through things? you mean i'd never understand how mr. blackburn got that impression?" mrs. timberlake twisted the yarn with a jerk over her little finger. "my dear, david never got that idea out of his own head," she repeated emphatically. "somebody put it there as sure as you were born, and though i've nothing in the world but my own opinion to go on, i'm willing to bet a good deal that it was angelica." "but she couldn't have. she knew better. there couldn't have been any reason." "when you are as old as i am, you will stop looking for reasons in the way people act. in the first place, there generally aren't any, and in the second place, when reasons are there, they don't show up on the surface." "but she knew i couldn't bear him." "if you'd liked him, she wouldn't have done it. she'd have been trying too hard to keep you apart." "you mean, then, that she did it just to hurt me?" lifting her slate-coloured eyes, the old lady brushed a wisp of hair back from her forehead. "i don't believe angelica ever did a thing in her life just to hurt anybody," she answered slowly. "then you wouldn't think for an instant----" "no, i shouldn't think for an instant that she did it just for that. there was some other motive. i don't reckon angelica would ever do you any harm," she concluded with a charitable intonation, "unless there was something she wanted to gain by it." from her manner she might have been making a point in angelica's favour. "but even then? what could she possibly gain?" "well, i expect david found out that roane had been here--that he had been motoring with you--and angelica was obliged to find some excuse. you see, responsibility is one of the things angelica can't stand, and whoever happens to be about when it is forced on her, usually bears it. sometimes, you know, when she throws it off like that, it chances to light by accident just in the proper place. the strangest thing about angelica, and i can never get used to it, is the way she so often turns out to be right. look at the way it all happened in letty's illness. now, angelica always stuck out that letty wouldn't die, and, as it turned out, she didn't. i declare, it looks, somehow, as if not only people, but circumstances as well, played straight into her hands." "you mean she told him that about me just to spare herself?" caroline's voice was angry and incredulous. "that's how it was, i reckon. i don't believe she would have done it for anything else on earth. you see, my dear, she was brought up that way--most american girls are when they are as pretty as angelica--and the way you're raised seems to become a habit with you. at home the others always sacrificed themselves for her, until she got into the habit of thinking that she was the centre of the universe, and that the world owed her whatever she took a fancy for. even as a girl, roane used to say that her feelings were just inclinations, and i expect that's been true of her ever since. she can want things worse than anybody i've ever seen, but apart from wanting, i reckon she's about as cold as a fish at heart. it may sound mean of me to say it, but i've known cousin abby to sit up at night and sew her eyes out, so the girl might have a new dress for a party, and all the time angelica not saying a word to prevent it. there never was a better mother than cousin abby, and i've always thought it was being so good that killed her." "but even now i can't understand," said caroline thoughtfully. "i felt that she really liked me." "oh, she likes you well enough." mrs. timberlake was counting some dropped stitches. "she wasn't thinking about you a minute. i doubt if she ever in her life thought as long as that about anybody except herself. the curious part is," she supplemented presently, "that considering how shallow she is, so few people ever seem to see through her. it took david five years, and then he had to be married to her, to find out what i could have told him in ten minutes. most of it is the way she looks, i expect. it is so hard for a man to understand that every woman who parts her hair in the middle isn't a madonna." "i knew she was hard and cold," confessed caroline sadly, "but i thought she was good. i never dreamed she could be bad at heart." mrs. timberlake shook her head. "she isn't bad, my dear, that's where you make a mistake. i believe she'd let herself be burned at the stake before she'd overstep a convention. when it comes to that," she commented with acrid philosophy, "i reckon all the bad women on earth could never do as much harm as some good ones--the sort of good ones that destroy everything human and natural that comes near them. we can look out for the bad ones--but i've come to believe that there's a certain kind of virtue that's no better than poison. it poisons everything it touches because all the humanity has passed out of it, just like one of those lovely poisonous flowers that spring up now and then in a swamp. nothing that's made of flesh and blood could live by it, and yet it flourishes as if it were as harmless as a lily. i know i'm saying what i oughtn't to, but i saw you were getting hurt, and i wanted to spare you. it isn't that angelica is wicked, you know, i wouldn't have you believe that for a minute. she is sincere as far as her light goes, and if i hadn't seen david's life destroyed through and through, i suppose i shouldn't feel anything like so bitterly. but i've watched all his trust in things and his generous impulses--there was never a man who started life with finer impulses than david--wither up, one after one, just as if they were blighted." the sunset had faded slowly, and while caroline sat there in the big chair, gazing out on the wintry garden, it seemed to her that the advancing twilight had become so thick that it stifled her. then immediately she realized that it was not the twilight, but the obscurity in her own mind, that oppressed and enveloped her with these heavy yet intangible shadows. her last illusion had perished, and she could not breathe because the smoke of its destruction filled the air. at the moment it seemed to her that life could never be exactly what it was before--that the glow and magic of some mysterious enchantment had vanished. even the garden, with its frozen vegetation and its forlorn skeletons of summer shrubs emerging from mounds of snow, appeared to have undergone a sinister transformation from the ideal back to the actuality. this was the way she had felt years ago, on that autumn day at the cedars. "and he never defended himself--never once," she said after a silence. "he never will, that's not his way," rejoined mrs. timberlake. "she knows he never will, and i sometimes think that makes matters worse." as caroline brooded over this, her face cleared until the light and animation returned. "i know him better," she murmured presently, "but everything else has become suddenly crooked." "i've thought that at times before i stopped trying to straighten out things." mrs. timberlake had put down the muffler, and while she spoke, she smoothed it slowly and carefully over her knee. in the wan light her face borrowed a remote and visionary look, like a face gazing down through the thin, cold air of the heights. she had passed beyond mutable things, this look seemed to say, and had attained at last the bleak security of mind that is never disappointed because it expects nothing. "i reckon that's why i got into the habit of keeping my mouth shut, just because i was worrying myself sick all the time thinking how different things ought to be." a chill and wintry cheerfulness flickered across the arid surface of her manner. "but i don't now. i know there isn't any use, and i get a good deal of pleasure just out of seeing what will happen. now, you take david and angelica. i'm wondering all the time how it will turn out. david is a big man, but even if angelica isn't smart, she's quick enough about getting anything she wants, and i believe she is beginning to want something she hasn't got." "when i came i didn't like mr. blackburn." though the barriers of the old lady's reserve had fallen, caroline was struggling still against an instinct of loyalty. "well, i didn't like him once." mrs. timberlake had risen, and was looking down with her pitiful, tormented smile. "it took me a long time to find out the truth, and i want to spare you all i suffered while i was finding it out. i sometimes think that nobody's experience is worth a row of pins to any one else, but all the same i am trying to help you by telling you what i know. david has his faults. i'm not saying that he is a saint; but he has been the best friend i ever had, and i'm going to stand up for him, angelica or no angelica. there are some men, my poor father used to say, that never really show what they are because they get caught by life and twisted out of shape, and i reckon david is one of these. father said, though i don't like heathen terms, that it was the fate of a man like david always to appear in the wrong and yet always to be in the right. that's a queer way of putting it, but father was a great scholar--he translated the "iliad" before he was thirty--and i reckon he knew what he was talking about. life was against those men, he told me once, but god was for them, and they never failed to win in the end." with the last words she faltered and broke off abruptly. "i have been talking a great deal more than i ought to, but when once i begin i never know when to stop. angelica must have come home long ago." bending over she laid her cheek against caroline's hair. "you won't think of going away now, will you?" surprised and touched by the awkward caress, caroline looked up gratefully. "no, i shan't think of going away now." book second realities chapter i in blackburn's library the fire was burning low, and after blackburn had thrown a fresh log on the andirons, he sat down in one of the big leather chairs by the hearth, and watched the flames as they leaped singing up the brick chimney. it was midnight--the clock in the hall was just striking--and a few minutes before, angelica had gone languidly upstairs, after their belated return from a dinner in town. the drive home had been long and dreary, and he could still see the winter landscape, sketched in vivid outlines of black and white, under a pale moon that was riding high in the heavens. road, fields, and houses, showed as clearly as a pen and ink drawing, and against this stark background his thoughts stood out with an abrupt and startling precision, as if they had detached themselves, one by one, from the naked forms on the horizon. there was no chance of sleep, for the sense of isolation, which had attacked him like physical pain while he drove home with angelica, seemed to make his chaotic memories the only living things in a chill and colourless universe. though it was midnight, he had work to do before he went up to bed--for he had not yet given his final answer to sloane. already blackburn had made his decision. already he had worked out in his own mind the phrases of the letter; yet, before turning to his writing-table, he lingered a moment in order to weigh more carefully the cost of his resolve. it was not an age when political altruism was either mentally convincing or morally expedient, and the quality of his patriotism would be estimated in the public mind, he was aware, by the numbers of his majority. sloane, he was sure, had been sounding him as a possible candidate in some future political venture--yet, while he sat there, it was not of sloane that he was thinking. slowly the depression and bitterness gathered to a single image, and looked out upon him from the pure reticence of angelica's features. it was as if his adverse destiny--that destiny of splendid purpose and frustrated effort--had assumed for an instant the human form through which it had wrought its work of destruction. "well, after all, why should i decline? it is what i have always wanted to do, and i am right." the room was very still, and in this stillness the light quivered in pools on the brown rugs and the brown walls and the old yellowed engravings. from the high bookshelves, which lined the walls, the friendly covers of books shone down on him, with the genial responsiveness that creeps into the aspect of familiar inanimate things. over the mantelpiece hung the one oil painting in the room, a portrait of his mother as a girl, by an unknown painter, who drew badly, but had a genuine feeling for colour. the face was small and heart-shaped, like some delicately tinted flower that has only half opened. the hair lay in bands of twilight on either side of the grave forehead, and framed the large, wistful eyes, which had a flower-like softness that made him think of black pansies. though the mouth was pink and faintly smiling, it seemed to him to express an infinite pathos. it was impossible for him to believe that his mother--the woman with the pallid cameo-like profile and the saintly brow under the thin dark hair--had ever faced life with that touching, expectant smile. there had been a strong soul in that fragile body, but her courage, which was invincible, had never seemed to him the courage of happiness. she had accepted life with the fortitude of the christian, not the joy of the pagan; and her piety was associated in his mind with long summer sundays, with old hymns played softly, with bare spotless rooms, and with many roses in scattered alabaster vases. her intellect, like her character, he recalled as a curious blending of sweetness and strength. if the speculative side of her mind had ever existed, life had long ago hushed it, for her capacity for acquiescence--for unquestioning submission to the will of god--was like the glory of martyrdom. yet, within her narrow field, the field in which religion reigned as a beneficent shade, she had thought deeply, and it seemed to blackburn that she had never thought harshly. her sympathy was as wide as her charity, and both covered the universe. so exquisitely balanced, so finely tempered, was her judgment of life, that after all these years, for she had died while he was still a boy, he remembered her as one whose understanding of the human heart approached the divine. "she always wanted me to do something like this," he thought, "to look forward--to stand for the future. i remember...." * * * * * from the light and warmth of the room there streamed the sunshine and fragrance of an old summer. after a hot day the sun was growing faint over the garden, and the long, slim shadows on the grass were so pale that they quivered between light and darkness, like the gauzy wings of gigantic dragon flies. against a flushed sky a few bats were wheeling. up from the sun-steeped lawn, which was never mown, drifted the mingled scents of sheepmint and box; and this unforgotten smell pervaded the garden and the lane and the porch at the back of the house, where he had stopped, before bringing home the cows, to exchange a word with his mother. the lattice door was open, and she stood there, in her black dress, with the cool, dim hall behind her. "mother," he said, "i have been reading about william wallace. when i grow up, i want to fight kings." she smiled, and her smile was like one of the slow, sad hymns they sang on sunday afternoons. "when you grow up there may be no kings left to fight, dear." "will they be dead, mother?" "they may be. one never knows, my son." all the romance faded suddenly out of the world. "well, if there are any left," he answered resolutely, "i am going to fight them." he could still see her face, thin and sad, and like the closed white flowers he found sometimes growing in hollows where the sun never shone. only her eyes, large and velvet black, seemed glowing with hope. "there are only three things worth fighting for, my son," she said, "your love, your faith, and your country. nothing else matters." "father fought for his country, didn't he?" "your father fought for all three." she waited a moment, and then went on more slowly in a voice that sounded as if she were reciting a prayer, "this is what you must never forget, my boy, that you are your father's son, and that he gave his all for the cause he believed in, and counted it fair service." the scene vanished like one of the dissolving views of a magic lantern, and there rose before him a later summer, and another imperishable memory of his boyhood.... * * * * * it was an afternoon in september--one of those mellow afternoons when the light is spun like a golden web between earth and sky, and the grey dust of summer flowers rises as an incense to autumn. the harvest was gathered; the apples were reddening in the orchard; and along the rail fence by the roadside, sumach and virginia creeper were burning slowly, like a flame that smoulders in the windless blue of the weather. somewhere, very far away, a single partridge was calling, and nearer home, from the golden-rod and life-ever-lasting, rose the slow humming of bees. he lay in the sun-warmed grass, with his bare feet buried in sheepmint. on the long benches, from which the green paint had rubbed off, some old men were sitting, and among them, a small coloured maid, in a dress of pink calico, was serving blackberry wine and plates of the pale yellow cake his mother made every saturday. one of the men was his uncle, a crippled soldier, with long grey hair and shining eyes that held the rapt and consecrated vision of those who have looked through death to immortality. his crutch lay on the grass at his feet, and while he sipped his wine, he said gravely: "a new generation is springing up, david's generation, and this must give, not the south alone, but the whole nation, a leader." at the words the boy looked up quickly, his eyes gleaming, "what must the leader be like, uncle?" the old soldier hesitated an instant. "he must, first of all, my boy, be predestined. no man whom god has not appointed can lead other men right." "and how will he know if god has appointed him?" "he will know by this--that he cannot swerve in his purpose. the man whom god has appointed sees his road straight before him, and he does not glance back or aside." his voice rose louder, over the murmur of the bees, as if it were chanting, "if the woods are filled with dangers, he does not know because he sees only his road. if the bridges have fallen, he does not know because he sees only his road. if the rivers are impassable, he does not know because he sees only his road. from the journey's beginning to its end, he sees only his road...." * * * * * a log, charred through the middle, broke suddenly, scattering a shower of sparks. the multitudinous impressions of his boyhood had gathered into these two memories of summer, and of that earlier generation which had sacrificed all for a belief. it was like a mosaic in his mind, a mosaic in which heroic figures waited, amid a jewelled landscape, for the leader whom god had appointed. the room darkened while he sat there, and from outside he heard the crackling of frost and the ceaseless rustle of wind in the junipers. on the hearthrug, across the glimmering circle of the fire, he watched those old years flock back again, in all the fantastic motley of half-forgotten recollections. he saw the long frozen winters of his childhood, when he had waked at dawn to do the day's work of the farm before he started out to trudge five miles to the little country school, where the stove always smoked and the windows were never opened. before this his mother had taught him his lessons, and his happiest memories were those of the hours when he sat by her side, with an antiquated geography on his knees, and watched her long slender fingers point the way to countries of absurd boundaries and unpronounceable names. she had taught him all he knew--knowledge weak in science, but rich in the invisible graces of mind and heart--and afterwards, in the uninspired method of the little school, he had first learned to distrust the kind of education with which the modern man begins the battle of life. homespun in place of velvet, stark facts instead of the texture of romance! the mornings when, swinging his hoe, he had led his chattering band of little negroes into the cornfields, had been closer to the throbbing pulse of experience. when he was fourteen the break had come, and his life had divided. his mother had died suddenly; the old place had been sold for a song; and the boy had come up to richmond to make his way in a world which was too indifferent to be actually hostile. at first he had gone to work in a tobacco factory, reading after hours as long as the impoverished widow with whom he lived would let the gas burn in his room. always he had meant to "get on"; always he had felt the controlling hand of his destiny. even in those years of unformed motives and misdirected energies, he had been searching--searching. the present had never been more than a brief approach to the future. he had looked always for something truer, sounder, deeper, than the actuality that enmeshed him. suddenly, while he sat there confronting the phantom he had once called himself, he was visited by a rush of thought which seemed to sweep on wings through his brain. yet the moment afterwards, when he tried to seize and hold the vision that darted so gloriously out of the shining distance, he found that it had already dissolved into a sensation, an apprehension, too finely spun of light and shadow to be imprisoned in words. it was as if some incalculable discovery, some luminous revelation, had brushed him for an instant as it sped onward into the world. once or twice in the past such a gleaming moment had just touched him, leaving him with this vague sense of loss, of something missing, of an infinitely precious opportunity which had escaped him. yet invariably it had been followed by some imperative call to action. "i wonder what it means now," he thought, "i suppose the truth is that i have missed things again." the inspiration no longer seemed to exist outside of his own mind; but under the clustering memories, he felt presently a harder and firmer consciousness of his own purpose, just as in his boyhood, he would sometimes, in ploughing, strike a rock half buried beneath the frail bloom of the meadows. it was the sense of reality so strong, so solid, that it brought him up, almost with a jerk of pain, from the iridescent cobwebs of his fancy; and this reality, he understood after a minute, was an acute perception of the great war that men were fighting on the other side of the world. his knowledge of these terrible and splendid issues had broken through the perishable surface of thought. the illusion vanished like the bloom of the meadows; what remained was the bare rocky structure of truth. he had not meant to think of this now. he had left the evening free for his work--for the decision which must be made sooner or later; yet, through some mysterious trend of thought, every personal choice of his life seemed to become a part of the impersonal choice of humanity. the infinite issues had absorbed the finite intentions. every decision was a ripple in the world battle between the powers of good and evil, of light and darkness. and he understood suddenly that the great abstractions for which men lay down their lives are one and indivisible--that there was not a corner of the earth where this fight for liberty could not be fought. "i can fight here as well as over there," he thought, "if i am only big enough." now that his mind had got down to solid facts, to steady thinking, it worked quickly and clearly. it would be a hard fight, with all the odds against him, and yet the very difficulties appealed to him. out of the dense fog of political theories, out of the noise and confusion of the babel of many tongues, he could discern the dim framework of a purer social order. the foundation of the republic was sound, he believed, only the eyes of the builders had failed, the hands of the builders had trembled. that the ideal democracy was not a dream, but an unattained reality, he had never doubted. the failure lay not in the plan, but in the achievement. there was obliquity of vision, there was even blindness, for the human mind was still afflicted by the ancient error which had brought the autocracies of the past to destruction. men and nations had still to learn that in order to preserve liberty it must first be surrendered--that there is no spiritual growth except through sacrifice. but it must be surrendered only to a broader, an ever-growing conception of what liberty means. as in the sun-warmed grass on those sunday afternoons, he still dreamed of america leading the nations. the great virginians of the past had been virginians first; the great virginians of the future would be americans. the urgent need in america, as he saw it, was for unity; and the first step toward this unity, the obliteration of sectional boundaries. in this, he felt, virginia must lead the states. as she had once yielded her land to the nation, she must now yield her spirit. she must point the way by act, not by theory; she must vote right as well as think right. "and to vote right," he said presently, thinking aloud, "we must first live right. people speak of a man's vote as if it were an act apart from the other acts of his life--as if they could detach it from his universal conceptions. there was a grain of truth in uncle carter's saying that he could tell by the way a man voted whether or not he believed in the immortality of the soul." it was uncle carter, he remembered, who had described the chronic malady of american life as a disease of manner that had passed from the skin into the body politic. "take my word for it," the old soldier had said, "there is no such thing as sound morals without sound manners, for manners are only the outer coating--the skin, if you like--of morals. without unselfish consideration for others there can be no morality, and if you have unselfish consideration in your heart, you will have good manners though you haven't a coat on your back. order and sanity and precision, and all the other qualities we need most in this republic, are only the outward forms of unselfish consideration for others, and patriotism, in spite of its plumed attire, is only that on a larger scale. after all, your country is merely a tremendous abstraction of your neighbour." well, perhaps the old chap had been talking sense half the time when people smiled at his words! rising from his chair, he pushed back the last waning ember, and stood gazing down on the ashes. "i will do my best," he said slowly. "i will fight to the last ditch for the things i believe in--for cleaner politics, for constructive patriotism, and for a fairer democracy. these are the big issues, and the little ends will flow from them." as he finished, the clock in the hall struck twice and stopped, and at the same instant the door of the library opened slowly, and, to his amazement, he saw mary standing beyond the threshold. she carried a candle in her hand, and by the wavering light, he saw that she was very pale and that her eyes were red as if she had been weeping. "the lights were out. i thought you had gone upstairs," she said, with a catch in her voice. "do you want anything?" "no, i couldn't sleep, so i came for a book." with a hurried movement, she came over to the table and caught up a book without glancing at the title. "are you ill?" he asked. "is anything the matter?" "no, nothing. i am well, only i couldn't sleep." "there is no trouble about alan, is there? have you quarrelled?" "oh, no, we haven't quarrelled." she was plainly impatient at his questioning. "alan is all right. really, it is nothing." though his affection for her was deep and strong, they had never learned to be demonstrative with each other, perhaps because they had been separated so much in childhood and early youth. it was almost with a hesitating gesture that he put out his hand now and touched her hair. "my dear, you know you can trust me." "yes, i know." the words broke from her with a sob, and turning hastily away, she ran out of the room and back up the stairs. chapter ii readjustments in letty's nursery the next afternoon, blackburn came at last to know caroline without the barrier of her professional manner. the child was playing happily with her paper dolls in one corner, and while she marched them back and forth along a miniature road of blocks, she sang under her breath a little song she had made. oh, my, i'd like to fly very high in the sky, just you and i. "i am very cold," said blackburn, as he entered. "mammy riah has promised me a cup of tea if i am good." "you are always good, father," replied letty politely, but she did not rise from the floor. "i'm sorry i can't stop, but mrs. brown is just taking her little girl to the hospital. if i were to get up the poor little thing might die on the way." "that must not happen. perhaps miss meade will entertain me?" "i will do my best." caroline turned from her writing and took up a half-finished sock. "if you had come an hour earlier you might have seen some of mrs. blackburn's lovely clothes. she was showing us the dress she is going to wear to dinner to-night." "you like pretty clothes." it was a careless effort to make conversation, but as he dropped into the armchair on the hearthrug, his face softened. there was a faint scent of violets in the air from a half-faded little bunch in caroline's lap. she met the question frankly. "on other people." "do you like nothing for yourself? you are so impersonal that i sometimes wonder if you possess a soul of your own." "oh, i like a great many things." mammy riah had brought tea, and caroline put down her knitting and drew up to the wicker table. "i like books for instance. at the cedars we used to read every evening. father read aloud to us as long as he lived." "yet i never see you reading?" "not here." as she shook her head, the firelight touched her close, dark hair, which shone like satin against the starched band of her cap. almost as white as her cap seemed her wide forehead, with the intense black eyebrows above the radiant blue of her eyes. "you see i want to finish these socks." "i thought you were doing a muffler?" "oh, that's gone to france long ago! this is a fresh lot mrs. blackburn has promised, and mrs. timberlake and i are working night and day to get them finished in time. we can't do the large kind of work that mrs. blackburn does," she added, "so we have to make up with our little bit. mrs. timberlake says we are hewers of wood and drawers of water." "you are always busy," he said, smiling. "i believe you would be busy if you were put into solitary confinement." to his surprise a look of pain quivered about her mouth, and he noticed, for the first time, that it was the mouth of a woman who had suffered. "it is the best way of not thinking----" she ended with a laugh, and he felt that, in spite of her kindness and her capability, she was as elusive as thistle-down. "i can knit a little, father," broke in letty, looking up from her dolls. "miss meade is teaching me to knit a muffler--only it gets narrower all the time. i'm afraid the soldiers won't want it." "then give it to me. i want it." "if i give it to you, you might go to fight, and get killed." as the child turned again to her dolls, he said slowly to caroline, "i can't imagine how she picks up ideas like that. someone must have talked about the war before her." "she heard mrs. blackburn talking about it once in the car. she must have caught words without our noticing it." his face darkened. "one has to be careful." "yes, i try to remember." he was quick to observe that she was taking the blame from angelica, and again he received an impression that she was mentally evading him. her soul was closed like a flower; yet now and then, through her reserve and gravity, he felt a charm that was as sweet and fresh as a perfume. she was looking tired and pale, he thought, and he wondered how her still features could have kindled into the beauty he had seen in them on that snowy afternoon. it had never occurred to him before, accustomed as he was to the formal loveliness of angelica, that the same woman could be both plain and beautiful, both colourless and vivid. this was perplexing him, when she clasped her hands over her knitting, and said with the manner of quiet confidence that he had grown to expect in her, "i have always meant to tell you, mr. blackburn, that i listened to everything you said that day on the terrace--that afternoon when you were talking to colonel ashburton and mr. sloane. i didn't mean to listen, but i found myself doing it." "well, i hope you are not any the worse for it, and i am sure you are not any the better." "there is something else i want to tell you." her pale cheeks flushed faintly, and a liquid fire shone in her eyes. "i think you are right. i agree with every word that you said." "traitor! what would your grandmother have thought of you? as a matter of fact i have forgotten almost all that i said, but i can safely assume that it was heretical. i think none of us intended to start that discussion. we launched into it before we knew where we were going." her mind was on his first sentence, and she appeared to miss his closing words. "i can't answer for my grandmother, but father would have agreed with you. he used to say that the state was an institution for the making of citizens." "and he talked to you about such things?" it had never occurred to him that a woman could become companionable on intellectual grounds, yet while she sat there facing him, with the light on her brow and lips, and her look of distinction and remoteness as of one who has in some way been set apart from personal joy or sorrow, he realized that she was as utterly detached as sloane had been when he discoursed on the functions of government. "oh, we talked and talked on sunday afternoons, a few neighbours, old soldiers mostly, and father and i. i wonder why political arguments still make me think of bees humming?" he laughed with a zest she had never heard in his voice before. "and the smell of sheepmint and box!" "i remember--and blackberry wine in blue glasses?" "no, they were red, and there was cake cut in thin slices with icing on the top of it." "doesn't it bring it all back again?" "it brings back the happiest time of my life to me. you never got up at dawn to turn the cows out to pasture, and brought them home in the evening, riding the calf?" "no, but i've cooked breakfast by candlelight." "you've never led a band of little darkeys across a cornfield at sunrise?" "but i've canned a whole patch of tomatoes." "i know you've never tasted the delight of stolen fishing in the creek under the willows?" her reserve had dropped from her like a mask. she looked up with a laugh that was pure music. "it is hard to believe that you ever went without things." "oh, things!" he made a gesture of indifference. "if you mean money--well, it may surprise you to know that it has no value for me to-day except as a means to an end." "to how many ends?" she asked mockingly. "the honest truth is that it wouldn't cost me a pang to give up briarlay, every stock and stone, and go back to the southside to dig for a living. i made it all by accident, and i may lose it all just as easily. it looks now, since the war began, as if i were losing some of it very rapidly. but have you ever noticed that people are very apt to keep the things they don't care about--that they can't shake them off? now, what i've always wanted was the chance to do some work that counted--an opportunity for service that would help the men who come after me. as a boy i used to dream of this. in those days i preferred william wallace to monte cristo." "the opportunity may come now." "if we go into this war--and, by god, we must go into it!--that might be. i'd give ten--no, twenty years of my life for the chance. life! we speak of giving life, but what is life except the means of giving something infinitely better and finer? as if anything mattered but the opportunity to speak the thought in one's brain, to sing it, to build it in stone. there is a little piece of america deep down in me, and when i die i want to leave it somewhere above ground, embodied in the national consciousness. when this blessed republic leaves the mud behind, and goes marching, clean and whole, down the ages, i want this little piece of myself to go marching with it." so she had discovered the real blackburn, the dreamer under the clay! this was the man mrs. timberlake had described to her--the man whose fate it was to appear always in the wrong and to be always in the right. and, womanlike, she wondered if this passion of the mind had drawn its strength and colour from the earlier wasted passion of his heart? would he love america so much if he loved angelica more? as she drew nearer to the man's nature, she was able to surmise how terrible must have been the ruin that angelica had wrought in his soul. that he had once loved her with all the force and swiftness of his character, caroline understood as perfectly as she had come to understand that he now loved her no longer. "if i can cast a shadow of the america in my mind into the sum total of american thought, i shall feel that life has been worth while," he was saying. "the only way to create a democracy,--and i see the immense future outlines of this country as the actual, not the imaginary democracy,--after all, the only way to create a thing is to think it. an act of faith isn't merely a mental process; it is a creative force that the mind releases into the world. germany made war, not by invading belgium, but by thinking war for forty years; and, in the same way, by thinking in terms of social justice, we may end by making a true democracy." he paused abruptly, with the glow of enthusiasm in his face, and then added slowly, in a voice that sounded curiously restrained and distant, "i must have been boring you abominably. it has been so long since i let myself go like this that i'd forgotten where i was and to whom i was talking." it was true, she realized, without resentment; he had forgotten that she was present. since she had little vanity, she was not hurt. it was only one of those delicious morsels that life continually offered to one's sense of humour. "i am not quite so dull, perhaps, as you think me," she responded pleasantly. after all, though intelligence was sometimes out of place, she had discovered that pleasantness was always a serviceable quality. at this he rose from his chair, laughing. "you must not, by the way, get a wrong impression of me. i have been talking as if money did not count, and yet there was a time when i'd willingly have given twenty years of my life for it. money meant to me power--the kind of power one could grasp by striving and sacrifice. why, i've walked the streets of richmond with five cents in my pocket, and the dream of uncounted millions in my brain. when my luck turned, and it turned quickly as luck runs, i thought for a year or two that i'd got the thing that i wanted----" "and you found out that you hadn't?" "oh, yes, i found out that i hadn't," he rejoined drily, as he moved toward the door, "and i've been making discoveries like that ever since. to-day i might tell you that work, not wealth, brings happiness, but i've been wrong often enough before, and who knows that i am not wrong about this." it was the tone of bitterness she had learned to watch for whenever she talked with him--the tone that she recognized as the subtle flavour of angelica's influence. "now i'll find mary," he added, "and ask her if she saw the doctor this morning. the reading i heard as i came up, i suppose was for her benefit?" "i don't know," replied caroline, wondering if she ought to keep him from interrupting a play of alan's. "i think mr. wythe had promised to read something to mrs. blackburn." "oh, well, mary must be about, and i'll find her. she couldn't sleep last night and i thought her looking fagged." "yes, she hasn't been well. mrs. timberlake has tried to persuade her to take a tonic." for a minute he hesitated. "there hasn't been any trouble, i hope. anything i could straighten out?" he looked curiously young and embarrassed as he put the question. "nothing that i know of. i think she feels a little nervous and let-down, that's all." the hesitation had gone now from his manner, and he appeared relieved and cheerful. "i had forgotten that you aren't the keeper of the soul as well as the body. it's amazing the way you manage letty. she is happier than i have ever seen her." then, as the child got up from her play and came over to him, he asked tenderly, "aren't you happy, darling?" "yes, i'm happy, father," answered letty, slowly and gravely, "but i wish mother was happy too. she was crying this morning, and so was aunt mary." a wine-dark flush stained blackburn's face, while the arms that had been about to lift letty from the floor, dropped suddenly to his sides. the pleasure his praise had brought to caroline faded as she watched him, and she felt vaguely disturbed and apprehensive. was there something, after all, that she did not understand? was there a deeper closet and a grimmer skeleton at briarlay than the one she had discovered? "if your mother isn't happy, letty, you must try to make her so," he answered presently in a low voice. "i do try, father, i try dreadfully hard, and so does miss meade. but i think she wants something she hasn't got," she added in a whisper, "i think she wants something so very badly that it hurts her." "and does your aunt mary want something too?" though he spoke jestingly, the red flush was still in his face. letty put up her arms and drew his ear down to her lips. "oh, no, aunt mary cries just because mother does." "well, we'll see what we can do about it," he responded, as he turned away and went out of the door. listening attentively, caroline heard his steps pass down the hall, descend the stairs, and stop before the door of the front drawing-room. "i wonder if mr. wythe is still reading," she thought; and then she went back to her unfinished letter, while letty returned cheerfully to her play in the corner. * * * * * this is an ugly blot, mother dear, but mr. blackburn came in so suddenly that he startled me, and i almost upset my inkstand. he stayed quite a long time, and talked more than he had ever done to me before--mostly about politics. i have changed my opinion of him since i came here. when i first knew him i thought him wooden and hard, but the more i see of him the better i like him, and i am sure that everything we heard about him was wrong. he has an unfortunate manner at times, and he is very nervous and irritable, and little things upset him unless he keeps a tight grip on himself; but i believe that he is really kind-hearted and sincere in what he says. one thing i am positive about--there was not a word of truth in the things mrs. colfax wrote me before i came here. he simply adores letty, and whatever trouble there may be between him and his wife, i do not believe that it is entirely his fault. mrs. timberlake says he was desperately in love with her when he married her, and i can tell, just by watching them together, how terribly she must have made him suffer. of course, i should not say this to any one else, but i tell you everything--i have to tell you--and i know you will not read a single word of this to the girls. i used to hope that letty's illness would bring them together--wouldn't that have been just the way things happen in books?--but everybody blamed him because she went to the tableaux, and, as far as i can see, she lets people think what is false, without lifting a finger to correct them. it is such a pity that she isn't as fine as we once thought her--for she looks so much like an angel that it is hard not to believe that she is good, no matter what she does. if you haven't lived in the house with her, it is impossible to see through her, and even now i am convinced that if she chose to take the trouble, she could twist everyone of us, even mr. blackburn, round her little finger. you remember i wrote you that mr. wythe did not like her? well, she has chosen to be sweet to him of late, and now he is simply crazy about her. he reads her all his plays, and she is just as nice and sympathetic as she can be about his work. i sometimes wish miss blackburn would not be quite so frank and sharp in her criticism. i have heard her snap him up once or twice about something he wrote, and i am sure she hurt his feelings. one afternoon, when i took letty down to the drawing-room to show a new dress to her mother, he was reading, and he went straight on, while we were there, and finished his play. i liked it very much, and so did mrs. blackburn, but miss blackburn really showed some temper because he would not change a line when she asked him to. it was such a pity she was unreasonable because it made her look plain and unattractive, and mrs. blackburn was too lovely for words. she had on a dress of grey crêpe exactly the colour of her eyes, and her hair looked softer and more golden than ever. it is the kind of hair one never has very much of--as fine and soft as maud's--but it is the most beautiful colour and texture i ever saw. well, i thought that miss blackburn was right when she said the line was all out of character with the speaker; but mrs. blackburn did not agree with us, and when mr. wythe appealed to her, she said it was just perfect as it was, and that he must not dream of changing it. then he said he was going to let it stand, and miss blackburn was so angry that she almost burst into tears. i suppose it hurt her to see how much more he valued the other's opinion; but it would be better if she could learn to hide her feelings. and all the time mrs. blackburn lay back in her chair, in her dove grey dress, and just smiled like a saint. you would have thought she pitied her sister-in-law, she looked at her so sweetly when she said, "mary, dear, we mustn't let you persuade him to ruin it." you know i really began to ask myself if i had not been unjust to her in thinking that she could be a little bit mean. then i remembered that poor old woman in pine street--i wrote you about her last autumn--and i knew she was being sweet because there was something she wanted to gain by it. i don't know what it is she wants, nor why she is wasting so much time on mr. wythe; but it is exactly as if she had bloomed out in the last month like a white rose. she takes more trouble about her clothes, and there is the loveliest glow--there isn't any word but bloom that describes it--about her skin and hair and eyes. she looks years younger than she did when i came here. i wanted to write you about mr. blackburn, but his wife is so much more fascinating. even if you do not like her, you are obliged to think about her, and even if you do not admire her, you are obliged to look at her when she is in the room. she says very little--and as she never says anything clever, i suppose this is fortunate--but somehow she just manages to draw everything to her. i suppose it is personality, but you always say that personality depends on mind and heart, and i am sure her attraction has nothing to do with either of these. it is strange, isn't it, but the whole time mr. blackburn was in here talking to me, i kept wondering if she had ever cared for him? mrs. timberlake says that she never did even when she married him, and that now she is irritated because he is having a good many financial difficulties, and they interfere with her plans. but mr. blackburn seems to worry very little about money. i believe his friends think that some day he may run for the senate--forlorn hope blackburn, colonel ashburton calls him, though he says that he has a larger following among the independent voters than anybody suspects. i shouldn't imagine there was the faintest chance of his election--for he has anything but an ingratiating manner with people; and so much in a political candidate depends upon a manner. you remember all the dreadful speeches that were flung about in the last presidential elections. well, mr. sloane, who was down here from new york the other day, said he really thought the result might have been different if the campaign speakers had had better manners. it seems funny that such a little thing should decide a great question, doesn't it? i suppose, when the time comes for us to go into this war or stay out of it, the decision will rest upon something so small that it will never get into history, not even between the lines. you remember that remark of turgot's--that dear father loved to quote: "the greatest evils in life have their rise from things too small to be attended to." after hearing mr. blackburn talk, i am convinced that he is perfectly honest in everything he says. as far as i can gather he believes, just as we do, that men should go into politics in order to give, not to gain, and he feels that they will give freely of themselves only to something they love, or to some ideal that is like a religion to them. he says the great need is to love america--that we have not loved, we have merely exploited, and he thinks that as long as the sections remain distinct from the nation, and each man thinks first of his own place, the nation will be exploited for the sake of the sections. he says, too, and this sounds like father, that the south is just as much the nation as the north or the west, and that it is the duty of the south to do her share in the building of the future. i know this is put badly, but you will understand what i mean. now, i really must stop. oh, i forgot to tell you that mrs. blackburn wants to know if you could find time to do some knitting for her? she says she will furnish all the wool you need, and she hopes you will make socks instead of mufflers. i told her you knitted the most beautiful socks. i am always thinking of you and wondering about the cedars. your loving, caroline. it looks very much as if we were going to fight, doesn't it? has the president been waiting for the country, or the country for the president? chapter iii man's woman from the second drawing-room, where angelica had tea every afternoon, there drifted the fragrance of burning cedar, and as blackburn walked quickly toward the glow of the fire, he saw his wife in her favourite chair with deep wings, and alan wythe stretched languidly on the white fur rug at her feet. mary was not there. she had evidently just finished tea, for her riding-crop lay on a chair by the door; but when blackburn called her name, alan stopped his reading and replied in his pleasant voice, "i think she has gone out to the stable. william came to tell her that one of the horses had a cough." "then i'll find her. she seems out of sorts, and i'm trying to make her see the doctor." "i am sorry for that." laying aside the book, alan sprang to his feet, and stood gazing anxiously into the other's face. "she always appears so strong that one comes to take her fitness as a matter of course." "yes, i never saw her look badly until the last day or two. have you noticed it, angelica?" without replying to his question, angelica rested her head against the pink velvet cushion, and turned a gentle, uncomprehending stare on his face. it was her most disconcerting expression, for in the soft blankness and immobility of her look, he read a rebuke which she was either too amiable or too well-bred to utter. he wondered what he had done that was wrong, and, in the very instant of wondering, he felt himself grow confused and angry and aggressive. this was always the effect of her stare and her silence--for nature had provided her with an invincible weapon in her mere lack of volubility--and when she used it as deliberately as she did now, she could, without speaking a syllable, goad him to the very limit of his endurance. it was as if her delicate hands played on his nerves and evoked an emotional discord. "have you noticed that mary is not well?" he asked sharply, and while he spoke, he became aware that alan's face had lost its friendliness. "no, i had not noticed it." her voice dropped as softly as liquid honey from her lips. "i thought her looking very well and cheerful at tea." she spoke without movement or gesture; but the patient and resigned droop of her figure, the sad grey eyes, and the hurt quiver of her eyelashes, implied the reproach she had been too gentle to put into words. the contrast with her meekness made him appear rough and harsh; yet the knowledge of this, instead of softening him, only increased his sense of humiliation and bitterness. "perhaps, then, there is no need of my speaking to her?" he said. "it might please her." she was sympathetic now about mary. "i am sure that she would like to know how anxious you are." for the first time since he had entered the room she was smiling, and this slow, rare smile threw a golden radiance over her features. he thought, as caroline had done several afternoons ago, that her beauty, which had grown a little dim and pale during the autumn, had come back with an april colour and freshness. not only her hair and eyes, but the ivory tint of her skin seemed to shine with a new lustre, as if from some hidden fire that was burning within. for a minute the old appeal to his senses returned, and he felt again the beat and quiver of his pulses which her presence used to arouse. then his mind won the victory, and the emotion faded to ashes before its warmth had passed to his heart. "i'll go and find her," he said again, with the awkwardness he always showed when he was with her. her smile vanished, and she leaned forward with an entreating gesture, which flowed through all the slender, exquisite lines of her body. instinctively he knew that she had not finished with him yet; that she was not ready to let him go until he had served some inscrutable purpose which she had had in view from the beginning. his mind was not trained to recognize subtleties of intention or thought; and while he waited for her to reveal herself, he began wondering what she could possibly want with him now? clearly it was all part of some intricate scheme; yet it appeared incredible to his blunter perceptions that she should exhaust the resources of her intelligence merely for the empty satisfaction of impressing mary's lover. "david," she began in a pleading tone, "aren't you going to have tea with me?" "i had it upstairs." he was baffled and at bay before an attack which he could not understand. "in the nursery?" her voice trembled slightly. "yes, in the nursery." as if she had ever expected or desired him to interrupt her amusements! "was cousin matty up there?" though he was still unable to define her motive, his ears detected the faint note of suspense that ruffled the thin, clear quality of her voice. "no, only letty and miss meade." a tremor crossed her face, as if he had struck her; then she said, not reproachfully, but with a pathetic air of self-effacement and humility, "miss meade is very intelligent. i am so glad you have found someone you like to talk to. i know i am dull about politics." and her eyes added wistfully, "it isn't my fault that i am not so clever." "yes, she is intelligent," he answered drily; and then, still mystified and dully resentful because he could not understand, he turned and went out as abruptly as he had entered. while his footsteps passed through the long front drawing-room and across the hall, angelica remained motionless, with her head bent a little sadly, as if she were listening to the echo of some half-forgotten sorrow. then, sighing gently, she looked from alan into the fire, and reluctantly back at alan again. she seemed impulsively, against her will and her conscience, to turn to him for understanding and sympathy; and at the sight of her unspoken appeal, he threw himself on the rug at her feet, and exclaimed in a strangled voice, "you are unhappy!" with these three words, into which he seemed to put infinity, he had broken down the walls of reticence that divide human souls from each other. she was unhappy! before this one torrential discovery all the restraints of habit and tradition, of conscience and honour, vanished like the imperfect structures of man in the rage of the hurricane. she shivered, and looked at him with a long frightened gaze. there was no rebellion, there was only a passive sadness in her face. she was too weak, her eyes said, to contend with unhappiness. some stronger hands than hers must snatch her from her doom if she were to be rescued. "how can i be happy?" the words were wrung slowly from her lips. "you see how it is?" "yes, i see." he honestly imagined that he did. "i see it all, and it makes me desperate. it is unbelievable that any one should make you suffer." she shook her head and answered in a whisper, "it is partly my fault. whatever happens, i always try to remember that, and be just. the first mistake may have been mine." "yours?" he exclaimed passionately, and then dropping his face into his hands, "if only i were not powerless to protect you!" for a moment, after his smothered cry, she said nothing. then, with an exquisite gesture of renunciation, she put the world and its temptations away from her. "we are both powerless," she responded firmly, "and now you must read me the rest of your play, or i shall be obliged to send you home." blackburn, meanwhile, had stopped outside on his way to the stable, and stood looking across the garden for some faint prospect of a clearer to-morrow. overhead the winter sky was dull and leaden; but in the west a thin silver line edged the horizon, and his gaze hung on this thread of light, as if it were prophetic not only of sunshine, but of happiness. already he was blaming himself for the scene with angelica; already he was resolving to make a stronger effort at reconciliation and understanding, to win her back in spite of herself, to be patient, sympathetic, and generous, rather than just, in his judgment of her. in his more philosophical moments he beheld her less as the vehicle of personal disenchantment, than as the unfortunate victim of a false system, of a ruinous upbringing. she had been taught to grasp until grasping had become not so much a habit of gesture, as a reflex movement of soul--an involuntary reaction to the nerve stimulus of her surroundings. though he had learned that the sight of any object she did not own immediately awoke in her the instinct of possession, he still told himself, in hours of tolerance, that this weakness of nature was the result of early poverty and lack of mental discipline, and that disappointment with material things would develop her character as inevitably as it would destroy her physical charm. so far, he was obliged to admit, she had risen superior to any disillusionment from possession, with the ironic exception of that brief moment when she had possessed his adoration; yet, in spite of innumerable failures, it was characteristic of the man that he should cling stubbornly to his belief in some secret inherent virtue in her nature, as he had clung, when love failed him, to the frail sentiments of habit and association. the richness of her beauty had blinded him for so long to the poverty of her heart, that, even to-day, bruised and humiliated as he was, he found himself suddenly hoping that she might some day change miraculously into the woman he had believed her to be. the old half-forgotten yearning for her swept over him while he thought of her, the yearning to kneel at her feet, to kiss her hands, to lift his eyes and see her bending like an angel above him. and in his thoughts she came back to him, not as she was in reality, but as he longed for her to be. with one of those delusive impersonations of memory, which torment the heart after the mind has rejected them, she came back to him with her hands outstretched to bless, not to grasp, and a look of goodness and love in her face. he remembered his first meeting with her--the close, over-heated rooms, the empty faces, the loud, triumphant music; and then suddenly she had bloomed there, like a white flower, in the midst of all that was ineffectual and meaningless. one minute he had been lonely, tired, depressed, and the next he was rested and happy and full of wild, startled dreams of the future. she had been girlish and shy and just a little aloof--all the feminine graces adorned her--and he had surrendered in the traditional masculine way. afterwards he discovered that she had intended from the first instant to marry him; but on that evening he had seen only her faint, reluctant flight from his rising emotion. she had played the game so well; she had used the ancient decoy so cleverly, that it had taken years to tear the veil of illusion from the bare structure of method. for he knew now that she had been methodical, that she had been utterly unemotional; and that her angelic virtue had been mere thinness of temperament. never for a moment had she been real, never had she been natural; and he admitted, in the passing mood of confession, that if she had once been natural--as natural as the woman upstairs--the chances were that she would never have won him. manlike, he would have turned from the blade-straight nature to pursue the beckoning angel of the faint reluctance. if she had stooped but for an instant, if she had given him so much as the touch of her fingers, she might have lost him. life, not instinct, had taught him the beauty of sincerity in woman, the grace of generosity. in his youth, it was woman as mystery, woman as destroyer, to whom he had surrendered. descending the steps from the terrace, he walked slowly along the brick way to the stable, where he found mary giving medicine to her favourite horse. "briar rose has a bad cough, david." he asked a few questions, and then, when the dose was administered, they turned together, and strolled back through the garden. mary looked cross and anxious, and he could tell by the way she spoke in short jerks that her nerves were not steady. her tone of chaffing had lost its ease, and the effort she made to appear flippant seemed to hurt her. "are you all right again, mary?" "quite all right. why shouldn't i be?" "there's no reason that i know of," he replied seriously. "have you decided when you will be married?" she winced as if he had touched a nerve. "no, we haven't decided." for a minute she walked on quickly, then looking up with a defiant smile, she said, "i am not sure that we are ever going to be married." so the trouble was out at last! he breathed heavily, overcome by some indefinable dread. after all, why should mary's words have disturbed him so deeply? the chances were, he told himself, that it was nothing more than the usual lovers' quarrel. "my dear, alan is a good fellow. don't let anything make trouble between you." "oh, i know he is a good fellow--only--only i am not sure we--we should be happy together. i don't care about books, and he doesn't care any longer for horses----" "as if these things mattered! you've got the fundamental thing, haven't you?" "the fundamental thing?" she was deliberately evading him--she, the straightforward mary! "i mean, of course, that you care for each other." at this she broke down, and threw out her hands with a gesture of despair. "i don't know. i used to think so, but i don't know any longer," she answered, and fled from him into the house. as he looked after her he felt the obscure doubt struggling again in his mind, and with it there returned the minor problem of his financial difficulties, and the conversation he must sooner or later have with angelica. nothing in his acquaintance with angelica had surprised him more than the discovery that, except in the embellishment of her own attractions, she could be not only prudent, but stingy. even her extravagance--if a habit of spending that exacted an adequate return for every dollar could be called extravagance--was cautious and cold like her temperament, as if nature had decreed that she should possess no single attribute of soul in abundance. no impulse had ever swept her away, not even the impulse to grasp. she had always calculated, always schemed with her mind, not her senses, always moved slowly and deliberately toward her purpose. she would never speak the truth, he knew, just as she would never over-step a convention, because truthfulness and unconventionality would have interfered equally with the success of her designs. life had become for her only a pedestal which supported an image; and this image, as unlike the actual angelica as a christmas angel is unlike a human being, was reflected, in all its tinselled glory, in the minds of her neighbours. before the world she would be always blameless, wronged, and forgiving. he knew these things with his mind, yet there were moments even now when his heart still desired her. an hour later, when he entered her sitting-room, he found her, in a blue robe, on the sofa in front of the fire. of late he had noticed that she seldom lay down in the afternoon, and as she was not a woman of moods, he was surprised that she had broken so easily through a habit which had become as fixed as a religious observance. "it doesn't look as if you had had much rest to-day," he said, as he entered. she looked up with an expression that struck him as incongruously triumphant. though at another time he would have accepted this as an auspicious omen, he wondered now, after the episode of the afternoon, if she were merely gathering her forces for a fresh attack. he shrank from approaching her on the subject of economy, because experience had taught him that her first idea of saving would be to cut down the wages of the servants; and he had a disturbing recollection that she had met his last suggestion that they should reduce expenses with a reminder that it was unnecessary to employ a trained nurse to look after letty. when she wanted to strike hardest, she invariably struck through the child. though she was not clever, she had been sharp enough to discover the chink in his armour. "did you find mary?" she asked. "yes, she seems out of sorts. what is the trouble between her and alan?" "is there any trouble?" she appeared surprised. "i fear so. she told me she was not sure that they were going to be married." "did she say that?" "she said it, but she may not have meant it. i cannot understand." angelica pondered his words. "well, i've noticed lately that she wasn't very nice to him." "but she was wildly in love with him. she cannot have changed so suddenly." "why not?" she raised her eyebrows slightly. "people do change, don't they?" "not when they are like mary." with a gesture of perplexity, he put the subject away from him. "what i really came to tell you isn't very much better," he said. "of late, since the war began, things have been going rather badly with me. i dare say i'll manage to pull up sooner or later, but every interest in which i am heavily involved has been more or less affected by the condition of the country. if we should go into this war----" she looked up sharply. "don't you think we can manage to keep out of it?" "to keep out of it?" even now there were moments when she astonished him. for the first time in months her impatience got the better of her. "oh, i know, of course, that you would like us to fight germany; but it seems to me that if you stopped to think of all the suffering it would mean----" "i do stop to think." "then there isn't any use talking!" "not about that; but considering the uncertainty of the immediate future, don't you think we might try, in some way, to cut down a bit?" turning away from him, she gazed thoughtfully into the fire. "if it is really necessary----?" "it may become necessary at any moment." at this she looked straight up at him. "well, since letty is so much better, i am sure that there is no need for us to keep a trained nurse for her." she had aimed squarely, and he flinched at the blow. "but the child is so happy." "she would be just as happy with any one else." "no other nurse has ever done so much for her. why, she has been like a different child since miss meade came to her." while he spoke he became aware that she was looking at him as she had looked in the drawing-room. "then you refuse positively to let me send miss meade away?" "i refuse positively, once and for all." her blank, uncomprehending stare followed him as he turned and went out of the room. chapter iv the martyr a fortnight later light was thrown on blackburn's perplexity by a shrewd question from mrs. timberlake. for days he had been groping in darkness, and now, in one instant, it seemed to him that his discovery leaped out in a veritable blaze of electricity. how could he have gone on in ignorance? how could he have stumbled, with unseeing eyes, over the heart of the problem? "david," said the housekeeper bluntly, "don't you think that this thing has been going on long enough?" they were in the library, and before putting the question, she had closed the door and even glanced suspiciously at the windows. "this thing?" he looked up from his newspaper, with the vague idea that she was about to discourse upon our diplomatic correspondence with germany. "i am not talking about the president's notes." her voice had grown rasping. "he may write as many as he pleases, if they will make the germans behave themselves without our having to go to war. what i mean is the way mary is eating her heart out. haven't you noticed it?" "i have been worried about her for some time." he laid the paper down on the desk. "but i haven't been able to discover what is the matter." "if you had asked me two months ago, i could have told you it was about that young fool alan." "about wythe? why, i thought she and wythe were particularly devoted." if he were sparring for time, there was no hint of it in his manner. it really looked, the housekeeper told herself grimly, as if he had not seen the thing that was directly before his eyes until she had pointed it out to him. "they were," she answered tartly, "at one time." "well, what is the trouble now? a lovers' quarrel?" it was a guiding principle with mrs. timberlake that when her conscience drove her she never looked at her road; and true to this intemperate practice, she plunged now straight ahead. "the trouble is that alan has been making a fool of himself over angelica." it was the first time that she had implied the faintest criticism of his wife, and as soon as she had uttered the words, her courage evaporated, and she relapsed into her attitude of caustic reticence. even her figure, in its rusty black, looked shrunken and huddled. "so that is it!" his voice was careless and indifferent. "you mean he has been flattered because she has let him read his plays to her?" "he hasn't known when to stop. if something isn't done, he will go on reading them for ever." "well, if angelica enjoys them?" "but it makes mary very unhappy. can't you see that she is breaking her heart over it?" "angelica doesn't know." he might have been stating a fact about one of the belligerent nations. "oh, of course." she grasped at the impersonal note, but it escaped her. "if she only knew, she could so easily stop it." "so you think if someone were to mention it?" "that is why i came to you. i thought you might manage to drop a word that would let angelica see how much it is hurting mary. she wouldn't want to hurt mary just for the sake of a little amusement. the plays can't be so very important, or they would be on the stage, wouldn't they?" "could you tell her, do you think?" it was the first time he had ever attempted to evade a disagreeable duty, and the question surprised her. "angelica wouldn't listen to a word i said. she'd just think i'd made it up, and i reckon it does look like a tempest in a teapot." he met this gravely. "well, it is natural that she shouldn't take a thing like that seriously." "yes, it's natural." she conceded the point ungrudgingly. "i believe angelica would die before she would do anything really wrong." if he accepted this in silence, it was not because the tribute to angelica's character appeared to him to constitute an unanswerable argument. during the weeks when he had been groping his way to firmer ground, he had passed beyond the mental boundaries in which angelica and her standards wore any longer the aspect of truth. he knew them to be not only artificial, but false; and mrs. timberlake's praise was scarcely more than a hollow echo from the world that he had left. that angelica, who would lie and cheat for an advantage, could be held, through mere coldness of nature, to be above "doing anything really wrong," was a fallacy which had once deluded his heart, but failed now to convince his intelligence. once he had believed in the sacred myth of her virtue; now, brought close against the deeper realities, he saw that her virtue was only a negation, and that true goodness must be, above all things, an affirmation of spirit. "i'll see what i can do," he said, and wondered why the words had not worn threadbare. "you mean you'll speak to angelica?" her relief rasped his nerves. "yes, i'll speak to angelica." "don't you think it would be better to talk first to mary?" before replying, he thought over this carefully. "perhaps it would be better. will you tell her that i'd like to see her immediately?" she nodded and went out quickly, and it seemed to him that the door had barely closed before it opened again, and mary came in with a brave step and a manner of unnatural alertness and buoyancy. "david, do you really think we are going to have war?" it was an awkward evasion, but she had not learned either to evade or equivocate gracefully. "i think we are about to break off diplomatic relations----" "and that means war, doesn't it?" "who knows?" he made a gesture of impatience. "you are trying to climb up on the knees of the gods." "i want to go," she replied breathlessly, "whether we have war or not, i want to go to france. will you help me?" "of course i will help you." "i mean will you give me money?" "i will give you anything i've got. it isn't so much as it used to be." "it will be enough for me. i want to go at once--next week--to-morrow." he looked at her attentively, his grave, lucid eyes ranging thoughtfully over her strong, plain face, which had grown pale and haggard, over her boyish figure, which had grown thin and wasted. "mary," he said suddenly, "what is the trouble? is it an honest desire for service or is it--the open door?" for a minute she looked at him with frightened eyes; then breaking down utterly, she buried her face in her hands and turned from him. "oh, david, i must get away! i cannot live unless i get away!" "from briarlay?" "from briarlay, but most of all--oh, most of all," she brought this out with passion, "from alan!" "then you no longer care for him?" instead of answering his question, she dashed the tears from her eyes, and threw back her head with a gesture that reminded him of the old boyish mary. "will you let me go, david?" "not until you have told me the truth." "but what is the truth?" she cried out, with sudden anger. "do you suppose i am the kind of woman to talk of a man's being 'taken away,' as if he were a loaf of bread to be handed from one woman to another? if he had ever been what i believed him, do you imagine that any one could have 'taken' him? is there any man on earth who could have taken me from alan?" "what has made the trouble, mary?" he put the question very slowly, as if he were weighing every word that he uttered. she flung the pretense aside as bravely as she had dashed the tears from her eyes. "of course i have known all along that she was only flirting--that she was only playing the game----" "then you think that the young fool has been taking angelica too seriously?" at this her anger flashed out again. "seriously enough to make me break my engagement!" "all because he likes to read his plays to her?" "all because he imagines her to be misunderstood and unhappy and ill-treated. oh, david, will you never wake up? how much longer are you going to walk about the world in your sleep? no one has said a breath against angelica--no one ever will--she isn't that kind. but unless you wish alan to be ruined, you must send him away." "isn't she the one to send him away?" "then go to her. go to her now, and tell her that she must do it to-day." "yes, i will tell her that." even while he spoke the words which would have once wrung his heart, he was visited by that strange flashing sense of unreality, of the insignificance and transitoriness of angelica's existence. like mrs. timberlake's antiquated standards of virtue, she belonged to a world which might vanish while he watched it and leave him still surrounded by the substantial structure of life. "then tell her now. i hear her in the hall," said mary brusquely, as she turned away. "it is not likely that she will come in here," he answered, but the words were scarcely spoken before angelica's silvery tones floated to them. "david, may i come in? i have news for you." an instant later, as mary went out, with her air of arrogant sincerity, a triumphant figure in grey velvet passed her in the doorway. "i saw robert and cousin charles a moment ago, and they told me that we had really broken off relations with germany----" she had not meant to linger over the news, but while she was speaking, he crossed the room and closed the door gently behind her. "don't you think now we have done all that is necessary?" she demanded triumphantly. "cousin charles says we have vindicated our honour at last." blackburn smiled slightly. the sense of unreality, which had been vague and fugitive a moment before, rolled over and enveloped him. "it is rather like refusing to bow to a man who has murdered one's wife." a frown clouded her face. "oh, i know all you men are hoping for war, even alan, and you would think an artist would see things differently." "do you think alan is hoping for it?" "aren't you every one except cousin charles? robert told me just now that virginia is beginning to boil over. he believes the country will force the president's hand. oh, i wonder if the world will ever be sane and safe again?" he was watching her so closely that he appeared to be drinking in the sound of her voice and the sight of her loveliness; yet never for an instant did he lose the feeling that she was as ephemeral as a tinted cloud or a perfume. "angelica," he said abruptly, "mary has just told me that she has broken her engagement to alan." tiny sparks leaped to her eyes. "well, i suppose they wouldn't have been happy together----" "do you know why she did it?" "do i know why?" she looked at him inquiringly. "how could i know? she has not told me." "has alan said anything to you about it?" "why, yes, he told me that she had broken it." "and did he tell you why?" she was becoming irritated by the cross examination. "no, why should he tell me? it is their affair, isn't it? now, if that is all, i must go. alan has brought the first act of a new play, and he wants my opinion." the finishing thrust was like her, for she could be bold enough when she was sure of her weapons. even now, though he knew her selfishness, it was incredible to him that she should be capable of destroying mary's happiness when she could gain nothing by doing it. of course if there were some advantage---- "alan can wait," he said bluntly. "angelica, can't you see that this has gone too far, this nonsense of alan's?" "this nonsense?" she raised her eyebrows. "do you call his plays nonsense?" "i call his plays humbug. what must stop is his folly about you. when mary goes, you must send him away." her smile was like the sharp edge of a knife. "so it is alan now? it was poor roane only yesterday." "it is poor roane to-day as much as it ever was. but alan must stop coming here." "and why, if i may ask?" "you cannot have understood, or you would have stopped it." "i should have stopped what?" he met her squarely. "alan's infatuation--for he is infatuated, isn't he?" "do you mean with me?" her indignant surprise almost convinced him of her ignorance. "who has told you that?" she was holding a muff of silver fox, and she gazed down at it, stroking the fur gently, while she waited for him to answer. he noticed that her long slender fingers--she had the hand as well as the figure of one of botticelli's graces--were perfectly steady. "that was the reason that mary broke her engagement," he responded. "did she tell you that?" "yes, she told me. she said she knew that you had not meant it--that alan had lost his head----" her voice broke in suddenly with a gasp of outraged amazement. "and you ask me to send alan away because you are jealous? you ask me this--after--after----" her attitude of indignant virtue was so impressive that, for a moment, he found himself wondering if he had wronged her--if he had actually misunderstood and neglected her? "you must see for yourself, angelica, that this cannot go on." "you dare to turn on me like this!" she cried out so clearly that he started and looked at the door in apprehension. "you dare to accuse me of ruining mary's happiness--after all i have suffered--after all i have stood from you----" as her voice rose in its piercing sweetness, it occurred to him for the first time that she might wish to be overheard, that she might be making this scene less for his personal benefit than for its effect upon an invisible audience. it was the only time he had ever known her to sacrifice her inherent fastidiousness, and descend to vulgar methods of warfare, and he was keen enough to infer that the prize must be tremendous to compensate for so evident a humiliation. "i accuse you of nothing," he said, lowering his tone in the effort to reduce hers to a conversational level. "for your own sake, i ask you to be careful." but he had unchained the lightning, and it flashed out to destroy him. "you dare to say this to me--you who refused to send miss meade away though i begged you to----" "to send miss meade away?" the attack was so unexpected that he wavered before it. "what has miss meade to do with it?" "you refused to send her away. you positively refused when i asked you." "yes, i refused. but miss meade is letty's nurse. what has she to do with mary and alan?" "oh, are you still trying to deceive me?" for an instant he thought she was going to burst into tears. "you knew you were spending too much time in the nursery--that you went when cousin matty was not there--alan heard you admit it--you knew that i wanted to stop it, and you refused--you insisted----" but his anger had overpowered him now, and he caught her arm roughly in a passionate desire to silence the hideous sound of her words, to thrust back the horror that she was spreading on the air--out into the world and the daylight. "stop, angelica, or----" suddenly, without warning, she shrieked aloud, a shriek that seemed to his ears to pierce, not only the ceiling, but the very roof of the house. as he stood there, still helplessly holding her arm, which had grown limp in his grasp, he became aware that the door opened quickly and alan came into the room. "i heard a cry--i thought----" angelica's eyes were closed, but at the sound of alan's voice, she raised her lids and looked at him with a frightened and pleading gaze. "i cried out. i am sorry," she said meekly. without glancing at blackburn, she straightened herself, and walked, with short, wavering steps, out of the room. for a minute the two men faced each other in silence; then alan made an impetuous gesture of indignation and followed angelica. chapter v the choice "looks as if we were going to war, blackburn." it was the beginning of april, and robert colfax had stopped on the steps of his club. "it has looked that way for the last thirty-two months." "well, beware the anger--or isn't it the fury?--of the patient man. it has to come at last. we've been growling too long not to spring--and my only regret is that, as long as we're going to war, we didn't go soon enough to get into the fight. i'd like to have had a chance at potting a german. every man in town is feeling like that to-day." "you think it will be over before we get an army to france?" "i haven't a doubt of it. it will be nothing more than a paper war to a finish." a good many virginians were thinking that way. blackburn was not sure that he hadn't thought that way himself for the last two or three months. everywhere he heard regrets that it was too late to have a share in the actual whipping of germany--that we were only going to fight a decorous and inglorious war on paper. suddenly, in a night, as it were, the war spirit in virginia had flared out. there was not the emotional blaze--the flaming heat--older men said--of the confederacy; but there was an ever-burning, insistent determination to destroy the roots of this evil black flower of prussian autocracy. there was no hatred of austria--little even of turkey. the prussian spirit was the foe of america and of the world; and it was against the prussian spirit that the militant soul of virginia was springing to arms. men who had talked peace a few months before--who had commended the nation that was "too proud to fight," who had voted for the president because of the slogan "he kept us out of war"--had now swung round dramatically with the _volte-face_ of the government. the president had at last committed himself to a war policy, and all over the world americans were awaiting the great word from congress. in an hour personal interests had dissolved into an impersonal passion of service. in an hour opposing currents of thought had flowed into a single dominant purpose, and the president, who had once stood for a party, stood now for america. for, in a broader vision, the spirit of virginia was the spirit of all america. there were many, it is true, who had not, in the current phrase, begun to realize what war would mean to them; there were many who still doubted, or were indifferent, because the battle had not been fought at their doorstep; but as a whole the country stood determined, quiet, armed in righteousness, and waited for the great word from congress. and over the whole country, from north to south, from east to west, the one question never asked was, "what will america get out of it when it is over?" "by jove, if we do get into any actual fighting, i mean to go," said robert, "i am not yet thirty." blackburn looked at him enviously. "it's rotten on us middle-aged fellows. isn't there a hole of some sort a man of forty-three can stop up?" "of course they've come to more than that in england." "we may come to it here if the war keeps up--but that isn't likely." "no, that isn't likely unless congress dies talking. why, for god's sake, can't we strangle the pacifists for once? nobody would grieve for them." "oh, if liberty isn't for fools, it isn't liberty. i suppose the supreme test of our civilization, is that we let people go on talking when we don't agree with them." it was, in reality, only a few days that congress was taking to define and emphasize the president's policy, but these days were interminable to a nation that waited. talk was ruining the country, people said. thirty-two months of talking were enough even for an american congress. it was as much as a man's reputation was worth to vote against the war; it was more than it was worth to give his reasons for so voting. there was tension everywhere, yet there was a strange muffled quiet--the quiet before the storm. "we are too late for the fun," said robert. "germany will back down as soon as she sees we are in earnest." this was what every one was saying, and blackburn heard it again when he left colfax and went into the club. "the pity is we shan't have time to get a man over to france. it's all up to the navy." "the british navy, you mean? where'd we be now but for the british navy?" "well, thank god, the note writing is over!" there was determination enough; but the older men were right--there was none of the flame and ardour of secession days. the war was realized vaguely as a principle rather than as a fact. it was the difference between fighting for abstract justice and knocking down a man in hot blood because he has affronted one's wife. the will to strike was all there, only one did not see red when one delivered the blow. righteous indignation, not personal rage, was in the mind of america. "we aren't mad yet," remarked an old confederate soldier to blackburn. "just wait till they get us as mad as we were at manassas, and we'll show the germans!" "you mean wait until they drop bombs on new york instead of london?" "good lord, no. just wait until our boys have seen, not read, about the things they are doing." so there were a few who expected an american army to reach france before the end of the war. "never mind about taxes. we must whip the huns, and we can afford to pay the bills!" for here as elsewhere the one question never asked was, "what are we going to get out of it?" prosperity was after all a secondary interest. underneath was the permanent idealism of the american mind. when blackburn reached briarlay, he found letty and caroline walking under the budding trees in the lane, and stopping his car, he got out and strolled slowly back with them to the house. the shimmer and fragrance of spring was in the air, and on the ground crowds of golden crocuses were unfolding. "father, will you go to war if uncle roane does?" asked letty, as she slipped her hand into blackburn's and looked up, with her thoughtful child's eyes, into his face. "uncle roane says he is going to whip the germans for me." "i'll go, if they'll take me, letty. your uncle roane is ten years younger than i am." at the moment the war appeared to him, as it had appeared to mary, as the open door--the way of escape from an intolerable situation; but he put this idea resolutely out of his mind. there was a moral cowardice in using impersonal issues as an excuse for the evasion of personal responsibility. "but you could fight better than he could, father." "i am inclined to agree with you. perhaps the government will think that way soon." "alan is going, too. mother begged him not to, but he said he just had to go. mammy riah says the feeling is in his bones, and he can't help it. when a feeling gets into your bones you have to do what it tells you." "it looks as if mammy riah knew something about it." "but if you go and alan goes and uncle roane goes, what will become of mother?" "you will have to take care of her, letty, you and miss meade." caroline, who had been walking in silence on the other side of the road, turned her head at the words. she was wearing a blue serge suit and a close-fitting hat of blue straw, and her eyes were as fresh and spring-like as the april sky. "there is no doubt about war, is there?" she asked. "it may come at any hour. whether it will mean an american army in france or not, no one can say; but we shall have to furnish munitions, if not men, as fast as we can turn them out." "mr. peyton said this morning it would be impossible to send men because we hadn't the ships." blackburn laughed. "then, if necessary, we will do the impossible." it was the voice of america. everywhere at that hour men were saying, "we will do the impossible." "i should like to go," said caroline. "i should like above all things to go." they had stopped in the road, and still holding letty's hand, he looked over her head at caroline's face. "miss meade, will you make me a promise?" clear and radiant and earnest, her eyes held his gaze. "unconditionally?" "no, the conditions i leave to you. will you promise?" "i will promise." she had not lowered her eyes, and he had not looked away from her. her face was pale, and in the fading sunlight he could see the little blue veins on her temples and the look of stern sweetness that sorrow had chiselled about her mouth. more than ever it seemed to him the face of a strong and fervent spirit rather than the face of a woman. so elusive was her beauty that he could say of no single feature, except her eyes, "her charm lies here--or here----" yet the impression she gave him was one of magical loveliness. there was, he thought, a touch of the divine in her smile, as if her look drew its radiance from an inexhaustible source. "will you promise me," he said, "that whatever happens, as long as it is possible, you will stay with letty?" she waited a moment before she answered him, and he knew from her face that his words had touched the depths of her heart. "i promise you that for letty's sake i will do the impossible," she answered. she gave him her hand, and he clasped it over the head of the child. it was one of those rare moments of perfect understanding and sympathy--of a mental harmony beside which all emotional rapture appears trivial and commonplace. he was aware of no appeal to his senses--life had taught him the futility of all purely physical charm--and the hand that touched caroline's was as gentle and as firm as it had been when it rested on letty's head. here was a woman who had met life and conquered it, who could be trusted, he felt, to fight to the death to keep her spirit inviolate. "only one thing will take me away from letty," she said. "if we send an army and the country calls me." "that one thing is the only thing?" "the only thing unless," she laughed as if she were suggesting an incredible event, "unless you or mrs. blackburn should send me away!" to her surprise the ridiculous jest confused him. "take care of letty," he responded quickly; and then, as they reached the porch, he dropped the child's hand, and went up the steps and into the house. in the library, by one of the windows which looked out on the terrace and the sunset, colonel ashburton was reading the afternoon paper, and as blackburn entered, he rose and came over to the fireplace. "i was a little ahead of you, so i made myself at home, as you see," he observed, with his manner of antiquated formality. in the dim light his hair made a silvery halo above his blanched features, and it occurred to blackburn that he had never seen him look quite so distinguished and detached from his age. "if i'd known you were coming, i should have arranged to get here earlier." "i didn't know it myself until it was too late to telephone you at the works." there was an unnatural constraint in his voice, and from the moment of his entrance, blackburn had surmised that the colonel's visit was not a casual one. the war news might have brought him; but it was not likely that he would have found the war news either disconcerting or embarrassing. "the news is good, isn't it?" inquired blackburn, a little stiffly, because he could think of nothing else to say. "first rate. there isn't a doubt but we'll whip the germans before autumn. it wasn't about the war, however, that i came." "there is something else then?" before he replied colonel ashburton looked up gravely at the portrait of blackburn's mother which hung over the mantelpiece. "very like her, very like her," he remarked. "she was a few years older than i--but i'm getting on now--i'm getting on. that's the worst of being born between great issues. i was too young for the last war--just managed to be in one big battle before lee surrendered--and i'm too old for this one. a peace colonel doesn't amount to much, does he?" then he looked sharply at blackburn. "david," he asked in a curiously inanimate voice, "have you heard the things people are saying about you?" "i have heard nothing except what has been said to my face." "then i may assume that the worst is still to be told you?" "you may safely assume that, i think." again the colonel's eyes were lifted to the portrait of blackburn's mother. "there must be an answer to a thing like this, david," he said slowly. "there must be something that you can say." "tell me what is said." shaking the silvery hair from his forehead, the older man still gazed upward, as if he were interrogating the portrait--as if he were seeking guidance from the imperishable youth of the painted figure. serene and soft as black pansies, the eyes of the picture looked down on him from a face that reminded him of a white roseleaf. "it is said"--he hesitated as if the words hurt him--"that your wife accuses you of cruelty. i don't know how the stories started, but i have waited until they reached a point where i felt that they must be stopped--or answered. for the sake of your future--of your work--you must say something, david." while he listened blackburn had walked slowly to the window, gazing out on the afterglow, where some soft clouds, like clusters of lilacs, hung low above the dark brown edge of the horizon. for a moment, after the voice ceased, he still stood there in silence. then wheeling abruptly, he came back to the hearth where the colonel was waiting. "is that all?" he asked. the colonel made a gesture of despair. "it is rumoured that your wife is about to leave you." blackburn looked at him intently. "if it is only a rumour----" "but a man's reputation may be destroyed by a rumour." "is there anything else?" as he spoke it was evident to the other that his thoughts were not on his words. "i am your oldest friend. i was the friend of your mother--i believe in your vision--in your power of leadership. for the sake of the ideas we both try to serve, i have come to you--hating--dreading my task----" he stopped, his voice quivering as if from an emotion that defied his control, and in the silence that followed, blackburn said quietly, "i thank you." "it is said--how this started no one knows, and i suppose it does not matter--that your wife called in the doctor to treat a bruise on her arm, and that she admitted to him that it came from a blow. daisy colfax was present, and it appears that she told the story, without malice, but indiscreetly, i gathered----" as he paused there were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and his lip trembled slightly. it had been a difficult task, but, thank god, he told himself, he had been able to see it through. to his surprise, blackburn's face had not changed. it still wore the look of immobility which seemed to the other to express nothing--and everything. "you must let me make some answer to these charges, david. the time has come when you must speak." for a moment longer blackburn was silent. then he said slowly, "what good will it do?" "but the lie, unless it is given back, will destroy not only you, but your cause. it will be used by your enemies. it will injure irretrievably the work you are trying to do. in the end it will drive you out of public life in virginia." "if you only knew how differently i am coming to think of these things," said blackburn presently, and he added after a pause, "if i cannot bear misunderstanding, how could i bear defeat?--for work like mine must lead to temporary defeat----" "not defeat like this--not defeat that leaves your name tarnished." for the first time blackburn's face showed emotion. "and you think that a public quarrel would clear it?" he asked bitterly. "but surely, without that, there could be a denial----" "there can be no other denial. there is but one way to meet a lie, and that way i cannot take." "then things must go on, as they are, to the--end?" "i cannot stop them by talking. if it rests with me, they must go on." "at the cost of your career? of your power for usefulness? of your obligations to your country?" turning his head, blackburn looked away from him to the window, which had been left open. from the outside there floated suddenly the faint, provocative scent of spring--of nature which was renewing itself in the earth and the trees. "a career isn't as big a thing at forty-three as it is at twenty," he answered, with a touch of irony. "my power for usefulness must stand on its merits alone, and my chief obligation to my country, as i see it, is to preserve the integrity of my honour. we hear a great deal to-day about the personal not counting any longer; yet the fact remains that the one enduring corner-stone of the state is the personal rectitude of its citizens. you cannot build upon any other foundation, and build soundly. i may be wrong--i often am--but i must do what i believe to be right, let the consequences be what they will." now that he had left the emotional issue behind him, the immobility had passed from his manner, and his thoughts were beginning to come with the abundance and richness that the colonel associated with his public speeches. already he had put the question of his marriage aside, as a fact which had been accepted and dismissed from his mind. "in these last few years--or months rather--i have begun to see things differently," he resumed, with an animation and intensity that contrasted strangely with his former constraint and dumbness. "i can't explain how it is, but this war has knocked a big hole in reality. we can look deeper into things than any generation before us, and the deeper we look, the more we become aware of the outer darkness in which we have been groping. i am groping now, i confess it, but i am groping for light." "it will leave a changed world when it is over," assented the colonel, and he spoke the platitude with an accent of relief, as if he had just turned away from a sight that distressed him. "more changed, i believe, for us older ones than for the young who have done the actual fighting. i should like to write a book about that--the effect of the war on the minds of the non-combatants. the fighters have been too busy to think, and it is thought, after all, not action, that leaves the more permanent record. life will spring again over the battle-fields, but the ideas born of the war will control the future destinies of mankind." "i am beginning to see," pursued blackburn, as if he had not heard him, "that there is something far bigger than the beliefs we were working for. because we had got beyond the sections to the country, you and i, we thought we were emancipated from the bondage of prejudice. the chief end of the citizen appeared to us to be the glory of the nation, but i see now--i am just beginning to see--that there is a greater spirit than the spirit of nationality. you can't live through a world war, even with an ocean between--and distance, by the way, may give us all the better perspective, and enable americans to take a wider view than is possible to those who are directly in the path of the hurricane--you can't live through a world war, and continue to think in terms of geographical boundaries. to think about it at all, one must think in universal relations." he hesitated an instant, and then went on more rapidly, "after all, we cannot beat germany by armies alone, we must beat her by thought. for two generations she has thought wrong, and it is only by thinking right--by forcing her to think right--that we can conquer her. the victory belongs to the nation that engraves its ideas indelibly upon the civilization of the future." leaning back in the shadows, colonel ashburton gazed at him with a perplexed and questioning look. was it possible that he had never understood him--that he did not understand him to-day? he had come to speak of an open scandal, of a name that might be irretrievably tarnished--and blackburn had turned it aside by talking about universal relations! chapter vi angelica's triumph caroline wrote a few nights later: dearest mother: so it has come at last, and we really and truly are at war. there is not so much excitement as you would have thought--i suppose because we have waited so long--but everybody has hung out flags--and letty and i have just helped peter put a big beautiful one over briarlay. mrs. blackburn is working so hard over the red cross that we have barely seen her for days, and mary has already gone to new york on her way to france. she is going to work there with one of the war charities, and i think it will be the best thing on earth for her, for any one can see that she has been very unhappy. mr. wythe wants to go into the army, but for some reason he has hesitated about volunteering. i think mrs. blackburn opposes it very strongly, and this is keeping him back. there is a new feeling in the air, though. the world is rushing on--somewhere--somewhere, and we are rushing with it. for days i have wanted to write you about a curious thing, but i have waited hoping that i might have been mistaken about it. you remember how very sweet mrs. blackburn was to me when i first came here. well, for the last month she has changed utterly in her manner. i cannot think of any way in which i could have offended her--though i have racked my brain over it--but she appears to avoid me whenever it is possible, and on the occasions when we are obliged to meet, she does not speak to me unless it is necessary. of course there are things i am obliged to ask her about letty; but this is usually done through the servants, and mrs. blackburn never comes into the nursery. sometimes she sends for letty to come to her, but mammy riah always takes her and brings her back again. i asked mrs. timberlake if she thought i could have done anything mrs. blackburn did not like, and if i had better go to her and demand an explanation. that seems to me the only sensible and straightforward way, but mrs. timberlake does not think it would do any good. she is as much mystified about it as i am, and so is mammy riah. nobody understands, and the whole thing has worried me more than i can ever tell you. if it wasn't for letty, and a promise i made to mr. blackburn not to leave her, i should be tempted to give up the place at the end of the week. it is cowardly to let one's self be vanquished by things like that, especially at a time when the whole world needs every particle of courage that human beings can create; but it is just like fighting an intangible enemy, and not knowing at what moment one may be saying or doing the wrong thing. not a word has been spoken to me that was rude or unkind, yet the very air i breathe is full of something that keeps me apprehensive and anxious all the time. when i am with mr. blackburn or mrs. timberlake, i tell myself that it is all just my imagination, and that i am getting too nervous to be a good nurse; and then, when i pass mrs. blackburn in the hall and she pretends not to see me, the distrust and suspicion come back again. i hate to worry you about this--for a long time i wouldn't mention it in my letters--but i feel to-night that i cannot go on without telling you about it. last night after dinner--when mrs. blackburn is at home mrs. timberlake and i dine in the breakfast-room--i went to look for letty, and found that she had slipped into the drawing-room, where mrs. blackburn and mr. wythe were engaged in their perpetual reading. the child is very fond of mr. wythe--he has a charming way with her--and when i went in, she was asking him if he were really going to war? before answering her he looked for a long time at mrs. blackburn, and then as letty repeated her question, he said, "don't you think i ought to go, letty?" "what is the war about, alan?" asked the child, and he replied, "they call it a war for democracy." then, of course, letty inquired immediately, "what is democracy?" at this alan burst out laughing, "you've got me there, socrates," he retorted, "go inquire of your father." "but father says it is a war to end war," letty replied, and her next question was, "but if you want to fight, why do you want to end war?" she is the keenest thing for her years you can imagine. i had to explain it all to her when i got her upstairs. well, what i started to tell you was that all the time mrs. blackburn said nothing, but kept looking from alan to the child, with that wistful and plaintive expression which makes her the very image of a grieving madonna. she never spoke a word, but i could tell all the time that she was trying to gain something, that she was using every bit of her charm and her pathos for some purpose i could not discover. in a little while she took letty from alan and gave her over to me, and as we went out, i heard alan say to her, "i would give anything on earth to keep you from being hurt any more." of course i shouldn't repeat this to any one else, but he must have known that i couldn't help hearing it. mr. blackburn has been very kind to me, and i know that he would do anything for letty's happiness. he is so impersonal that i sometimes feel that he knows ideas, but not men and women. it is hard for him to break through the wall he has built round himself, but after you once discover what he really is, you are obliged to admit that he is fine and absolutely to be trusted. in a way he is different from any one i have ever known--more sincere and genuine. i can't make what i mean very clear, but you will understand. for the last week i have scarcely seen him for a minute--i suppose he is absorbed in war matters--but before that he used to come in and have tea with letty, and we had some long interesting talks. the child is devoted to him, and you know she loves above all things to set her little table in the nursery, and give tea and bread and butter to whoever happens to come in. mrs. colfax used to drop in very often, and so did mary when she was here; but mrs. blackburn always promises to come, and then is too busy, or forgets all about it, and i have to make excuses for her to letty. i feel sorry for letty because she is lonely, and has no child companions, and i do everything i can to make her friendly with grown people, and to put a little wholesome pleasure into her life. a delicate child is really a very serious problem in many ways besides physical ones. letty has not naturally a cheerful disposition, though she flies off at times into a perfect gale of high spirits. for the last week i can see that she has missed her father, and she is continually asking me where he is. now i must tell you something i have not mentioned to any one except mrs. timberlake, and i spoke of it to her only because she asked me a direct question. something very unfortunate occurred here last winter, and mrs. timberlake told me yesterday that everybody in richmond has been talking about it. as long as it is known so generally--and it appears that young mrs. colfax was the one to let it out--there can't be any harm in my writing frankly to you. i haven't the faintest idea how it all started, but one morning--it must have been two months ago--mrs. blackburn showed young mrs. colfax a bruise on her arm, and she either told her or let her think that it had come from a blow. of course mrs. colfax inferred that mr. blackburn had struck his wife, and, without waiting a minute, she rushed straight out and repeated this to everybody she met. she is so amazingly indiscreet, without meaning the least harm in the world, that you might as well print a thing in the newspaper as tell it to her. no one knows how much she made up and how much mrs. blackburn actually told her; but the town has been fairly ringing, mrs. timberlake says, with the scandal. people even say that he has been so cruel to her that the servants heard her cry out in his study one afternoon, and that alan wythe, who was waiting in the drawing-room, ran in and interfered. it is all a dreadful lie, of course--you know this without my telling you--but mrs. timberlake and i cannot understand what began it, or why mrs. blackburn deliberately allowed daisy colfax to repeat such a falsehood. colonel ashburton told mrs. timberlake that the stories had already done incalculable harm to mr. blackburn's reputation, and that his political enemies were beginning to use them. you will understand better than any one else how much this distresses me, not only because i have grown to like and admire mr. blackburn, but for letty's sake also. as the child grows up this disagreement between her parents will make such a difference in her life. i cannot tell you how i long to be back at the cedars, now that spring is there and all the lilacs will so soon be in bloom. when i shut my eyes i can see you and the girls in the "chamber," and i can almost hear you talking about the war. i am not quite sure that i approve of maud's becoming a nurse. it is a hard life, and all her beauty will be wasted in the drudgery. diana's idea of going to france with the y. m. c. a. sounds much better, but most of all i like margaret's plan of canning vegetables next summer for the market. if she can manage to get an extra man to help jonas with the garden--how would nathan's son abraham do?--i believe she will make a great success of it. i am so glad that you are planting large crops this year. the question of labour is serious, i know, but letting out so much of the land "on shares" has never seemed to turn out very well. it must be almost eleven o'clock, and i have written on and on without thinking. late as it is, i am obliged to run out to peter's cottage by the stable and give his wife, mandy, a hypodermic at eleven o'clock. she was taken very ill this morning, and if she isn't better to-morrow the doctor will take her to the hospital. i promised him i would see her the last thing to-night, and telephone him if she is any worse. she is so weak that we are giving her all the stimulants that we can. i sometimes wish that i could stop being a trained nurse for a time, and just break loose and be natural. i'd like to run out bareheaded in a storm, or have hysterics, or swear like uncle george. dearest love, caroline. * * * * * when caroline reached the cottage, she found mandy in a paroxysm of pain, and after giving the medicine, she waited until the woman had fallen asleep. it was late when she went back to the house, and as she crossed the garden on her way to the terrace, where she had left one of the french windows open, she lingered for a minute to breathe in the delicious roving scents of the spring night. something sweet and soft and wild in the april air awoke in her the restlessness which the spring always brought; and she found herself wishing again that she could cast aside the professional training of the last eight or nine years, and become the girl she had been at the cedars before love had broken her heart. "i am just as young as i was then--only i am so much wiser," she thought, "and it is wisdom--it is knowing life that has caged me and made me a prisoner. i am not an actor, i am only a spectator now, and yet i believe that i could break away again if the desire came--if life really called me. perhaps, it's the spring that makes me restless--i could never, even at the cedars, smell budding things without wanting to wander--but to-night there is a kind of wildness in everything. i am tired of being caged. i want to be free to follow--follow--whatever is calling me. i wonder why the pipes of pan always begin again in the spring?" enchantingly fair and soft, beneath a silver mist that floated like a breath of dawn from the river, the garden melted into the fields and the fields into the quivering edge of the horizon. in the air there was a faint whispering of gauzy wings, and, now and then, as the breeze stirred the veil of the landscape, little pools of greenish light flickered like glow worms in the hollows. "i hate to go in, but i suppose i must," thought caroline, as she went up the steps. "fortunately roane is off after his commission, so they can't accuse me of coming out to meet him." for the first time she noticed that the lights were out in the house, and when she tried the window she had left open, she found that someone--probably patrick--had fastened it. "i ought to have told them i was going out," she thought. "i suppose the servants are all in bed, and if i go to the front and ring, i shall waken everybody." then, as she passed along the terrace, she saw that the light still glimmered beneath the curtains of the library, where blackburn was working late, and stopping before the window, she knocked twice on the panes. at her second knock, she heard a chair pushed back inside and rapid steps cross the floor. an instant later the window was unbolted, and she saw blackburn standing there against the lighted interior, with a look of surprise and inquiry, which she discerned even though his face was in shadow. he did not speak, and she said hurriedly as she entered, "i hated to disturb you, but they had locked me out." "you have been out?" it was the question he had put to her on her first night in the house. "peter's wife has been ill, and i promised the doctor to give her a hypodermic at eleven o'clock. it must be midnight now. they kept me some time at the cottage." he glanced at the clock. "yes, it is after twelve. we are working you overtime." she had crossed the room quickly on her way to the door, when he called her name, and she stopped and turned to look at him. "miss meade, i have wanted to ask you something about letty when she was not with us." "i know," she responded, with ready sympathy. "it isn't easy to talk before her without letting her catch on." "you feel that she is better?" "much better. she has improved every day in the last month or two." "you think now that she may get well in time? there seems to you a chance that she may grow up well and normal?" "with care i think there is every hope that she will. the doctor is greatly encouraged about her. in this age no physical malady, especially in a child, is regarded as hopeless, and i believe, if we keep up the treatment she is having, she may outgrow the spinal weakness that has always seemed to us so serious." for a moment he was silent. "whatever improvement there may be is due to you," he said presently, in a voice that was vibrant with feeling. "i cannot put my gratitude into words, but you have made me your debtor for life." "i have done my best," she replied gravely, "and it has made me happy to do it." "i recognize that. the beauty of it has been that i recognized that from the beginning. you have given yourself utterly and ungrudgingly to save my child. before you came she was misunderstood always, she was melancholy and brooding and self-centred, and you have put the only brightness in her life that has ever been there. all the time she becomes more like other children, more cheerful and natural." "i felt from the first that she needed companionship and diversion. she won my heart immediately, for she is a very lovable child, and if i have done anything over and above my task, it has been because i loved letty." his look softened indescribably, but all he said was, "if i go away, i shall feel that i am leaving her in the best possible care." "you expect to go away?" "i have offered my services, and the government may call on me. i hope there is some work that i can do." "everyone feels that way, i think. i feel that way myself, but as long as i can, i shall stay with letty. it is so hard sometimes to recognize one's real duty. if the call comes, i suppose i shall have to go to france, but i shan't go just because i want to, as long as the child needs me as much as she does now. mother says the duty that never stays at home is seldom to be trusted." "i know you will do right," he answered gravely. "i cannot imagine that you could ever waver in that. for myself the obligation seems now imperative, yet i have asked myself again and again if my reasons for wishing to go are as----" he broke off in amazement, and glanced, with a startled gesture, at the door, for it was opening very slowly, and, as the crack widened, there appeared the lovely disarranged head of angelica. she was wearing a kimono of sky-blue silk, which she had thrown on hastily over her nightgown, and beneath the embroidered folds, caroline caught a glimpse of bare feet in blue slippers. in the hall beyond there was the staring face of the maid, and at the foot of the stairs, the figure of mammy riah emerged, like a menacing spirit, out of the shadow. "i heard mammy riah asking for miss meade. she was not in her room," began angelica in her clear, colourless voice. "we were anxious about her--but i did not know--i did not dream----" she drew her breath sharply, and then added in a louder and firmer tone, "miss meade, i must ask you to leave the house in the morning." in an instant a cold breath blowing over caroline seemed to turn her living figure into a snow image. her face was as white as the band of her cap, but her eyes blazed like blue flames, and her voice, when it issued from her frozen lips, was stronger and steadier than angelica's. "i cannot leave too soon for my comfort," she answered haughtily. "mr. blackburn, if you will order the car, i shall be ready in an hour----" though she saw scarlet as she spoke, she would have swept by angelica with the pride and the outraged dignity of an insulted empress. "you shall not go," said blackburn, and she saw him put out his arm, as if he would keep the two women apart. "i would not stay," replied caroline, looking not at him, but straight into angelica's eyes. "i would not stay if she went on her knees to me. i will not stay even for letty----" "do you know what you have done?" demanded blackburn, in a quivering voice, of his wife. "do you know that you are ruining your child's future--your child's chance----" then, as if words were futile to convey his meaning, he stopped, and looked at her as a man looks at the thing that has destroyed him. "for letty's sake i shut my eyes as long as i could," said angelica, and of the three, she appeared the only one who spoke in sorrow and regret, not in anger. "after to-night i can deceive myself no longer. i can deceive the servants no longer----" her kimono was embroidered in a lavish design of cranes and water-lilies; and while caroline gazed at it, she felt that the vivid splashes of yellow and blue and purple were emblazoned indelibly on her memory. years afterwards--to the very end of her life--the sight of a piece of japanese embroidery was followed by an icy sickness of the heart, and a vision of angelica's amber head against the background of the dimly lighted hall and the curious faces of the maid and mammy riah. "you shall not----" said blackburn, and his face was like the face of a man who has died in a moment of horror. "you shall not dare do this thing----" he was still keeping caroline back with his outstretched hand, and while she looked at him, she forgot her own anger in a rush of pity for the humiliation which showed in every quiver of his features, in every line of his figure. it was a torture, she knew, which would leave its mark on him for ever. "you shall not dare----" he repeated, as if the words he sought would not come to him. beneath his gaze angelica paled slowly. her greatest victories had always been achieved through her dumbness; and the instinct which had guided her infallibly in the past did not fail her in this moment, which must have appeared to her as the decisive hour of her destiny. there was but one way in which she could triumph, and this way she chose, not deliberately, but in obedience to some deep design which had its source in the secret motive-power of her nature. the colour of her skin faded to ivory, her long, slender limbs trembled and wavered, and the pathos of her look was intensified into the image of tragedy. "i tried so hard not to see----" she began, and the next instant she gave a little gasping sob and dropped, like a broken flower, at his feet. for a second caroline looked down on her in silence. then, without stooping, without speaking, she drew her skirt aside, and went out of the room and up the stairs. her scorn was the scorn of the strong who is defeated for the weak who is victorious. chapter vii courage when she reached her room, caroline took off her cap and uniform and laid them smoothly away in her trunk. then she began packing with deliberate care, while her thoughts whirled as wildly as autumn leaves in a storm. outwardly her training still controlled her; but beneath her quiet gestures, her calm and orderly movements, she felt that the veneer of civilization had been stripped from the primitive woman. it was as if she had lived years in the few minutes since she had left angelica lying, lovely and unconscious, on the floor of the library. she was taking her clothes out of the closet when there was a low knock at her door, and mammy riah peered inquiringly into the room. "marse david tole me ter come," she said. "is you gwine away, honey?" before she replied, caroline crossed the floor and closed the door of the nursery. "i am going home on the earliest train in the morning. will you be sure to order the car?" the old woman came in and took the clothes out of caroline's hands. "you set right down, en wait twell i git thoo wid dis yer packin'. marse david, he tole me ter look atter you de same ez i look atter letty, en i'se gwine ter do whut he tells me." she looked a thousand years old as she stood there beside the shaded electric light on the bureau; but her dark and wrinkled face contained infinite understanding and compassion. at the moment, in the midst of caroline's terrible loneliness, mammy riah appeared almost beautiful. "i have to move about, mammy, i can't sit still. you were there. you saw it all." "i seed hit comin' befo' den, honey, i seed hit comin'." "but you knew i'd gone out to see mandy? you knew she was suffering?" "yas'm, i knows all dat, but i knows a heap mo'n dat, too." "you saw mrs. blackburn? you heard?----" "i 'uz right dar all de time. i 'uz right dar at de foot er de steers." "do you know why? can you imagine why she should have done it?" mammy riah wrinkled her brow, which was the colour and texture of stained parchment. "i'se moughty ole, and i'se moughty sharp, chile, but i cyarn' see thoo a fog. i ain' sayin' nuttin' agin miss angy, caze she wuz oner de fitzhugh chillun, ef'n a wi'te nuss did riz 'er. naw'm, i ain' sayin' nuttin 't'all agin 'er--but my eyes dey is done got so po' dat i cyarn' mek out whar she's a-gwine en whut she's a-fishin' fur." "i suppose she was trying to make me leave. but why couldn't she have come out and said so?" "go 'way f'om yer, chile! ain't you knowed miss angy better'n dat? she is jes' erbleeged ter be meally-mouthed en two-faced, caze she wuz brung up dat ar way. all de chillun dat w'ite nuss riz wuz sorter puny en pigeon-breasted inside en out, en miss angy she wuz jes' like de res' un um. she ain' never come right spang out en axed fur whut she gits, en she ain' never gwine ter do hit. naw'm, dat she ain't. she is a-gwine ter look put upon, en meek ez moses, en jes like butter wouldn't melt in 'er mouf, ef'n hit kills 'er. i'se done knowed 'er all 'er lifetime, en i ain' never seed 'er breck loose, nairy oncet. ole miss use'n ter say w'en she wuz live, dat miss angy's temper wuz so slow en poky, she'd git ter woner sometimes ef'n she reely hed a speck er one." "that must be why everybody thinks her a martyr," said caroline sternly. "even to-night she didn't lose her temper. you saw her faint away at my feet?" a shiver shook her figure, as the vision of the scene rushed before her; and bending down, with a dress still in her arms, the old woman patted and soothed her as if she had been a child. "dar now, dar now," she murmured softly. then, raising her head, with sudden suspicion, she said in a sharp whisper, "dat warn' no sho' nuff faintin'. she wuz jes' ez peart ez she could be w'en she flopped down dar on de flo'." "i didn't touch her. i wouldn't have touched her if she had been dying!" declared caroline passionately. mammy riah chuckled. "you is git ter be a reel spit-fire, honey." "i'm not a spit-fire, but i'm so angry that i see red." "cose you is, cose you is, but dat ain' no way ter git erlong in dis worl', perticular wid men folks. you ain' never seed miss angy git ez mad ez fire wid nobody, is you? dar now! i low you ain' never seed hit. you ain' never seed 'er git all in a swivet 'bout nuttin? ain't she al'ays jes' ez sof ez silk, no matter whut happen? dat's de bes' way ter git erlong, honey, you lissen ter me. de mo' open en above boa'd you is, de mo' you is gwine ter see de thing you is atter begin ter shy away f'om you. dar's miss matty timberlake now! ain't she de sort dat ain' got no sof' soap about 'er, en don't she look jes egzactly ez ef'n de buzzards hed picked 'er? naw'm, you teck en watch miss angy, en she's gwine ter sho' you sump'n. she ain' never let on ter nobody, she ain't. dar ain' nobody gwine ter know whut she's a-fishin' fur twell she's done cotched hit." there was an exasperated pride in her manner, as if she respected, even while she condemned, the success of angelica's method. "yas, lawd! i'se knowed all de fitzhughs f'om way back, en i ain' knowed nairy one un um dat could beat miss angy w'en hit comes ter gettin' whut she wants--in perticular ef'n hit belongst ter somebody else. i'se seed 'er wid 'er pa, en i'se seed 'er wid marse david, en dey warn' no mo' den chillun by de time she got thoo wid um. is you ever seed a man, no matter how big he think hisself, dat warn' ready ter flop right down ez' weak ez water, ez soon as she set 'er een on 'im? i'se watched 'er wid marse david way back yonder, befo' he begunst his cotin', en w'en i see 'er sidle up ter 'im, lookin ez sweet ez honey, en pertendin' dat she ain' made up 'er min' yit wedder she is mos' pleased wid 'im er feared un 'im, den i knows hit wuz all up wid 'im, ef'n he warn't ez sharp ez a needle. do you reckon she 'ould ever hev cotched marse david ef'n he'd a knowed whut 't'wuz she wuz atter? naw'm, dat she 'ouldn't, caze men folks dey ain' made dat ar way. deys erbleeged ter be doin' whut dey think you don't want 'um ter do, jes' like chillun, er dey cyarn' git enny spice outer doin' hit. dat's de reason de 'ooman dey mos' often breecks dere necks tryin' ter git is de v'ey las' one dat deys gwinter want ter keep atter deys got 'er. a she fox is a long sight better in de bushes den she is in de kennel; but men folks dey ain' never gwine ter fin' dat out twell she's done bitten um." while she rambled on, she had been busily folding the clothes and packing them into the trunk, and pausing now in her work, she peered into caroline's face. "you look jes' egzactly ez ef'n you'd seed a ha'nt, honey," she said. "git in de baid, en try ter go right straight ter sleep, w'ile i git thoo dis yer packin' in a jiffy." aching in every nerve, caroline undressed and threw herself into bed. the hardest day of nursing had never left her like this--had never exhausted her so utterly in body and mind. she felt as if she had been beaten with rocks; and beneath the sore, bruised feeling of her limbs there was the old half-forgotten quiver of humiliation, which brought back to her the vision of that autumn morning at the cedars--of the deep blue of the sky, the shivering leaves of the aspens, and the long straight road drifting through light and shadow into other roads that led on somewhere--somewhere. could she never forget? was she for ever chained to an inescapable memory? "is you 'bleeged ter go?" inquired the old woman, stopping again in her packing. "yes, i'm obliged to go. i wouldn't stay now if they went down on their knees to me." "you ain't mad wid marse david, is you?" "no, i'm not angry with mr. blackburn. he has been very kind to me, and i am sorry to leave letty." for the first time the thought of the child occurred to her. incredible as it seemed she had actually forgotten her charge. "she sutney is gwine ter miss you." "i think she will, poor little letty. i wonder what they will make of her?" closing her eyes wearily, she turned her face to the wall, and lay thinking of the future. "i will not be beaten," she resolved passionately. "i will not let them hurt me." some old words she had said long ago at the cedars came back to her, and she repeated them over and over, "people cannot hurt you unless you let them. they cannot hurt you unless you submit--unless you deliver your soul into their hands--and i will never submit. life is mine as much as theirs. the battle is mine, and i will fight it." she remembered her first night at briarlay, when she had watched the light from the house streaming out into the darkness, and had felt that strange forewarning of the nerves, that exhilarating sense of approaching destiny, that spring-like revival of her thoughts and emotions. how wonderful mrs. blackburn had appeared then! how ardently she might have loved her! for an instant the veiled figure of her imagination floated before her, and she was tormented by the pang that follows not death, but disillusionment. "i never harmed her. i would have died for her in the beginning. why should she have done it?" opening her eyes she stared up at the wall beside her bed, where mammy riah's shadow hovered like some grotesque bird of prey. "did you order the car, mammy riah?" "yas'm, i tole john jes' like you axed me. now, i'se done got de las' one er dese things packed, en i'se gwine ter let you git some sleep." she put out the light while she spoke, and then went out softly, leaving the room in darkness. "_why should she have done it? why should she have done it?_" asked caroline over and over, until the words became a refrain that beat slowly, with a rhythmic rise and fall, in her thoughts: "_why should she have done it?_ i thought her so good and beautiful. i would have worked my fingers to the bone for her if she had only been kind to me. _why should she have done it?_ i should always have taken her part against mr. blackburn, against mrs. timberlake, against mammy riah. it would have been so easy for her to have kept my love and admiration. it would have cost her nothing. _why should she have done it?_ there is nothing she can gain by this, and it isn't like her to do a cruel thing unless there is something she can gain. she likes people to admire her and believe in her. that is why she has taken so much trouble to appear right before the world, and to make mr. blackburn appear wrong. admiration is the breath of life to her, and--and--oh, why _should she have done it_? i must go to sleep. i must put it out of my mind. if i don't put it out of my mind, i shall go mad before morning. i ought to be glad to leave briarlay. i ought to want to go, but i do not. i do not want to go. i feel as if i were tearing my heart to pieces. i cannot bear the thought of never seeing the place again--of never seeing letty again. _why should she have done it?_----" in the morning, when she was putting on her hat, mrs. timberlake came in with a breakfast tray in her hands. "sit down, and try to eat something, caroline. i thought you would rather have a cup of coffee up here." caroline shook her head. "i couldn't touch a morsel in this house. i feel as if it would choke me." "but you will be sick before you get home. just drink a swallow or two." taking the cup from her, caroline began drinking it so hurriedly that the hot coffee burned her lips. "yes, you are right," she said presently. "i cannot fight unless i keep up my strength, and i will fight to the bitter end. i will not let her hurt me. i am poor and unknown, and i work for my living, but the world is mine as much as hers, and i will not give in. i will not let life conquer me." "you aren't blaming david, are you, dear?" "oh, no, i am not blaming mr. blackburn. he couldn't have helped it." her heart gave a single throb while she spoke; and it seemed to her that, in the midst of the anguish and humiliation, something within her soul, which had been frozen for years, thawed suddenly and grew warm again. it was just as if a statue had come to life, as if what had been marble yesterday had been blown upon by a breath of the divine, and changed into flesh. for eight years she had been dead, and now, in an instant, she was born anew, and had entered afresh into her lost heritage of joy and pain. mrs. timberlake, gazing at her through dulled eyes, was struck by the intensity of feeling that glowed in her pale face and in the burning blue of her eyes. "i didn't know she could look like that," thought the housekeeper. "i didn't know she had so much heart." aloud she said quietly, "david and i are going to the train with you. that is why i put on my bonnet." "is mr. blackburn obliged to go with us?" caroline's voice was almost toneless, but there was a look of wonder and awe in her face, as of one who is standing on the edge of some undiscovered country, of some virgin wilderness. the light that fell on her was the light of that celestial hemisphere where mrs. timberlake had never walked. "he wishes to go," answered the older woman, and she added with an after-thought, "it will look better." "as if it mattered how things look? i'd rather not see him again, but, after all, it makes no difference." "it wasn't his fault, caroline." "no, it wasn't his fault. he has always been good to me." "if anything, it has been harder on him than on you. it is only a few hours of your life, but it is the whole of his. she has spoiled his life from the first, and now she has ruined his career forever. even before this, colonel ashburton told me that all that talk last winter had destroyed david's future. he said he might have achieved almost anything if he had had half a chance, but that he regarded him now merely as a brilliant failure. angelica went to work deliberately to ruin him." "but why?" demanded caroline passionately. "what was there she could gain by it?" mrs. timberlake blinked at the sunlight. "for the first time in my life," she confessed, "i don't know what she is up to. i can't, to save my life, see what she has got in her mind." "she can't be doing it just to pose as an ill-treated wife? the world is on her side already. there isn't a person outside of this house who doesn't look upon her as a saint and martyr." "i know there isn't. that is what puzzles me. i declare, if it didn't sound so far-fetched, i'd be almost tempted to believe that she was trying to get that young fool for good." "mr. wythe? but what would she do with him? she is married already, and you know perfectly well that she wouldn't do anything that the world calls really wrong." "she'd be burned at the stake first. well, i give it up. i've raked my brain trying to find some reason at the bottom of it, but it isn't any use, and i've had to give it up in the end. then, last night after david told me about that scene downstairs--he waked me up to tell me--it suddenly crossed my mind just like that--" she snapped her fingers--"that perhaps she's sharper than we've ever given her credit for being. i don't say it's the truth, because i don't know any more than a babe unborn whether it is or not; but the idea did cross my mind that maybe she felt if she could prove david really cruel and faithless to her--if she could make up a case so strong that people's sympathy would support her no matter what she did--then she might manage to get what she wanted without having to give up anything in return. you know angelica could never bear to give up anything. she has got closets and closets filled with old clothes, which she'd never think of wearing, but just couldn't bear to give away----" "you mean----?" the blackness of the abyss struck caroline speechless. "i don't wonder that you can't take it in. i couldn't at first. it seems so unlike anything that could ever happen in virginia." "it would be so--" caroline hesitated for a word--"so incredibly common." "of course you feel that way about it, and so would angelica's mother. i reckon she would turn in her grave at the bare thought of her daughter's even thinking of a divorce." "you mean she would sacrifice me like this? she would not only ruin her husband, she would try to destroy me, though i've never harmed her?" "that hasn't got anything in the world to do with it. she isn't thinking of you, and she isn't thinking of alan. she is thinking about what she wants. it is surprising how badly you can want a thing even when you have neither feeling nor imagination. angelica isn't any more in love with that young ass than i am; but she wants him just as much as if she were over head and ears in love. there is one thing, however, you may count on--she is going to get him if she can, and she is going to persuade herself and everybody else, except you and david and me, that she is doing her duty when she goes after her inclinations. i don't reckon there was ever anybody stronger on the idea of duty than angelica," she concluded in a tone of acrid admiration. "of course, she will always stand right before the world," assented caroline, "i know that." "well, it takes some sense to manage it, you must admit?" "i wish i'd never come here. i wish i'd never seen briarlay," cried caroline, in an outburst of anger. "there is the car at the door. we'd better go." "won't you tell letty good-bye?" for the first time tears rushed to caroline's eyes. "no, i'd rather not. give her my love after i'm gone." in the hall blackburn was waiting for them, and caroline's first thought, as she glanced at him, was that he had aged ten years since the evening before. a rush of pity for him, not for herself, choked her to silence while she put her hand into his, which felt as cold as ice when she touched it. in that moment she forgot the wrong that she had suffered, she forgot her wounded pride, her anguish and humiliation, and remembered only that he had been hurt far more deeply. "i hope you slept," he said awkwardly, and she answered, "very little. is the car waiting?" then, as he turned to go down the steps, she brushed quickly past him, and entered the car after mrs. timberlake. she felt that her heart was breaking, and she could think of no words to utter. there were trivial things, she knew, that might be said, casual sounds that might relieve the strain of the silence; but she could not remember what they were, and where her thoughts had whirled so wildly all night long, there was now only a terrible vacancy, round which sinister fears moved but into which nothing entered. a strange oppressive dumbness, a paralysis of the will, seized her. if her life had depended on it, she felt that she should have been powerless to put two words together with an intelligible meaning. blackburn got into the car, and a moment later they started round the circular drive, and turned into the lane. "did john put in the bag?" inquired mrs. timberlake nervously. "yes, it is in front." as he replied, blackburn turned slightly, and the sunshine falling aslant the boughs of the maples, illumined his face for an instant before the car sped on into the shadows. in that minute it seemed to caroline that she could never forget the misery in his eyes, or the look of grimness and determination the night had graven about his mouth. every line in his forehead, every thread of grey in his dark hair, would remain in her memory for ever. "he looked so much younger when i came here," she thought. "these last months have cost him his youth and his happiness." "i am so glad you have a good day for your trip," said mrs. timberlake, and almost to her surprise caroline heard her own voice replying distinctly, "yes, it is a beautiful day." "will you telegraph your mother from the station?" "she wouldn't get it. there is no telephone, and we send only once a day for the mail." "then she won't be expecting you?" "no, she won't be expecting me." at this blackburn turned. "what can we do, miss meade, to help you?" again she seemed to herself to answer with her lips before she had selected the words, "nothing, thank you. there is absolutely nothing that you can do." the soft wind had loosened a lock of hair under her veil, and putting up her hand, she pushed it back into place. rain had fallen in the night, and the morning was fresh and fine, with a sky of cloudless turquoise blue. the young green leaves by the roadside shone with a sparkling lustre, while every object in the landscape appeared to quiver and glisten in the spring sunlight. "i shall never see it again--i shall never see it again." suddenly, without warning, caroline's thoughts came flocking back as riotously as they had done through the long, sleepless night. the external world at which she looked became a part of the intense inner world of her mind; and the mental vacancy was crowded in an instant with a vivid multitude of figures. every thought, every sensation, every image of the imagination and of memory, seemed to glitter with a wonderful light and freshness, as the objects in the landscape glittered when the april sunshine streamed over them. "yes, i am leaving it forever. i shall never see it again, but why should i care so much? why does it make me so unhappy, as if it were tearing the heart out of my breast? life is always that--leaving things forever, and giving up what you would rather keep. i have left places i cared for before, and yet i have never felt like this, not even when i came away for the first time from the cedars. every minute i am going farther and farther away. we are in the city now; flags are shining, too, in the sun. i have never seen so many flags--as if flags alone meant war! war! why, i had almost forgotten the war! and yet it is the most tremendous thing that has ever been on the earth, and nothing else really matters--neither briarlay, nor mrs. blackburn, nor my life, nor mr. blackburn's, nor anything that happened last night. it was all so little--as little as the thing mrs. blackburn is trying to get, the thing she calls happiness. it is as little as the thing i have lost--as little as my aching heart----" "do you know," said mrs. timberlake, "i had not realized that we were at war--but look at the flags!" her lustreless eyes were lifted, with a kind of ecstasy, in the sunlight, and then as no one answered, she added softly, "it makes one stop and think." "i must try to remember the war," caroline was telling herself. "if i remember the war, perhaps i shall forget the ache in my heart. the larger pain will obliterate the smaller. if i can only forget myself----" but, in spite of the effort of will, she could not feel the war as keenly as she felt the parting from something which seemed more vital to her than her life. "we are at war," she thought, and immediately, "i shall never see it again--i shall never see it again." the car stopped at the station, and a minute afterwards she followed mrs. timberlake across the pavement and through the door, which blackburn held open. as she entered, he said quickly, "i will get your ticket and meet you at the gate." "has john got the bag?" asked mrs. timberlake, glancing back. "yes, he is coming." caroline was looking after blackburn, and while she did so, she was conscious of a wish that she had spoken to him in the car while she still had the opportunity. "i might at least have been kinder," she thought regretfully, "i might have shown him that i realized it was not his fault--that he was not to blame for anything from the beginning----" a tall countryman, carrying a basket of vegetables, knocked against her, and when she turned to look back again, blackburn had disappeared. "it is too late now. i shall never see him again." the station was crowded; there was a confused rumble of sounds, punctuated by the shrill cries of a baby, in a blue crocheted hood, that was struggling to escape from the arms of a nervous-looking mother. in front of mrs. timberlake, who peered straight ahead at the gate, there was a heavy man, with a grey beard, and beside him a small anxious-eyed woman, who listened, with distracted attention, to the emphatic sentences he was uttering. "why doesn't he stop talking and let us go on," thought caroline. "what difference does it make if the whole world is going to ruin?" even now, if she could only go faster, there might be time for a few words with blackburn before the train started. if only she might tell him that she was not ungrateful--that she understood, and would be his friend always. a hundred things that she wanted to say flashed through her mind, and these things appeared so urgent that she wondered how she could have forgotten them on the long drive from briarlay. "i must tell him. it is the only chance i shall ever have," she kept saying over and over; but when at last she heard his voice, and saw him awaiting them in the crowd, she could recall none of the words that had rushed to her lips the moment before. "it is the only chance i shall ever have," she repeated, though the phrase meant nothing to her any longer. "i tell you it's the farmers that pay for everything, and they are going to pay for the war," declared the grey-bearded man, in a harsh, polemical voice, and the anxious-eyed woman threw a frightened glance over her shoulder, as if the remark had been treasonable. mrs. timberlake had already passed through the gate, and was walking, with a hurried, nervous air, down the long platform. as she followed at blackburn's side, it seemed to caroline that she should feel like this if she were going to execution instead of back to the cedars. she longed with all her heart to utter the regret that pervaded her thoughts, to speak some profound and memorable words that would separate this moment from every other moment that would come in the future--yet she went on in silence toward the waiting train, where the passengers were already crowding into the cars. at the step mrs. timberlake kissed her, and then drew back, wiping her reddened lids. "good-bye, my dear, i shall write to you." "good-bye. i can never forget how kind you have been to me." raising her eyes, she saw blackburn looking down on her, and with an effort to be casual and cheerful, she held out her hand, while a voice from somewhere within her brain kept repeating, "you must say something now that he will remember. it is the last chance you will ever have in your life." "good-bye." her eyes were smiling. "your chair is sixteen. good-bye." it was over; she was on the platform, and the passengers were pushing her into the car. she had lost her last chance, and she had lost it smiling. "it doesn't matter," she whispered. "i am glad to be going home--and life cannot hurt you unless you let it." the smile was still on her lips, but the eyes with which she sought out her chair were wet with tears. chapter viii the cedars no one met her at the little country station, and leaving her bag for old jonas, she started out alone to walk the two miles to the cedars. straight ahead the long, empty road trailed beneath the fresh young foliage of the woods, the little curled red velvet leaves of the oaks shining through the sea-green mist of the hickories and beeches; and she felt that within her soul there was only a continuation of this long, straight emptiness that led on to nothing. overhead flocks of small fleecy clouds, as white as swans-down, drifted across the changeable april sky, while the breeze, passing through the thick woods, stirred the delicate flower-like shadows on the moist ground. "spring is so sad," she thought. "i never understood before how much sadder spring is than autumn." this sadness of budding things, of renewing life, of fugitive scents and ephemeral colours, had become poignantly real. "it makes me want something different--something i have never had; and that is the sharpest desire on earth--the desire for a happiness that hasn't a name." a minute afterwards she concluded resolutely, "that is weakness, and i will not be weak. one must either conquer or be conquered by life--and i will not be conquered. anybody can be miserable, but it takes courage to be happy. it takes courage and determination and intelligence to get the best out of whatever happens, and the only way to begin is to begin by getting the best out of yourself. now i might have been hurt, but i am not because i won't let myself be. i might be unhappy, but i am not because my life is my own, and i can make of it anything that i choose." then suddenly she heard an inner voice saying from a great distance, "it is my last chance. i shall never see him again." with the words her memory was illuminated by a flame; and in the burning light she saw clearly the meaning of everything that had happened--of her sorrow, her dumbness, her longing to speak some splendid and memorable word at the last. it was not to briarlay, it was not even to letty, that her thoughts had clung at the moment of parting. she had wanted david blackburn to remember because it was the separation from him, she knew now, that would make her unhappy. unconsciously, before she had suspected the truth, he had become an inseparable part of her world; unconsciously she had let the very roots of her life entwine themselves about the thought of him. standing there in the deserted road, beneath the changeable blue of the sky, she turned to fight this secret and pitiless enemy. "i will not let it conquer me. i will conquer, as i have conquered worse things than this. i believed myself dead because i had once been disappointed. i believed myself secure because i had once been stabbed to the heart. this is the punishment for my pride--this humiliation and bitterness and longing from which i shall never be free." an unyielding cord stretched from her heart back to briarlay, drawing stronger and tighter with every step of the distance. it would always be there. the pain would not lessen with time. the flame of memory would grow brighter, not paler, with the days, months, and years. the april wind, soft, provocative, sweet-scented, blew in her face as she looked back; and down the long road, between the rose and green of the woods, an unbroken chain of memories stretched toward her. she saw blackburn as he had appeared on that first night at briarlay, standing in the door of his library when she came in from the terrace; she saw him in letty's room at midnight, sitting beside the night lamp on the candle-stand, with the book, which he did not read, open before him; she saw him in the day nursery, his face enkindled with tenderness; she saw him in the midst of the snowy landscape, when there had been rage in his look at the half-drunken roane; and she saw him, most clearly of all, as he looked facing, on that last night, the hour that would leave its mark on him for ever. it was as if this chain of memories, beginning in the vague sunshine and shadow of the distance, grew more distinct, more vivid, as it approached, until at last the images of her mind gathered, like actual presences, in the road before her. she could not escape them, she knew. they were as inevitable as regret, and would follow her through the bitter years ahead, as they had followed her through the hours since she had left him. she must stand her ground, and fight for peace as valiantly as she had ever fought in the past. "i cannot escape it," she said, as she turned to go on, "i must accept it and use it because that is the only way. mine is only one among millions of aching hearts, and all this pain must leave the world either better or worse than it was--all this pain will be used on the side either of light or of darkness. even sorrow may stand in the end for the world's happiness, just as the tragedy of this war may make a greater peace in the future. if i can only keep this thought, i shall conquer--war may bring peace, and pain may bring joy--in the end." beyond the white gate, the old aspens glimmered silver green in the sunlight, and, half-hidden in a dusky cloud of cedars, she saw the red chimneys and the dormer-windows of the house. home at last! and home was good however she came to it. with a smile she drew out the bar, and after replacing it, went on with an energetic and resolute step. the door was open, and looking through the hall, she saw her mother crossing the back porch, with a yellow bowl of freshly churned butter in her hands. mrs meade had grown older in the last six months, and she limped slightly from rheumatism; but her expression of sprightly cheerfulness had not changed, and her full pink face was still pretty. there was something strangely touching in the sight of her active figure, which was beginning at last to stoop, and in her brisk, springy step, which appeared to ignore, without disguising, the limp in her walk. never, it seemed to caroline, had she seen her so closely--with so penetrating a flash of understanding and insight. bare and hard as life had been, she had cast light, not shadow, around her; she had stood always on the side of the world's happiness. "mother, dear, i've come home to see you!" cried caroline gaily. the old lady turned with a cry. "why, caroline, what on earth?" she exclaimed, and carefully set down the bowl she was carrying. the next instant caroline was in her arms, laughing and crying together. "oh, mother, i wanted to see you, so i came home!" "is anything wrong, dear?" "nothing that cannot be made right. nothing in the world that cannot be made right." drawing her out on the porch, mrs. meade gazed earnestly into her face. "you are a little pale. have you been ill, caroline?" "i never had much colour, you know, but i am perfectly well." "and happy, darling?" the dear features, on which time was beginning to trace tender lines of anxiety, beamed on her daughter, with the invincible optimism that life had granted in place of bodily ease. as the wind stirred the silvery hair, caroline noticed that it had grown a little thinner, though it was still as fine and light as spun flax. for the first time she realized that her mother possessed the beauty which is permanent and indestructible--the beauty of a fervent and dominant soul. age could soften, but it could not destroy, the charm that was independent of physical change. caroline smiled brightly. "happy to be with you, precious mother." "maud is in the hospital, you know, and diana is in new york getting ready to sail. only margaret is left with me, and she hasn't been a bit well this winter. she is working hard over her garden." "yes, you wrote me. while i am here, i will help her. i want to work very hard." "can you stay long now? it will be such a comfort to have you. home never seems just right when one of you is away, and now there will be three. you knew old docia was sick, didn't you? we have had to put her daughter perzelia in the kitchen, and she is only a field hand. the cooking isn't very good, but you won't mind. i always make the coffee and the batter bread." "you know i shan't mind, but i must go back to work in a week or two. somebody must keep the dear old roof mended." mrs. meade laughed, and the sound was like music. "it has been leaking all winter." then she added, while the laugh died on her lips, "have you left briarlay for good?" "yes, for good. i shall never go back." "but you seemed so happy there?" "i shall be still happier somewhere else--for i am going to be happy, mother, wherever i am." though she smiled as she answered, her eyes left her mother's face, and sought the road, where the long procession of the aspens shivered like gray-green ghosts in the wind. "i am so glad, dear, but there hasn't been anything to hurt you, has there? i hope mr. blackburn hasn't been disagreeable." "oh, no, he has been very kind. i cannot begin to tell you how kind he has been." her voice trembled for an instant, and then went on brightly, "and so has mrs. timberlake. at first i didn't like her. i thought she was what docia calls 'ficy,' but afterwards, as i wrote you so often, she turned out to be very nice and human. first impressions aren't always reliable. if they were life would be easier, and there wouldn't be so many disappointments--but do you know the most valuable lesson i've learned this winter? well, it is not to trust my first impression--of a cat. the next time old jonas brings me a lot of kittens and asks me what i think of them, i'm going to answer, 'i can't tell, jonas, until i discover their hidden qualities.' it's the hidden qualities that make or mar life, and yet we accept or reject people because of something on the surface--something that doesn't really matter at all." she was gay enough; her voice was steady; her laugh sounded natural; the upward sweep of the black brows was as charming as ever; and the old sunny glance was searching the distance. there was nothing that mrs. meade could point to and say "this is different"; yet the change was there, and the mother felt, with the infallible instinct of love, that the daughter who had come home to her was not the caroline who had left the cedars six months ago. "she is keeping something from me," thought mrs. meade. "for the first time in her life she is keeping something from me." "now i must take off my hat and go to work," said caroline, eagerly, and she added under her breath, "it will rest me to work." the fragrance of spring was in the air, and through the fortnight that she stayed at the cedars, it seemed to her that this inescapable sweetness became a reminder and a torture--a reminder of the beauty and the evanescence of youth, a torture to all the sensitive nerves of her imagination, which conjured up delusive visions of happiness. in the beginning she had thought that work would be her salvation, as it had been when she was younger, that every day, every week, would soften the pain, until at last it would melt into the shadows of memory, and cease to trouble her life. but as the days went by, she realized that this emotion differed from that earlier one as maturity differs from adolescence--not in weakness, but in the sharper pang of its regret. hour by hour, the image of blackburn grew clearer, not dimmer, in her mind; day by day, the moments that she had spent with him appeared to draw closer instead of retreating farther away. because he had never been to the cedars she had believed that she could escape the sharper recollections while she was here; yet she found now that every object at which she looked--the house, the road, the fields, the garden, even the lilacs blooming beneath her window--she found now that all these dear familiar things were attended by a thronging multitude of associations. the place that he had never known was saturated with his presence. "if i could only forget him," she thought. "caring wouldn't matter so much, if i could only stop thinking." but, through some perversity of will, the very effort that she made to forget him served merely to strengthen the power of remembrance--as if the energy of mind were condensed into some clear and sparkling medium which preserved and intensified the thought of him. after hours of work, in which she had buried the memories of briarlay, they would awake more ardently as soon as she raised her head and released her hands from her task. the resolution which had carried her through her first tragedy failed her utterly now, for this was a situation, she found, where resolution appeared not to count. and the bitterest part was that when she looked back now on those last months at briarlay, she saw them, not as they were in reality, filled with minor cares and innumerable prosaic anxieties, but irradiated by the rosy light her imagination had enkindled about them. she had not known then that she was happy; but it seemed to her now that, if she could only recover the past, if she could only walk up the drive again and enter the house and see blackburn and letty, it would mean perfect and unalterable happiness. at night she would dream sometimes of the outside of the house and the drive and the elms, which she saw always shedding their bronze leaves in the autumn; but she never got nearer than the white columns, and the front door remained closed when she rang the bell, and even beat vainly on the knocker. these dreams invariably left her exhausted and in a panic of terror, as if she had seen the door of happiness close in her face. the day afterwards her regret would become almost unendurable, and her longing, which drowned every other interest or emotion, would overwhelm her, like a great flood which had swept away the natural boundaries of existence, and submerged alike the valleys and the peaks of her consciousness. everything was deluged by it; everything surrendered to the torrent--even the past. because she had once been hurt so deeply, she had believed that she could never be hurt in the same way again; but she discovered presently that what she had suffered yesterday had only taught her how to suffer more intensely to-day. nothing had helped her--not blighted love, not disillusionment, not philosophy. all these had been swept like straws on the torrent from which she could not escape. the days were long, but the nights were far longer, for, with the first fall of the darkness, her imagination was set free. while she was working with margaret in the garden, or the kitchen, she could keep her mind on the object before her--she could plant or weed until her body ached from fatigue, and the soft air and the smell of earth and of lilacs, became intermingled. but it was worse in the slow, slow evenings, when the three of them sat and talked, with an interminable airy chatter, before the wood-fire, or round the lamp, which still smoked. then she would run on gaily, talking always against time, longing for the hour that would release her from the presence of the beings she loved best, while some memory of blackburn glimmered in the fire, or in the old portraits, or through the windows, which looked, uncurtained, out on the stars. there were moments even when some quiver of expression on her mother's face or on margaret's, some gleam of laughter or trick of gesture, would remind her of him. then she would ask herself if it were possible that she had loved him before she had ever seen him, and afterwards at briarlay, when she had believed herself to be so indifferent? and sitting close to her mother and sister, divided from them by an idea which was more impregnable than any physical barrier, she began to feel gradually that her soul was still left there in the house which her mind inhabited so persistently--that her real life, her vital and perpetual being, still went on there in the past, and that here, in the present, beside these dear ones, who loved her so tenderly, there was only a continuous moving shadow of herself. "but how do i know that these aren't the shadows of mother and of margaret?" she would demand, startled out of her reverie. at the end of a fortnight a letter came from mrs. timberlake, and she read it on the kitchen porch, where perzelia, the field hand, was singing in a high falsetto, as she bent over the wash-tub. "_we is jew-els--pre-cious--jew-els in--his--c-r-ow-n!_" sang perzelia shrilly, and changing suddenly from hymn to sermon, "yas, lawd, i tells de worl'. i tells de worl' dat ef'n dat nigger 'oman don' stop 'er lies on me, i'se gwine ter cut 'er heart out. i'se gwine ter kill 'er jes' de same ez i 'ould a rat. yas, lawd, i tells 'er dat. '_we is jew-els--pre-cious--jew-els in his c-r-o-w-n._'" mrs. timberlake wrote in her fine italian hand: * * * * * my dear caroline, i have thought of you very often, and wanted to write to you, but ever since you left we have been rather upset, and i have been too busy to settle down to pen and paper. for several weeks after you went away letty was not a bit well. nobody knew what was the matter with her, and doctor boland's medicine did not do her any good. she just seemed to peak and pine, and i said all along it was nothing in the world except missing you that made her sick. now she is beginning to pick up as children will if you do not worry them too much, and i hope she will soon get her colour back and look as natural as she did while you were here. we have a new trained nurse--a miss bradley, from somewhere up in the shenandoah valley, but she is very plain and uninteresting, and, between you and me, i believe she bores letty to death. i never see the child that she does not ask me, "when is miss meade coming back?" we were very anxious to have a word from you after you went away. however, i reckon you felt as if you did not care to write, and i am sure i do not blame you. i suppose you have heard all the gossip that has been going on here--somebody must have written you, for somebody always does write when there is anything unpleasant to say. you know, of course, that angelica left david the very day you went away, and the town has been fairly ringing with all sorts of dreadful scandals. people believe he was cruel to her, and that she bore his ill-treatment just as long as she could before leaving his house. only you and i and mammy riah will ever know what really happened, and nobody would believe us if we were to come out and tell under oath--which, of course, we can never do. i cannot make out exactly what angelica means to do, but she has gone somewhere out west, and i reckon she intends to get a divorce and marry alan, if he ever comes back from the war. you may not have heard that he has gone into the army, and i expect he will be among the very first to be sent to france. roane is going, too. you cannot imagine how handsome he is in his uniform. he has not touched a drop since we went to war, and i declare he looks exactly like a picture of a crusader of the middle ages, which proves how deceptive the best appearances are. david has not changed a particle through it all. you remember how taciturn he always was, and how he never let anybody even mention angelica's name to him? well, it is just the same now, and he is, if possible, more tight-lipped than ever. nobody knows how he feels, or what he thinks of her behaviour--not even colonel ashburton, and you know what close and devoted friends they are. the colonel told me that once, when he first saw how things were going, he tried to open the subject, and that he could never forget how blackburn turned him off by talking about something that was way up in the air and had nothing to do with the subject. i am sure david has been cut to the heart, but he will never speak out, and everybody will believe that angelica has been perfectly right in everything she has done. if it goes on long enough, she will even believe it herself, and that, i reckon, is the reason she is so strong, and always manages to appear sinned against instead of sinning. nothing can shake her conviction that whatever she wants she ought to have. well, my dear, i must stop now and see about dinner. the house is so lonely, though, as far as i can tell, letty hardly misses her mother at all, and this makes it so provoking when people like daisy colfax cry over the child in the street, and carry on about, "poor dear angelica, who is so heartbroken." that is the way daisy goes on whenever i see her, and it is what they are saying all over richmond. they seem to think that david is just keeping letty out of spite, and i cannot make them believe that angelica does not want her, and is glad to be relieved of the responsibility. when i say this they put it down as one of my peculiarities--like blinking eyes, or the habit of stuttering when i get excited. give my love to your mother, though i reckon she has forgotten old matty timberlake, and do drop me a line to let me hear how you are. your affectionate friend, matty timberlake. letty sends her dearest, dearest, dearest love. * * * * * when she had finished the letter, caroline looked over the lilacs by the kitchen porch and the broken well-house, to the road beneath the aspens, which still led somewhere--somewhere--to the unattainable. at one corner of the porch perzelia was singing again, and the sound mingled with the words that mrs. timberlake had written. "_we is jew-els, pre-cious jew-els in his c-r-o-w-n._" a fever of restlessness seized caroline while she listened. the letter, instead of quieting her, had merely sharpened the edge of her longing, and she was filled with hunger for more definite news. in an hour the cedars had become intolerable to her. she felt that she could not endure another day of empty waiting--of waiting without hope--of the monotonous round of trivial details that led to nothing, of the perpetual, interminable effort to drug feeling with fatigue, to thrust the secondary interests and the things that did not matter into the foreground of her life. "he has never wasted a regret on me," she thought. "he never cared for a minute. i was nothing to him except a friend, a woman who could be trusted." the confession was like the twist of a knife in her heart; and springing to her feet, she picked up the letter she had dropped, and ran into the house. "i must go back to work, mother darling," she said. "the money i saved is all gone, and i must go back to work." chapter ix the years ahead toward the close of an afternoon in november, caroline was walking from the hospital to a boarding-house in grace street, where she was spending a few days between cases. all summer she had nursed in richmond; and now that the autumn, for which she had longed, had at last come, she was beginning to feel the strain of hard work and sleepless nights. though she still wore her air of slightly defiant courage, a close observer would have noticed the softer depths in her eyes, the little lines in her face, and the note of sadness that quivered now and then in her ready laughter. it was with an effort now that she moved with her energetic and buoyant step, for her limbs ached, and a permanent weariness pervaded her body. a high wind was blowing, and from the scattered trees on the block, a few brown and wrinkled leaves were torn roughly, and then whirled in a cloud of dust up the street. the block ahead was deserted, except for an aged negro wheeling a handcart full of yellow chrysanthemums, but as caroline approached the crossing, daisy colfax came suddenly from the corner of a church, and hesitated an instant before speaking. the last time that caroline had seen her, old mrs. colfax had been in the car, and they had not spoken; but now that daisy was alone, she pounced upon her with the manner of an affectionate and playful kitten. "oh, i didn't know you at first, miss meade! you are so much thinner. what have you been doing?" she held out her hand, diffusing life, love, joy, with the warmth of her southern charm; and while caroline stood there, holding the soft, gloved hand in her own, a dart of envy pierced the armour of her suffering and her philosophy. how handsome daisy looked! how happy! her hat of the royal purple she favoured made her black hair gleam like velvet; her sealskin coat, with its enormous collar of ermine, wrapped her luxuriously from head to foot; her brilliant complexion had the glow of a peach that is just ready to drop. she also had had an unfortunate romance somewhere in the past; she had married a man whom she did not love; yet she shone, she scintillated, with the genuine lustre of happiness. never had the superior advantages of a shallow nature appeared so incontestable. "i saw you go by yesterday, miss meade, and i said to myself that i was going to stop and speak to you the first chance i got. i took such a fancy to you when you were out at briarlay, and i want to tell you right now that i never believed there was anything queer in your going away like that so early in the morning, without saying a word to anybody. at first people didn't understand why you did it, and, of course, you know that somebody tried to start gossip; but as soon as mrs. timberlake told me your sister was ill, i went straight about telling everybody i saw. you were the last woman on earth, i always said, to want anything like a flirtation with a man, married or single, and i knew you used to sympathize _so_ with angelica. i shall never forget the way you looked at david blackburn the night you came there, when he was so dreadfully rude to her at the table. i told mother afterwards that if a look could have killed, he would have fallen dead on the spot." she paused an instant, adjusted a loosened pin in her lace veil, and glided on smoothly again without a perceptible change in her voice, "poor, dear angelica! all our hearts are broken over her. i never knew david blackburn well, but i always despised him from the beginning. a man who will sit through a whole dinner without opening his mouth, as i've known him to do, is capable of anything. that's what i always say when robert tells me i am prejudiced. i am really not in the least prejudiced, but i just can't abide him, and there's no use trying to make me pretend that i can. even if he hadn't ruined angelica's life, i should feel almost as strongly about him. everybody says that she is going to get a divorce for cruelty, though one of the most prominent lawyers in town--i don't like to mention his name, but you would know it in a minute--told me that she could get it on _any_ grounds that she chose. angelica has such delicacy of feeling that she went out west, where you don't have to make everything so dreadfully public, and drag in all kinds of disgraceful evidence--but they say that david blackburn neglected her from the very first, and that he has had affairs with other women for years and years. he must have selected those nobody had ever heard of, or he couldn't have kept it all so secret, and that only proves, as i said to robert, that his tastes were always low----" "why do people like to believe these things?" demanded caroline resentfully. "why don't they try to find out the truth?" "well, how in the world are they going to find out any more than they are told? i said that to mrs. ashburton--you know they stand up for mr. blackburn through thick and thin--but even they can't find a word to say against angelica, except that she isn't sincere, and that she doesn't really care about letty. there isn't a word of truth in that, and nobody would believe it who had seen angelica after she told letty good-bye. she was heartbroken--simply heartbroken. her face was the loveliest thing i ever looked at, and, as alan wythe said to me the next day--it was the very afternoon before he went off to camp--there was the soul of motherhood in it. i thought that such a beautiful way of putting it, for it suited angelica perfectly. didn't you always feel that she was full of soul?" "i wonder how letty is getting on?" asked caroline, in the pause. "have you heard anything of her?" "oh, she is all right, i think. they have a nurse there who is looking after her until they find a good governess. she must miss her mother terribly, but she doesn't show it a bit. i must say she always seemed to me to be a child of very little feeling. if i go away for a week, my children cry their eyes out, and letty has lost her mother, and no one would ever know it to watch her." "she is a reserved child, but i am sure she has feeling," said caroline. "of course you know her better than i do, and, anyhow, you couldn't expect a child not to show the effects of the kind of home life she has had. i tell robert that our first duty in life is to provide the memory of a happy home for our children. it means so much when you're grown, don't you think, to look back on a pleasant childhood? as for letty she might as well be an orphan now that david blackburn has gone to france----" "to france?" for a minute it seemed to caroline that claws were tearing her heart, and the dull ache which she had felt for months changed into a sharp and unendurable pain. then the grey sky and grey street and grey dust intermingled, and went round and round in a circle. "you hadn't heard? why, he went last week, or it may be that he is going next week--i can't remember which. robert didn't know exactly what he was to do--some kind of constructive work, he said, for the government. i never get things straight, but all i know is that everything seems to be for the government now. i declare, i never worked so hard in my life as i have done in the last six or eight months, and robert has been in washington simply slaving his head off for a dollar a year. it does one good, i suppose. mr. courtland preached a beautiful sermon last sunday about it, and i never realized before how wonderfully we have all grown in spirit since the war began. i said to mrs. mallow, as i came out, that it was so comforting to feel that we had been developing all the time without knowing it, or having to bother about it. of course, we did know that we had been very uncomfortable, but that isn't quite the same, and now i can stand giving up things so much better when i realize that i am getting them all back, even if it's just spiritually. don't you think that is a lovely way to feel about it?" "i must go," said caroline breathlessly. her pulses were hammering in her ears, and she could scarcely hear what daisy was saying. "well, good-bye. i am so glad to have seen you. are you going to france like everybody else?" "i hope so. i have offered my services." "then you are just as wild about war work as i am. i'd give anything on earth to go over with the y. m. c. a., and i tell robert that the only thing that keeps me back is the children." she floated on to her car at the corner, while caroline crossed the street, and walked slowly in the direction of the boarding-house. "it can make no possible difference to me. why should i care?" she asked herself. yet the clutch of pain had not relaxed in her heart, and it seemed to her that all the life and colour had gone out of the town. he was not here. he was across the world. until this instant she had not realized how much it meant to her that he should be in the same city, even though she never saw him. she reached the house, opened the drab iron gate, went up the short brick walk between withered weeds, and rang the bell beside the inhospitable door, from which the sallow paint was peeling in streaks. at the third ring, a frowzy coloured maid, in a soiled apron, which she was still frantically tying, opened the door; and when she saw caroline, a sympathetic grin widened her mouth. "you is done hed a caller, en he lef' his name over dar on de table. i axed 'im ef'n he wouldn't set down en res' his hat, but he jes' shuck his haid en walked right spang out agin." entering the hall, caroline picked up the card, and passed into the shabby living-room, which was empty during the afternoon hours. in the centre of the hideous room, with its damaged victorian furniture, its open stove, its sentimental engravings, and its piles of magazines long out of date--in the midst of the surroundings of a contented and tasteless period, she stared down, with incredulous eyes, at the bit of paper she was holding. so he had been there. he had come at the last moment, probably on his last day in richmond, and she had missed him! life had accorded her one other opportunity, and, with the relentless perversity of her fate, she had lost it by an accident, by a quarter of an hour, by a chance meeting with daisy! it was her destiny to have the things that she desired held within reach, to watch them approach until she could almost touch them, to see them clearly and vividly for a minute, and then to have them withdrawn through some conspiracy of external events. "i didn't ask much," she thought, "only to see him once more--only the chance to let him see that i can still hold my head high and meet the future with courage." in an instant she felt that the utter futility and emptiness of the summer, of every day that she had passed since she left briarlay, enveloped and smothered her with the thickness of ashes. "it is not fair," she cried, in rebellion, "i have had a hard life. i asked so little. it is not fair." going over to the window, she put the cheap curtains aside, and looked out into the street, as if searching the pavement for his vanishing figure. nothing there except emptiness! nothing except the wind and falling leaves and grey dust and the footsteps of a passer-by at the corner. it was like her life, that long, deserted street, filled with dead leaves and the restless sound of things that went by a little way off. for a minute the idea stayed with her. then, raising her head, with a smile, she looked up at the bare trees and the sombre sky over the housetops. "life cannot hurt you unless you let it," she repeated. "i will not let it. i will conquer, if it kills me." and, so inexplicable are the processes of the soul, the resolution arising in her thoughts became interfused not only with her point of view, but with the bleak external world at which she was looking. the will to fight endowed her with the physical power of fighting; the thought created the fact; and she knew that as long as she believed herself to be unconquered, she was unconquerable. the moment of weakness had served its purpose--for the reaction had taught her that destiny lies within, not without; that the raw material of existence does not differ; and that our individual lives depend, not upon things as they are in themselves, but upon the thought with which we have modified or enriched them. "i will not be a coward. i will not let the world cheat me of happiness," she resolved; and the next instant, as she lowered her eyes from the sky, she saw david blackburn looking up at her from the gate. for a moment she felt that life stopped in its courses, and then began again, joyously, exuberantly, drenched with colour and sweetness. she had asked so little. she had asked only to see him again--only the chance to show him that she could be brave--and he stood here at the gate! he was still her friend, that was enough. it was enough to have him stand there and look up at her with his grave, questioning eyes. turning quickly away from the window, she ran out of the house and down the brick walk to the gate. "i thought i had missed you," she said, her eyes shining with happiness. "it is my last day in richmond. i wanted to say good-bye." he had touched her hand with the briefest greeting; but in his face she read his gladness at seeing her; and she felt suddenly that everything had been made right, that he would understand without words, that there was nothing she could add to the joy of the meeting. it was friendship, not love, she knew; and yet, at the moment, friendship was all that she asked--friendship satisfied her heart, and filled the universe with a miraculous beauty. after the torment of the last six months, peace had descended upon her abundantly, ineffably, out of the heavens. all the longing to explain faded now into the knowledge that explanation was futile, and when she spoke again it was to say none of the things with which she had burdened her mind. "how is letty?" she asked, "i think of her so often." "she is very well, but she misses you. will you walk a little way? we can talk better in the street." "yes, the house will soon be full of boarders." weariness had left her. she felt strong, gay, instinct with energy. as she moved up the deserted street, through the autumn dust, laughter rippled on her lips, and the old buoyant grace flowed in her walk. it was only friendship, she told herself, and yet she asked nothing more. she had been born again; she had come to life in a moment. and everything at which she looked appeared to have come to life also. the heavy clouds; the long, ugly street, with the monotonous footsteps of the few passers-by; the wind blowing the dried leaves in swirls and eddies over the brick pavement; the smell of autumn which lingered in the air and the dust--all these things seemed not dead, but as living as spring. the inner radiance had streamed forth to brighten the outward greyness; the april bloom of her spirit was spreading over the earth. "this is my hour," her heart told her. "out of the whole of life i have this single short hour of happiness. i must pour into it everything that is mine, every memory of joy i shall ever have in the future. i must make it so perfect that it will shed a glow over all the drab years ahead. it is only friendship. he has never thought of me except as a friend--but i must make the memory of friendship more beautiful than the memory of love." he looked at her in the twilight, and she felt that peace enveloped her with his glance. "tell me about yourself," he said gently. "what has life done to you?" "everything, and nothing." her voice was light and cheerful. "i have worked hard all summer, and i am hoping to go to france if the war lasts----" "all of us hope that. it is amazing the way the war has gripped us to the soul. everything else becomes meaningless. the hold it has taken on me is so strong that i feel as if i were there already in part, as if only the shell of my body were left over here out of danger." he paused and looked at her closely. "i can talk to you of the things i think--impersonal things. the rest you must understand--you will understand?" her heart rose on wings like a bird. "talk to me of anything," she answered, "i shall understand." "no one, except my mother, has ever understood so completely. i shall always, whatever happens, look back on our talks at briarlay as the most helpful, the most beautiful of my life." her glance was veiled with joy as she smiled up at him. this was more than she had ever demanded even in dreams. it was the bread of life in abundance, and she felt that she could live on it through all the barren years of the future. to have the best in her recognized, to be judged, not by a momentary impulse, but by a permanent ideal--this was what she had craved, and this was accorded her. "for the time i can see nothing but the war," he was saying in a changed voice. "the ground has been cut from under my feet. i am groping through a ruined world toward some kind of light, some kind of certainty. the things i believed in have failed me--and even the things i thought have undergone modifications. i can find but one steadfast resolve in the midst of this fog of disappointment, and that is to help fight this war to a finish. my personal life has become of no consequence. it has been absorbed into the national will, i suppose. it has become a part of america's determination to win the war, let it cost what it may." the old light of vision and prophecy had come back to his face while she watched it; and she realized, with a rush of mental sympathy, that his ideas were still dynamic--that they possessed the vital energy of creative and constructive forces. "talk to me of your work--your life," she said, and she thought exultantly, "if i cannot hold him back, i can follow him. i, too, can build my home on ideas." "you know what i have always felt about my country," he said slowly. "you know that i have always hoped to be of some lasting service in building a better state. as a boy i used to dream of it, and in later years, in spite of disappointments--of almost unbearable disappointments and failures--the dream has come back more vividly. for a time i believed that i could work here, as well as away, for the future of america--for the genuine democracy that is founded not on force, but on freedom. for a little while this seemed to me to be possible. then i was pushed back again from the ranks of the fighters--i became again merely a spectator of life--until the war called me to action. as long as the war lasts it will hold me. when that is over there will be fresh fields and newer problems, and i may be useful." "it is constructive work, not fighting now, isn't it?" "it is the machinery of war--but, after all, what does it matter if it only helps to win?" "and afterwards? when it is over?" his eyes grew very gentle. "if i could only see into the future! words may come to me some day, and i may answer you--but not now--not yet. i know nothing to-day except that there is work for my hand, and i must do it. trust me for the rest. you do trust me?" there was a glory in her face as she answered, "to do right always. until death--and beyond." "if we have trust, we have everything," he said, and a note of sadness had crept into his voice. "life has taught me that without it the rest is only ashes." "i am glad for your sake that you can go," she replied. "it would be harder here." the man's part was his, and though she would not have had it otherwise, she understood that the man's part would be the easier. he would go away; he would do his work; his life would be crowded to the brim with incident, with practical interests; and, though she could trust him not to forget, she knew that he would not remember as she remembered in the place where she had known him. "the work will be worth doing," he answered, "even if the record is soon lost. it will mean little in the way of ambition, but i think that ambition scarcely counts with me now. what i am seeking is an opportunity for impersonal service--a wider field in which to burn up my energy." his voice softened, and she felt, for the first time, that he was talking impersonally because he was afraid of the danger that lay in the silence and the twilight--that he was speaking in casual phrases because the real thought, the true words, were unutterable. she was sure now, she was confident; and the knowledge gave her strength to look with clear eyes on the parting--and afterwards---- he began to talk of his work, while they turned and walked slowly back to the boarding-house. "i will write to you," he said, "but remember i shall write only of what i think. i shall write the kind of letters that i should write to a man." "it all interests me," she answered. "your thought is a part of you--it is yourself." "it is the only self i dare follow for the present, and even that changes day by day. i see so many things now, if not differently--well, at least in an altered perspective. it is like travelling on a dark road, as soon as one danger is past, others spring up out of the obscurity. the war has cast a new light on every belief, on every conviction that i thought i possessed. the values of life are changing hourly--they are in a process of readjustment. facts that appeared so steadfast, so clear, to my vision a year ago, are now out of focus. i go on, for i always sought truth, not consistency, but i go on blindly. i am trying to feel the road since i cannot see it. i am searching the distance for some glimmer of dawn--for some light i can travel by. i know, of course, that our first task is winning the war, that until the war is won there can be no security for ideas or mankind, that unless the war is won, there can be no freedom for either individual or national development." as they reached the gate, he broke off, and held out his hand. "but i meant to write you all this. it is the only thing i can write you. you will see letty sometimes?" "whenever i can. mrs. timberlake will bring her to see me." "and you will think of yourself? you will keep well?" he held her hand; her eyes were on his; and though she heard his questions and her answers, she felt that both questions and answers were as trivial as the autumn dust at her feet. what mattered was the look in his eyes, which was like a cord drawing her spirit nearer and nearer. she knew now that he loved her; but she knew it through some finer and purer medium of perception than either speech or touch. if he had said nothing in their walk together, if he had parted from her in silence, she would have understood as perfectly as she understood now. in that moment, while her hand was in his and her radiant look on his face, the pain and tragedy of the last months, the doubt, the humiliation, the haunting perplexity and suspense, the self-distrust and the bitterer distrust of life--all these things, which had so tormented her heart, were swept away by a tide of serene and ineffable peace. she was not conscious of joy. the confidence that pervaded her spirit was as far above joy as it was above pain or distress. what she felt with the profoundest conviction was that she could never really be unhappy again in the future--that she had had all of life in a moment, and that she could face whatever came with patience and fortitude. "stand fast, little friend," he said, "and trust me." then, without waiting for her reply, he turned from her and walked away through the twilight. chapter x the light on the road when caroline entered the house, the sound of clinking plates and rattling knives told her that the boarders had already assembled at supper; and it surprised her to discover that she was hungry for the first time in months. happiness had made everything different, even her appetite for the commonplace fare mrs. dandridge provided. it was just as if an intense physical pain had suddenly ceased to throb, and the relief exhilarated her nerves, and made her eager for the ordinary details which had been so irksome a few hours before. life was no longer distorted and abnormal. her pride and courage had come back to her; and she understood at last that it was not the unfulfilment of love, but the doubt of its reality, that had poisoned her thoughts. since she knew that it was real, she could bear any absence, any pain. the knowledge that genuine love had been hers for an hour, that she had not been cheated out of her heritage, that she had not given gold for sand, as she had done as a girl--the knowledge of these things was the chain of light that would bind together all the dull years before her. already, though her pulses were still beating rapturously, she found that the personal values were gradually assuming their right position and importance in her outlook. there were greater matters, there were more significant facts in the world to-day than her own particular joy or sorrow. she must meet life, and she must meet it with serenity and fortitude. she must help where the immediate need was, without thought of the sacrifice, without thought even of her own suffering. how often in the past eight years had she told herself, "love is the greatest good in the world, but it is not the only good. there are lives filled to overflowing in which love has no place." now she realized that her love must be kept like some jewel in a secret casket, which was always there, always hidden and guarded, yet seldom brought out into the daylight and opened. "i must think of it only for a few minutes of the day," she said, "only when i am off duty, and it will not interfere with my work." and she resolved that she would keep this pledge with all the strength of her will. she would live life whole, not in parts. without taking off her hat, she went into the dining-room, and tried to slip unnoticed into her chair at a small table in one corner. the other seats were already occupied, and a pretty, vivacious girl she had known at the hospital, looked up and remarked, "you look so well, miss meade. have you been for a walk?" "yes, i've been for a walk. that is why i am late." down the centre of the room, beneath the flickering gas chandelier and the fly-specked ceiling, there was a long, narrow table, and at the head of it, mrs. dandridge presided with an air as royal as if she were gracing a banquet. she was a stately, white-haired woman, who had once been beautiful and was still impressive--for adversity, which had reduced her circumstances and destroyed her comfort, had failed to penetrate the majestic armour of her manner. in the midst of drudgery and turmoil and disaster, she had preserved her mental poise as some persons are able to preserve their equilibrium in a rocking boat. nothing disturbed her; she was as superior to accidents as she was to inefficiency or incompetence. her meals were never served at the hour; the food was badly cooked; the table was seldom tidy; and yet her house was always crowded, and there was an unimpeachable tradition that she had never received a complaint from a boarder. as she sat now at the head of her unappetizing table, eating her lukewarm potato soup as if it were terrapin, she appeared gracious, charming, supported by the romantic legends of her beauty and her aristocratic descent. if life had defeated her, it was one of those defeats which the philosopher has pronounced more triumphant than victories. "i spent the afternoon at the red cross rooms," she remarked, regal, serene, and impoverished. "that is why supper was a little late to-night. since i can give nothing else, i feel that it is my duty to give my time. i even ask myself sometimes if i have a moral right to anything we can send over to france?" inadvertently, or through some instinct of tact which was either divine or diabolical, she had touched a responsive cord in the heart of every man or woman at the table. there was no motive beyond impulsive sympathy in the words, for she was as incapable of deliberate design as she was of systematic economy; but her natural kindliness appeared to serve her now more effectively than any machiavellian subtlety could have done. the discontented and dejected look vanished from the faces about her; the distinguished widow, with two sons in the army, stopped frowning at the potato soup; the hungry but polite young man, who travelled for a clothing house, put down the war bread he was in the act of passing; and the studious-looking teacher across the table lost the critical air with which she had been regarding the coloured waitress. as caroline watched the change, she asked herself if the war, which was only a phrase to these people a few months ago, had become at last a reality? "we are in it now, body and soul," she thought, "we are in it just as france and england have been in it from the beginning. it is our war as much as theirs because it has touched our hearts. it has done what nothing has been able to do before--it has made us one people." into these different faces at mrs. dandridge's table, a single idea had passed suddenly, vitalizing and ennobling both the bright and the dull features--the idea of willing sacrifice. something greater than selfish needs or desires had swept them out of themselves on a wave of moral passion that, for the moment, exalted them like a religious conversion. what had happened, caroline knew, was that the patriotism in one of the most patriotic nations on earth had been stirred to the depths. the talk she heard was the kind that was going on everywhere. she had listened to it day after day, as it echoed and re-echoed from the boarding-houses, the hospitals, and the streets--and through the long, bitter months, when coal was scarce and heatless and meatless days kept the blood down, she was aware of it, as of a persistent undercurrent of cheerful noise. there were no complaints, but there were many jests, and the characteristic virginian habit of meeting a difficult situation with a joke, covered the fuel administration with ridicule. for weeks ice lay on the pavements, a famine in coal threatened; and as the winter went by, bread, instead of growing better, became steadily worse. but, after all, people said, these discomforts and denials were so small compared to the colossal sacrifices of europe. things were done badly, but what really counted was that they were done. beneath the waste and extravagance and incompetence, a tremendous spirit was moving; and out of the general aspect of bureaucratic shiftlessness, america was gathering her strength. in the future, as inevitably as history develops from a fact into a fable, the waste would be exalted into liberality, the shiftlessness into efficiency. for it is the law of our life that the means pass, and the end remains, that the act decays, but the spirit has immortality. for the next six months, when the calls were many and nurses were few, caroline kept her jewel in the secret casket. she did not think of herself, because to think of herself was the beginning of weakness, and she had resolved long ago to be strong. when all was said, the final result of her life depended simply on whether she overcame obstacles or succumbed to them. it was not the event, she knew, that coloured one's mental atmosphere; it was the point of view from which one approached it. "it is just as easy to grow narrow and bitter over an unfulfilled love as it is to be happy and cheerful," she thought, "and whether it is easy or not, i am not going to let myself grow narrow and bitter. of course, i might have had more, but, then, i might have had so much less--i might not have had that one hour--or his friendship. i am going to be thankful that i have had so much, and i am going to stop thinking about it at all. i may feel all i want to deep down in my soul, but i must stop thinking. when the whole country is giving up something, i can at least give up selfish regret." the winter passed, filled with work, and not unhappily, for time that is filled with work is seldom unhappy. from blackburn she had heard nothing, though in april a paragraph in the newspaper told her that angelica was about to sue for a divorce in some western state; and daisy colfax, whom she met one day in the waiting-room of the hospital, breezily confirmed the vague announcement. "there really wasn't anything else that she could do, you know. we were all expecting it. poor angelica, she must have had to overcome all her feelings before she could make up her mind to take a step that was so public. her delicacy is the most beautiful thing about her--except, as robert always insists, the wonderful way she has of bringing out the best in people." as the irony of this was obviously unconscious, caroline responded merely with a smile; but that same afternoon, when mrs. timberlake paid one of her rare visits, she repeated daisy's remark. "do you suppose she really believes what she says?" "of course she doesn't. things don't stop long enough in her mind to get either believed or disbelieved. they just sift straight through without her knowing that they are there." they were in the ugly little green-papered room at the hospital, and caroline was holding letty tight in her arms, while she interpolated cryptic phrases into the animated talk. "oh, miss meade, if you would only come back! do you think you will come back when mother and father get home again? i wrote to father the other day, but i had to write in pencil, and i'm so afraid it will all fade out when it goes over the ocean. will it get wet, do you think?" "i am sure it won't, dear, and he will be so glad to hear from you. what did you tell him?" "i told him how cold it was last winter, and that i couldn't write before because doing all the doctor told me took up every single minute, and i had had to leave off my lessons, and that the new nurse made them very dull, anyhow. then i said that i wanted you to come back, and that i hadn't been nearly so strong since you went away." she was looking pale, and after a few moments, caroline sent her, with a pot of flowers, into an adjoining room. "i don't like letty's colour," she said anxiously to the housekeeper, in the child's absence. "she is looking very badly. it is the hard winter, i reckon, but i am not a bit easy about her. she hasn't picked up after the last cold, and we don't seem able to keep her interested. children are so easily bored when they are kept indoors, and letty more easily than most, for she has such a quick mind. i declare i never lived through such a winter--at least not since i was a child in the civil war, and of course that was a thousand times worse. but we couldn't keep briarlay warm, even the few rooms that we lived in. it was just like being in prison--and a cold one at that! i can't help wishing that david would come home, for i feel all the time as if anything might happen. i reckon the winter put my nerves on edge; but the war seems to drag on so slowly, and everybody has begun to talk in such a pessimistic way. it may sound un-christian, but i sometimes feel as if i could hardly keep my hands off the germans. i get so impatient of the way things are going, i'd like to get over in france, and kill a few of them myself. it does look, somehow, as if the lord had forgotten that vengeance belongs to him." "doctor boland told me yesterday that he thought it would last at least five years longer." "then it will outlast us, that's all i've got to say." she cleared her throat, and added with tart irrelevancy, "i had a letter from angelica a few weeks ago." "is it true? what the paper said?" "there wasn't a word about it in the letter. she wrote because she wanted me to send her some summer clothes she had left here, and then she asked me to let her know about letty. she said she had been operated on in chicago a month ago, and that she was just out of the hospital, and feeling like the wreck of herself. everybody told her, she added, how badly she looked, and the letter sounded as if she were very much depressed and out of sorts." "do you think she may really have cared for mr. wythe?" mrs. timberlake shook her head. "it wasn't that, my dear. she just couldn't bear to think of mary's having more than she had. if she had ever liked david, it might have been easier for her to stand it, but she never liked him even when she married him; and though a marriage may sometimes manage very well without love, i've yet to see one that could get along without liking." she rose as letty came back from her errand, and a minute or two later, caroline tucked the child in the car, and stood watching while it started for briarlay. the air was mild and fragrant, for after the hard, cold winter, spring had returned with a profusion of flowers. in the earth, on the trees, and in the hearts of men and women, april was bringing warmth, hope, and a restoration of life. the will to be, to live, and to struggle, was released, with the flowing sap, from the long imprisonment of winter. in the city yards the very grass appeared to shoot up joyously into the light, and the scent of hyacinths was like the perfume of happiness. the afternoon was as soft as a day in summer, and this softness was reflected in the faces of the people who walked slowly, filled with an unknown hope, through the warm sunshine. "love is the greatest good in the world, but it is not the only good," repeated caroline, wondering who had first said the words. it was then, as she turned back to enter the hospital, that the postman put some letters into her hand, and looking down, she saw that one was from blackburn. chapter xi the letter for the rest of the afternoon she carried the letter hidden in her uniform, where, from time to time, she could pause in her task, and put her hand reassuringly on the edge of the envelope. not until evening, when she had left her patient and was back in her room, did she unfold the pages, and begin slowly to read what he had written. the first sentences, as she had expected, were stiff and constrained--she had known that until he could speak freely he would speak no word of love to her--but, as soon as he had passed from the note of feeling to the discussion of impersonal issues, he wrote as earnestly and spontaneously as he had talked to sloane on that october afternoon at briarlay. another woman, she realized, might have been disappointed; but the ironic past had taught her that emotion, far from being the only bond with a man like blackburn, was perhaps the least enduring of the ties that held them together. his love, if it ever came to her, would be the flower, not of transient passion, but of the profound intellectual sympathy which had first drawn their minds, not their hearts, to each other. both had passed through the earlier fires of racial impulse; both had been scorched, not warmed by the flames; and both had learned that the only permanent love is the love that is rooted as deeply in thought as in desire. * * * * * in france. my dear caroline: i have tried to write to you many times, but always something has held me back--some obscure feeling that words would not help things or make them easier, and that your friendship could be trusted to understand all that i was obliged to leave to the silence. you will see how badly i have put this, even though i have rewritten the beginning of this letter several times. but it is just as if i were mentally tongue-tied. i can think of nothing to say that it does not seem better to leave unsaid. then i remembered that when we parted i told you i should write of what i thought, not of what i felt, and this makes it simpler. when i relax my mental grip, the drift of things whirls like a snow-storm across my mind, and i grow confused and bewildered---- in the last year i have thought a great deal about the questions before us. i have tried to look at them from a distance and on the outside, as well as from a closer point of view. i have done my best to winnow my convictions from the ephemeral chaff of opinions; and though i am groping still, i am beginning to see more clearly the road we must travel, if we are ever to come out of the jungle of speculation into the open field of political certainty. behind us--behind america, for it is of my own country that i am thinking--the way is strewn with experiments that have met failure, with the bones of political adventurers who have died tilting at the windmill of opportunity. for myself, i see now that, though some of my theories have survived, many of them have been modified or annulled by the war. two years ago you heard me tell sloane that our most urgent need was of unity--the obliteration of sectional lines. i still feel this need, but i feel it now as a necessary part of a far greater unity, of the obliteration of world boundaries of understanding and sympathy. this brings us to the vital question before us as a people--the development of the individual citizen within the democracy, of the national life within the international. here is the problem that america must solve for the nations, for only america, with her larger views and opportunities, can solve it. for the next generation or two this will be our work, and our chance of lasting service. our republic must stand as the great example of the future, as the morning star that heralds the coming of a new day. it is the cause for which our young men have died. with their lives they have secured our democracy, and the only reward that is worthy of them is a social order as fair as their loyalty and their sacrifice. and so we approach our great problem--individuality within democracy, the national order within the world order. already the sectional lines, which once constituted an almost insurmountable obstacle, have been partly dissolved in the common service and sacrifice. already america is changing from a mass of divergent groups, from a gathering of alien races, into a single people, one and indivisible in form and spirit. the war has forged us into a positive entity, and this entity we must preserve as far as may be compatible with the development of individual purpose and character. here, i confess, lies the danger; here is the political precipice over which the governments of the past have almost inevitably plunged to destruction. and it is just here, i see now, in the weakest spot of the body politic, that the south, and the individualism of the south, may become, not a national incubus, but the salvation of our republic. the spirit that fought to the death fifty years ago for the sovereignty of the states, may act to-day as a needed check upon the opposing principle of centralization in government, the abnormal growth of federal power; and in the end may become, like the stone which the builders rejected, the very head of the corner. as i look forward to-day, the great hope for america appears to be the interfusion of the northern belief in solidarity with the ardent southern faith in personal independence and responsibility. in this blending of ideals alone, i see the larger spirit that may redeem nationality from despotism. i am writing as the thoughts rush through my mind, with no effort to clarify or co-ordinate my ideas. from childhood my country has been both an ideal and a passion with me; and at this hour, when it is facing new dangers, new temptations, and new occasions for sacrifice, i feel that it is the duty of every man who is born with the love of a soil in his heart and brain, to cast his will and his vision into the general plan of the future. to see america avoid alike the pitfall of arbitrary power and the morass of visionary socialism; to see her lead the nations, not in the path of selfish conquest, but, with sanity and prudence, toward the promised land of justice and liberty--this is a dream worth living for, and worth dying for, god knows, if the need should ever arise. the form of government which will yield us this ideal union of individualism with nationalism, i confess, lies still uninvented or undiscovered. autocracies have failed, and democracies have been merely uncompleted experiments. the republics of the past have served mainly as stepping-stones to firmer autocracies or oligarchies. socialism as a state of mind, as a rule of conduct, as an expression of pity for the disinherited of the earth--socialism as the embodiment of the humane idea, is wholly admirable. so far as it is an attempt to establish the reign of moral ideas, to apply to the community the command of christ, 'therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them;' so far as it expresses the obscure longing in the human heart for justice and right in the relations of mankind--so far as it embodies the instincts of compassion and sympathy, it must win the approval of every man who has looked deeply into human affairs. the evil of socialism lies not in these things; nor does it rest in the impracticability of its theory--in the generous injustice of "robbing the rich to pay the poor." the evil of it consists in the fact that it would lend itself in practice even more readily than democracy, to the formation of that outer crust of officialism which destroys the blood and fibre of a nation. socialism obeying the law of christ might be a perfect system--but, then, so would despotism, or democracy, or any other form of government man has invented. but all theories, however exalted, must filter down, in application, through the brackish stream of average human nature. the state cannot rest upon a theory, any more than it can derive its true life from the empty husks of authority. the republic of man, like the kingdom of god, is within, or it is nowhere. to-day, alone among the nations, the american republic stands as the solitary example of a state that came into being, not through the predatory impulse of mankind, but, like its constitution, as an act of intellectual creation. in this sense alone it did not grow, it was made; in this sense it was founded, not upon force, but upon moral ideas, upon everlasting and unchanging principles. it sprang to life in the sunrise of liberty, with its gaze on the future--on the long day of promise. it is the heir of all the ages of political experiment; and yet from the past, it has learned little except the things that it must avoid. there was never a people that began so gloriously, that started with such high hearts and clear eyes toward an ideal social contract. since then we have wandered far into the desert. we have followed mirage after mirage. we have listened to the voice of the false prophet and the demagogue. yet our republic is still firm, embedded, as in a rock, in the moral sense of its citizens. for a democracy, my reason tells me, there can be no other basis. when the state seeks other authority than the conscience of its citizens, it ceases to be a democracy, and becomes either an oligarchy or a bureaucracy. then the empty forms of hereditary right, or established officialdom, usurp the sovereignty of moral ideas, and the state decays gradually because the reservoir of its life has run dry. for our republic, standing as it does between hidden precipices, the immediate future is full of darkness. we have shown the giant's strength, and we must resist the temptation to use it like a giant. when the war is won, we shall face the vital and imminent danger, the danger that is not material, but spiritual--for what shall it profit a nation, if it shall gain the whole world, and lose its own soul? in a time of danger arbitrary power wears always a benevolent aspect; and since man first went of his own will into bondage, there has never been absolutism on earth that has not masqueraded in the doctrine of divine origin--whether it be by the custom of kingship, or by the voice of the people. war, which is an abnormal growth on the commonwealth, may require abnormal treatment; but history shows that it is easier to surrender rights in war than it is to recover them in peace, and a temporary good has too often developed into a permanent evil. the freedom of the seas will be a poor substitute for the inalienable rights of the individual american. a league of nations cannot insure these; it is doubtful even if it can insure peace on earth and good will toward men. men can hate as bitterly and fight as fiercely within a league as outside of one. we shall go forth, when victory is won, to enlighten the world with liberty and with far-seeing statesmanship; but just as the far-sighted physical vision perceives distant objects more clearly than near ones, there is, also, a world vision of duty which overlooks immediate obligations while it discerns universal responsibilities. in this mental view the present is invariably sacrificed to the future, the personal rights to the general security. yet to the more normal faculty of vision, it would appear that the perfect whole must result from the perfect parts; and that only by preserving our individual liberties can we make a league of free nations. international treaties are important, but national morality is vital--for the treaty that is not confirmed by the national honour is only a document. and now, after a year's thinking, i have come back to the conviction from which i started--that the only substantial groundwork of a republic is the conscience of its citizens. the future of our democracy rests not in the halls of congress, but in the cradle; and to build for permanency, we must build, not on theory, but on personal rectitude. we hear a great deal said now, and said unthinkingly, about the personal values not counting in a war that is fought for world freedom. yet there was never an age, and i say this with certainty, in which personality was of such supreme significance as it is to-day. for this, after all, is the end to which my thinking has brought me--nationalism is nothing, internationalism is nothing, unless it is an expression of individual aspirations and ideals--for the end of both nationalism and internationalism is the ultimate return to racial character. cultivate the personal will to righteousness, teach the citizen that he is the state, and the general good may take care of itself. and so our first duty appears to be, not national expansion, but the development of moral fibre. before we teach other nations to stand alone, we must learn to walk straight; before we sow the seeds of the future, we must prepare our own ground for planting. national greatness is a flower that has often flourished over a sewer of class oppression and official corruption; and the past teaches us that republics, as well as autocracies, may be founded on slavery and buttressed by inequalities. as i look ahead now, i see that we may win freedom for smaller nations, and yet lose our own liberties to a federal power that is supported by a civilian army of office-holders. for power is never more relentless in exercise than when it has transformed the oppressed of yesterday into the oppressors of to-day; and it is well to remember that democracy means not merely the tyranny of the many instead of the few; it means equal obligations and responsibilities as well as equal rights and opportunities. if we have failed to reach this ideal, it has been because the individual american has grasped at opportunity while he evaded responsibility; and the remedy for the failure lies not in a change of institutions, but in a change of heart. we must realize that america is a faith as well as a fact--that it is, for many, a divine hypothesis. we must realize that it means the forward-looking spirit, the fearless attitude of mind, the belief in the future, the romantic optimism of youth, the will to dare and the nerve to achieve the improbable. this is america, and this is our best and greatest gift to the world--and to the league of free nations. with the end of the war the danger will be threatening; and we must meet it as we met the feebler menace of prussian militarism--but we must meet it and conquer it with intangible weapons. no nation has ever fought for a greater cause; no nation has ever fought more unselfishly; and no nation has ever drawn its sword in so idealistic a spirit. we have entered this war while our hearts were full, while the high and solemn mood was upon us. if we keep to this mood, if we seek in victory the immaterial, not the material advantage, if our only reward is the opportunity for world service, and our only conquered territory the provinces of the free spirit--if we keep fast to this ideal, and embody its meaning in our national life and actions, then we may save the smaller nations because we have first saved our republic. for, if it is a day of peril, it is also a day of glory. the seal of blood is upon us, but it is the prophetic mark of the future, and it has sealed us for the union of justice with liberty. we have given our dead as a pledge of the greater america--the america of invisible boundaries. there is but one monument that we can build in remembrance, and that monument is a nobler republic. if we lose the inspiration of the ideal, if we turn aside from the steady light of democracy to pursue the _ignis fatuus_ of imperialistic enterprise or aggression, then our dead will have died in vain, and we shall leave our building unfinished. for those who build on the dead must build for immortality. physical boundaries cannot contain them; but in the soul of the people, if we make room for them, they will live on forever, and in the spirit we may still have part and place with them. and because the collective soul of the race is only the sum total of individual souls, i can discern no way to true national greatness except through the cultivation of citizenship. experience has proved that there can be no stability either of law or league unless it is sustained by the moral necessity of mankind; and, for this reason, i feel that our first international agreement should be the agreement on a world standard of honour--on a rule of ethical principles in public as well as in private relations. i confess that a paternalism that enfeebles the character appears to me scarcely less destructive than a license that intoxicates. between the two lies the golden mean of power with charity, of enlightened individualism, of christian principles, not applied on the surface, but embodied in the very structure of civilization. though i am not a religious man in the orthodox meaning, the last year has taught me that the world's hope lies not in treaties, but in the law of christ that ye love one another. this splendid dream of the perfectibility of human nature may not have led us very far in the past, but at least it has never once led us wrong. there are ideas that flash by like comets, bearing a trail of light; and such an idea is that of world peace and brotherhood. only those whose eyes are on the heavens behold it; yet these few may become the great adventurers of the spirit, the prophets and seers of the new age for mankind. there has never been a great invention that did not begin as a dream, just as there has never been a great truth that did not begin as a heresy. and, if we look back over history, we find that the sublime moments with men and with nations, are those in which they break free from the anchorage of the past, and set sail toward the unknown seas, on a new spiritual voyage of discovery. it is thus that i would see america, not as schoolmistress or common scold to the nations, but as chosen leader by example, rather than by authority. i would see her, when this crisis is safely past, keeping still to her onward vision, and her high and solemn mood of service and sacrifice; and it is in the spirit of humility, not of pride, that i would have her stretch the hand of friendship alike to the great and the little peoples. she has had no wiser leaders than the founders of this republic, and i would see her return, as far as she can return, to the lonely freedom in which they left her. i would see her enter no world covenant except one that is sustained not by physical force, but by the moral law; and i would, above all, see her follow her own great destiny with free hands and unbandaged eyes. for her true mission is not that of universal pedagogue--her true mission is to prove to the incredulous powers the reality of her own political ideals--to make democracy, not a sublime postulate, but a self-evident truth. i have written as words came to me, knowing that i could write to you freely and frankly, as i could to no one else, of the life of the mind. your friendship i can trust always, in any circumstances; and it is only by thinking impersonally that i can escape the tyranny of personal things. i have not written of my surroundings over here, because i could tell you only what you have read in hundreds of letters--in hundreds of magazines. it is all alike. one and all, we see the same sights. war is not the fine and splendid thing some of us at home believe it to be. there is dirt and cruelty and injustice in france, as well as glory and heroism. i have seen the good and the evil of the battlefields, just as i have seen the good and the evil of peace, and i have learned that the romance of war depends as much upon the thickness of the atmosphere as upon the square miles of the distance. it is pretty prosaic at close range; yet at the very worst of it, i have seen flashes of an almost inconceivable beauty. for it brings one up against the reality, and the reality is not matter, but spirit. i am trying to do the best work of my life, and i am doing it just for my country. god bless you. david blackburn. chapter xii the vision at the end of june, caroline learned from the papers that blackburn had returned to briarlay; and the same day she heard through daisy colfax that alan wythe had been killed in france. "i feel so sorry for poor angelica," said the young woman mournfully. "they were always such devoted friends. but, of course, it is splendid to think that he was a hero, and i know that is the way angelica will look at it." at the moment, though caroline had liked alan, the thing that impressed her most was the way in which the whole world shared in the conspiracy to protect angelica from the consequences of her own acts. evidently no hint of scandal had ever touched her friendship for alan. "i am sorry," said caroline, "i always liked him." "oh, everybody did! you know that mr. blackburn has come home?" "yes, i saw it in the paper." "and cousin matty tells me that you are going away to camp?" "i have just had my call, and i am leaving next week. i hope it means france very soon, but of course no one knows." "well, be sure to take a great deal more than they tell you to. i know a nurse who said she almost froze the first winter. do you really have to wear woollen stockings? i should think they would make your flesh creep." she passed on, blooming and lovely, and caroline, with her bundle of woollen stockings under her arm, left the shop, and turned down a side street on her way to mrs. dandridge's. she was glad of the call, and yet--and yet--she had hoped deep down in her heart, a hope unspoken and unacknowledged, that she should see david again before she left richmond. a moment would be enough--only it might be for the last time, and she felt that she must see him. in the last two months she had thought of him very little. her work had engrossed her, and the hope of going to france had exhilarated her like wine through all the long days of drudgery. she had grown to expect so little of life that every pleasure was magnified into a blessing, and she found, in looking back, that an accumulation of agreeable incidents had provided her with a measure of happiness. underneath it all was the knowledge of blackburn, though love had come at last to take the place of a creed that one believes in, but seldom remembers. yet she still kept the jewel in the casket, and it was only when she stopped now and then to reflect on her life, that she realized how long it had lain in its secret corner where the light of day never shone. as she approached the boarding-house she saw a car by the sidewalk, and a minute afterwards, mrs. timberlake turned away from the door, and came down to the gate. "oh, caroline, i was afraid i had missed you! are you going very soon?" "not until next week." did the housekeeper hear, she wondered, the wild throbbing of her heart? "i came to see if you could come out for the night? letty has been ailing for several days, and the doctor says she has a touch of fever. miss bradley is ill in bed, and we can't get a nurse anywhere until to-morrow. of course mammy riah and i can manage, but david and i would both feel so much easier if you would come." "of course, i'll come. i'll get my bag in a minute. it is already packed." without waiting for mrs. timberlake's reply, she ran into the house, and came out with the suitcase in her hands. "tell me about letty. is her temperature high?" "it has been all day, but you know how it is with children, as i told david this morning. you heard that david was back?" "i saw it in the paper." "he came very unexpectedly. of course he couldn't cable about the boat, and the telegram he sent from new york didn't get to me until after he was in the house. he is looking badly, but i am sure it isn't the work. i believe other things have been worrying him." the car had passed out of grace street, and was running in the direction of monument avenue. as they went on, caroline remembered the april morning when she had come in this same car down the familiar street, where flags were flying so gaily. it seemed a hundred years ago--not one year, but a hundred! life was the same, and yet not the same, since the very heart of it was altered. the same sky shone, deeply blue, overhead; the same sun illuminated the houses; the same flags were flying; the same persons passed under the glittering green of the leaves. it was all just as it had been on that april morning--and yet how different! "i suppose he is anxious about letty?" she said. "even before that i noticed how much he had changed. it was only when he was telling me about roane that he looked a bit like himself. my dear, can you believe that roane has really turned into a hero?" "no, i cannot. it must have been a long turning." she was talking only to make sound. how could it matter to her what roane had turned into? "he's been fighting with the french, and david says he's won every decoration they have to give. he is doing splendid things, like saving lives under fire, and once he even saved a red cross dog at the risk of his life. david says it's the way he makes a jest of it that the french like--as if he were doing it for amusement. that's like roane fitzhugh, isn't it? what do you suppose david meant when he said that beneath it all was a profound disillusionment?" "i don't know, but i never denied that roane had a sense of humour." "you never liked him, and neither did david. he says now that roane isn't really any more of a hero than he always was, but that he has found a background where his single virtue is more conspicuous than his collective vices. i believe he is the only human being i ever knew david to be unjust to." caroline laughed. "there are some virtues it is simply impossible to believe in. whenever i hear of roane fitzhugh--even when i hear things like this--i always remember that he kissed me when he was drunk." "he hasn't touched a drop since the war. david says he is getting all the excitement he wants in other ways." "and i suppose when the war is over he'll have to get it again from drink." it didn't make any difference whether he was a hero or not, she told herself, she should always feel that way about him. after all, he was probably not the first hero who had given a woman good cause to despise him. "oh, i hope not!" unlike caroline, the housekeeper had always had a weakness for roane, though she disapproved of his habits. but a good man, she often said to herself in excuse, might have bad habits, just as a bad man might have good ones. the lord would have to find something else to judge people by at the day of reckoning. "he is the only man i've ever known who could see through angelica," she concluded after a pause. "he began early. she always got everything he wanted when they were children. i've heard him say so." "well, i wrote to him about her the other day. did i tell you i'd heard from cousin fanny baylor, who has been with her in chicago?" "no, you didn't tell me. how long ago was it?" "it couldn't have been more than three weeks. she wrote me that angelica was only the wreck of herself, and that the operation was really much more serious than we had ever been told. the doctor said there was no hope of any permanent cure, though she might linger on, as an invalid, for a good many years." "and does she know? mrs. blackburn, i mean?" "they wouldn't tell her. cousin fanny said the doctors and nurses had all been so careful to keep it from her, and that the surgeon who operated said he could not strike hope out of angelica's heart by telling her. angelica has shown the most beautiful spirit, she wrote, and everybody in the hospital thought her perfectly lovely. she left there some months ago, and, of course, she believed that she was going to get well in time. it's funny, isn't it, that the doctor who is attending her now should be so crazy about her? cousin fanny says he is one of the most distinguished men in chicago, but it sounds to me very much as if he were the sort of fool that alan wythe was." "could the war have changed her? perhaps she is different now since alan wythe was killed?" mrs. timberlake met this with a sound that was between a sniff and a snort. "i expect it's only in books that war, or anything else, makes people over in a minute like that. in real life women like angelica don't get converted, or if they do, it doesn't last overnight. you can't raise a thunderstorm in a soap bubble. no, angelica will go on until she dies being exactly what she has always been, and people will go on until she dies and afterwards, believing that she is different. i reckon it would take more than a world war, it would take a universal cataclysm, to change angelica." for a time they drove on in silence, and when the housekeeper spoke again it was in a less positive tone. "it wouldn't surprise me if she was sorry now that she ever left david." caroline started. "do you mean she would want to come back?" "it wouldn't surprise me," mrs. timberlake repeated firmly. "then she didn't get the divorce?" "no, she didn't get it, and there wouldn't be any use in her beginning all over again, now that alan is dead. if she is really as ill as they say, i reckon she'd be more comfortable at briarlay--even if that doctor out yonder is crazy about her." "well, she could find one here who would be just as crazy." there was an accent of bitterness in caroline's voice. "oh, yes, she wouldn't have to worry about that. the only thing that would seem to stand in her way is david, and i don't know that she has ever paid much attention to him." "not even as an obstacle. but how can she come back if he doesn't want her?" it really appeared a problem to caroline. "oh, she'll make him want her--or try to----" "do you think she can?" mrs. timberlake pondered the question. "no, i don't believe that she can, but she can make him feel sorry for her, and with david that would be half the battle." "that and letty, i suppose." "yes, she has been writing to letty very often, and her letters are so sweet that the child has begun to ask when she is coming home. you know how easily children forget?" caroline sighed under her breath. "oh, i know--but, even then, how could mr. blackburn?" "he wouldn't forget. if he thought it was right, he would do it if it killed him, but he would remember till his dying day. that's how david is made. he is like a rock about his duty, and i sometimes think feelings don't count with him at all." "yet he did love her once." "yes, he loved her once--and, of course," she amended suddenly, reverting to the traditional formula, "nobody believes that angelica ever did anything really wrong." for the rest of the long drive they sat in silence; and it seemed to caroline, while the car turned into the lane and ran the last half mile to the house, that time had stopped and she was back again in the october afternoon when she had first come to briarlay. it was no longer a hundred years ago. in the midst of the june foliage--the soft green of the leaves, the emerald green of the grass, the dark olive green of the junipers--in the midst of the wonderful brightness and richness of summer--she was enveloped, as if by a drifting fragrance, in the atmosphere of that day in autumn. it came to life not as a memory, but as a moment that existed, outside of time, in eternity. it was here, around, within, and above her, a fact like any other fact; yet she perceived it, not through her senses, but through an intuitive recognition to which she could not give a name. under the summer sky she saw again the elm leaves falling slowly; she approached again the red walls in the glimmer of sunset; and she felt again the divine certainty that the house contained for her the whole measure of human experience. then the car stopped; the door opened; and the scene faded like the vision of a clairvoyant. imagination, nothing more! she had stepped from the dream into the actuality, and out of the actuality she heard mrs. timberlake's dry tones remarking that david had not come home from the office. "let me go to letty. i should like to see letty at once," said caroline. "then run straight upstairs to the night nursery. i know she will be almost out of her head with joy." moses had opened the front door, and as caroline entered, she glanced quickly about her, trying to discover if there had been any changes. but the house was unaltered. it was like a greenhouse from which the rarest blossom had been removed, leaving still a subtle and penetrating perfume. all the profusion of detail, the dubious taste, the warmth of colour, and the lavishness of decoration, were still there. from the drawing-room she caught the sheen of pink silk, and she imagined for an instant that angelica's fair head drooped, like a golden lily, among the surroundings she had chosen. there was a lack of discrimination, she saw now even more plainly than on that first afternoon, but there was an abundance of dramatic effect. one might imagine one's self in any character--even the character of an angel--with a background like that! as she drew near to the nursery door she heard letty's voice exclaiming excitedly, "there's miss meade, mammy, i hear miss meade coming!" then mammy riah opened the door, and the next minute the child was stretching out her arms and crying with pleasure. "i asked father to send for you," she said, "i told him you could make me well faster than miss bradley." she appeared to caroline to have grown unnaturally tall and thin, like the picture of alice in wonderland they used to laugh over together. her face was curiously transparent and "peaked," as mrs. timberlake had said, and the flush of fever could not disguise the waxen look of the skin. in her straight little nightgown, which was fastened close at the throat, and with the big blue bow on the top of her smooth brown head, she looked so wistful and pathetic that she brought a lump to caroline's throat. was it any wonder that blackburn was anxious when she gazed up at him like that? "i want to hurry up and get well, miss meade," she began, "because it makes father so unhappy when i am sick. it really hurts father dreadfully." "but you're getting well. there isn't much the matter, is there, mammy?" "she'd be jes ez peart ez i is, ef'n miss matty 'ould quit pokin' physic down 'er thoat. dar ain' nuttin' else in de worl' de matter wid 'er. whut you reckon miss matty know about hit? ain't she done been teckin' physic day in en day out sence befo' de flood, en ain't she all squinched up, en jes ez yaller ez a punkin, now?" "i don't mind the medicine if it will make me well," said the child. "and you take what the doctor gives you too?" "oh, yes, i take that too. between them," she added with a sigh, "there is a great deal to take." "it is because you are growing so fast. you are a big girl now." letty laughed. "father doesn't want me to get much taller. he doesn't want me to be tall when i'm grown up--but i can't help it, if it keeps up. do you think i've grown any since the last time i measured, mammy riah?" "naw, honey, dat you ain't. you ain' growed a winch." "she means an inch," said letty. "some people can't understand her. even father can't sometimes, but i always can." then drawing caroline down on the bed, she began stroking her arm with a soft caressing touch. "do you suppose mother will come back now that you have?" she asked. "when you are here she wouldn't have so much trouble. she used to say that you took trouble off her." "perhaps she will. you would like to see her, darling?" the child thought earnestly for a moment. "i'd like to see her," she answered, "she is so pretty." "it would make you happier if she came back?" a smile, which was like the wise smile of an old person, flickered over letty's features. "wasn't it funny?" she said. "father asked me that this morning." a tremor shook caroline's heart. "and what did you tell him?" "i told him i'd like her to come back if she wanted to very badly. it hurts mother so not to do what she wants to do. it makes her cry." "she says she wants to come back?" "i think she wants to see me. her letters are very sad. they sound as if she wanted to see me very much, don't they mammy? somebody has to read them to me because i can read only plain writing. how long will it be, miss meade, before i can read any kind, even the sort where the letters all look just alike and go right into one another?" "soon, dear. you are getting on beautifully. now i'll run into my room, and put on my uniform. you like me in uniform, don't you?" "i like you any way," answered letty politely. "you always look so fresh, just like a sparkling shower, cousin daisy says. she means the sort of shower you have in summer when the sun shines on the rain." going into her room, caroline bathed her face in cold water, and brushed her hair until it rolled in a shining curve back from her forehead. she was just slipping into her uniform when there was a knock at the door, and mrs. timberlake said, without looking in, "david has come home, and he has asked for you. will you go down to the library?" "in one minute. i am ready." her voice was clear and firm; but, as she left the room and passed slowly down the staircase, by the copy of the sistine madonna, by the ivory walls of the hall and the pink walls of the drawing-room, she understood how the women felt who rode in the tumbril to the guillotine. it was the hardest hour of her life, and she must summon all the courage of her spirit to meet it. then she remembered her father's saying, that after the worst had happened, one began to take things easier, and an infusion of strength flowed from her mind into her heart and her limbs. if the worst was before her now, in a little while it would be over--in a little while she could pass on to hospital wards, and the sounds of the battlefield, and the external horrors that would release her from the torment of personal things. the door of the library was open, and blackburn stood in the faint sunshine by the window--in the very spot where he had stood on the night when she had gone to tell him that angelica had ordered her car to go to the tableaux. as she entered, he crossed the room and held her hand for an instant; then, turning together, they passed through the window, and out on the brick terrace. all the way down the stairs she had wondered what she should say to him in the beginning; but now, while they stood there in the golden light, high above the june splendour of the rose garden, she said only, "oh, how lovely it is! how lovely!" he was looking at her closely. "you are working too hard. your eyes are tired." "i must go on working. what is there in the world except work?" though she tried to speak brightly, there was a ripple of sadness in her voice. her eyes were on the garden, and it seemed to her that it blazed suddenly with an intolerable beauty--a beauty that hurt her quivering senses like sound. all the magic loveliness of the roses, all the reflected wonder and light and colour of the sunset, appeared to mingle and crash through her brain, like the violent crescendo of some triumphant music. she had not wanted colour; she had attuned her life to grey days and quiet backgrounds, and the stark forms of things that were without warmth or life. but beauty, she felt, was unendurable--beauty was what she had not reckoned with in her world. "you are going to france?" he asked. "i am leaving for camp next week. that means france, i hope." "until the end of the war?" "until the end--or as long as i hold out. i shall not give up." for the first time she had turned to look at him, and as she raised her lashes a veil of dry, scorching pain gathered before her eyes. he looked older, he looked changed, and, as mrs. timberlake had said, he looked as if he had suffered. the energy, the force which had always seemed to her dynamic, was still there in his keen brown face, in his muscular figure; only when he smiled did she notice that the youth in his eyes had passed into bitterness--not the bitterness of ineffectual rebellion, but the bitterness that accepts life on its own terms, and conquers. "when i parted from you last autumn," he said suddenly, "i was full of hope. i could look ahead with confidence, and with happiness. i felt, in a way, that the worst was over for both of us--that the future would be better and richer. i never looked forward to life with more trust than i did then," he added, as if the memory of the past were forcing the words out of him. "and i, also," she answered, with her sincere and earnest gaze on his face, "i believed, and i hoped." he looked away from her over the red and white roses. "it is different now. i can see nothing for myself--nothing for my own life. where hope was there is only emptiness." the sunset was reflected in the shining light of her eyes. "life can never be empty for me while i have your friendship and can think of you." by the glow in his face she knew that her words had moved him; yet he spoke, after a moment, as if he had not heard them. "it is only fair that you should know the truth," he said slowly and gravely, "that you should know that i have cared for you, and cared, i think, in the way you would wish me to. nothing in my life has been more genuine than this feeling. i have tested it in the last year, and i know that it is as real as myself. you have been not only an emotion in my heart--you have been a thought in my mind--every minute--through everything----" he stopped, and still without turning his eyes on her, went on more rapidly, "as a lover i might always have been a failure. there have been so many other things. life has had a way of crowding out emotion to make room for other problems and responsibilities. i am telling you this now because we are parting--perhaps for a time, perhaps for ever. the end no one can see----" beyond the rose garden, in one of the pointed red cedars down in the meadow, a thrush was singing; and it seemed to her, while she listened, that the song was in her own heart as well as in the bird's--that it was pouring from her soul in a rapture of wonder and delight. "i can never be unhappy again," she answered. "the memory of this will be enough. i can never be unhappy again." from the cedar, which rose olive black against the golden disc of the sun, the bird sang of hope and love and the happiness that is longer than grief. "the end no one can see," he said, and--it may have been only because of the singing bird in her heart--she felt that the roughness of pain had passed out of his voice. then, before she could reply, he asked hurriedly, "has letty spoken to you of her mother?" "yes, she talked of her the little while that i saw her." "you think the child would be happier if she were here?" for an instant she hesitated. "i think," she replied at last, "that it would be fairer to the child--especially when she is older." "her mother writes to her." "yes. i think letty feels that she wishes to come home." the bird had stopped singing. lonely, silent, still as the coming night, the cedar rose in a darkening spire against the afterglow. "for us there can be no possible life together," he added presently. "we should be strangers as we have been for years. she writes me that she has been ill--that there was a serious operation----" "have the doctors told her the truth?" "i think not. she knows only that she does not regain her strength, that she still suffers pain at times. because of this it may be easier." "you mean easier because you pity her? that i can understand. pity makes anything possible." "i am sorry for her, yes--but pity would not be strong enough to make me let her come back. there is something else." "there is the child." "the child, of course. letty's wish would mean a great deal, but i doubt if that would be strong enough. there is still something else." "i know," she said, "you feel that it is right--that you must do it because of that." he shook his head. "i have tried to be honest. it is that, and yet it is not that alone. i wonder if i can make you understand?" "has there ever been a time when i did not understand?" "god bless you, no. and i feel that you will understand now--that you alone--you only among the people who know me, will really understand." for a time he was silent, and when at last he went on, it was in a voice from which all emotion had faded: "pity might move me, but pity could not drive me to do a thing that will ruin my life--while it lasts. letty's good would weigh more with me; but can i be sure--can you, or any one else, be sure that it is really for letty's good? the doubt in this could so easily be turned into an excuse--an evasion. no, the reason that brings me to it is larger, broader, deeper, and more impersonal than any of these. it is an idea rather than a fact. if i do it, it will be not because of anything that has happened at briarlay; it will be because of things that have happened in france. it will be because of my year of loneliness and thought, and because of the spirit of sacrifice that surrounded me. if one's ideal, if one's country--if the national life, is worth dying for--then surely it is worth living for. if it deserves the sacrifice of all the youth of the world--then surely it deserves every other sacrifice. our young men have died for liberty, and the least that we older ones can do is to make that liberty a thing for which a man may lay down his life unashamed." the emotion had returned now; and she felt, when he went on again, that she was listening to the throbbing heart of the man. "the young have given their future for the sake of a belief," he said slowly, "for the belief that civilization is better than barbarism, that humanity is better than savagery, that democracy has something finer and nobler to give mankind than has autocracy. they died believing in america, and america, unless she is false to her dead, must keep that faith untarnished. if she lowers her standards of personal responsibility, if she turns liberty into lawlessness, if she makes herself unworthy of that ultimate sacrifice--the sacrifice of her best--then spiritual, if not physical, defeat must await her. the responsibility is yours and mine. it belongs to the individual american, and it cannot be laid on the peace table, or turned over to the president. there was never a leader yet that was great enough to make a great nation." as he paused, she lifted her eyes, and looked into his without answering. it was the unseen that guided him, she knew. it would be always the unseen. that was the law of his nature, and she would accept it now, and in the future. "i understand," she said, simply, after a moment. "it is because you understand," he answered, "because i can trust you to understand, that i am speaking to you like this, from my heart. my dear, this was what i meant when i wrote you that nationality is nothing for personality is everything. our democracy is in the making. it is an experiment, not an achievement; and it will depend, not on the size of its navy, but on the character of its citizens, whether or not it becomes a failure. there must be unselfish patriotism; there must be sacrifice for the general good--a willing, instead of a forced, sacrifice. there must be these things, and there must be, also, the feeling that the laws are not for the particular case, but for the abstract class, not for the one, but for the many--that a democracy which has been consecrated by sacrifice must not stoop, either in its citizens, or in its government, to the pursuit of selfish ends. all this must be a matter of personal choice rather than of necessity. i have seen death faced with gladness for a great cause, and, though i am not always strong enough to keep the vision, i have learned that life may be faced, if not with gladness, at least with courage and patience, for a great ideal----" his voice broke off suddenly, and they were both silent. the sun had gone down long ago, and it seemed to caroline that the approaching twilight was flooded with memories. she was ready for the sacrifice; she could meet the future; and at the moment she felt that, because of the hour she had just lived, the future would not be empty. whatever it might bring, she knew that she could face it with serenity--that she was not afraid of life, that she would live it in the whole, not in the part--in its pain as well as in its joy, in its denial as well as in its fulfilment, in its emptiness as well as in its abundance. the great thing was that she should not fall short of what he expected of her, that she should be strong when he needed strength. she looked up at him, hesitating before she answered; and while she hesitated, there was the sound of hurrying footsteps in the library, and mrs. timberlake came through the room to the terrace. "david," she called in a startled voice. "did you know that angelica was coming back?" he answered without turning. "yes, i knew it." "she is here now--in the hall. did you expect her so soon?" "not so soon. she telegraphed me last night." "mrs. mallow met her at the hot springs yesterday, and told her that letty was ill. that brought her down. she has been at the hot springs for several weeks." blackburn had grown white; but, without speaking, he turned away from the terrace, and walked through the library to the hall. near the door angelica was leaning on the arm of a nurse, and as he approached, she broke away from the support, and took a single step forward. "oh, david, i want my child! you cannot keep me away from my child!" she was pale and worn, her face was transparent and drawn, and there were hollows under the grey velvet of her eyes; but she was still lovely--she was still unconquerable. the enchanting lines had not altered. though her colour had been blotted out, as if by the single stroke of a brush, the radiance of her expression was unchanged, and when she smiled her face looked again as if the light of heaven had fallen over it. never, not even in the days of her summer splendour, had caroline felt so strongly the invincible power of her charm and her pathos. "no, i cannot keep you away from her," blackburn answered gently, and at his words angelica moved toward the staircase. "help me, cousin matty. take me to her." abandoning the nurse, she caught mrs. timberlake's arm, clinging to her with all her strength, while the two ascended the stairs together. blackburn turned back into the library, and, for a moment, caroline was left alone with the stranger. "have you known mrs. blackburn long?" asked the other nurse, "she must have been so very beautiful." "for some time. yes, she was beautiful." "of course, she is lovely still. it is the kind of face that nothing could make ugly--but i keep wondering what she was like before she was so dreadfully thin. you can tell just to look at her what a sad life she has had, though she bears it so wonderfully, and there isn't a word of bitterness in anything that she says. i never knew a lovelier nature." she passed up the stairs after the others, her arms filled with angelica's wraps, and her plain young face enkindled with sympathy and compassion. clearly angelica had found another worshipper and disciple. alone in the hall, caroline looked through the library to the pale glimmer of the terrace where blackburn was standing. he was gazing away from her to the rose garden, which was faintly powdered with the silver of dusk; and while she stood there, with her answer to him still unuttered, it seemed to her that, beyond the meadows and the river, light was shining on the far horizon. the end [illustration: colophon] the country life press garden city, n. y.